She stepped out into the early dawn, the sky a steely grey, chilled in her thin T-shirt she crossed the yard, aware of the eerie stillness. Why weren't the birds singing? Why had the sun not yet risen? She reached the end of her path, the locked gate blocking her exit from the garden... in a way it symbolised her life. There was always one more obstacle.

She lay her head against the pergola fence, conscious of the cold wood against her forehead, and looked to the east. As she stared at the pink hue, dazzling the horizon, splitting the darkness the way sunrises always do, her glassy eyes filled with tears as she finally admitted to herself she was not strong enough for this world.

For every morning the sun would rise and condemn her, she was and always had been fond of the darkness. It was her cloak, her cover, it was all she had ever known. In old folklore and faerietales darkness symbolises evil, but though her heart was filled with darkness she knew she was not evil. She was scared, and envied the sun, people seemed to worship it, for the light it gave, the strength and hope it symbolised. Darkness was misunderstood, as was she.

She gripped the wooden bars of the gate, squeezing hard, aware of her own soft footsteps breaching the silence, as she pressed her body as tight as she could against the gate. Her black cat twisted its way through her ankles but she had no time for him, even her cat was black, and right now it was dawn. A stinging sensation ripped through her hands as she tore them from the fence, staring intensely at her own palms she realised the wooden slats had shed splinters into her skin. More pain.

With one last darkened glance at the rising sun, so brightly coloured, she turned on her heel and returned to the confines of her house... her prison. The black cat followed in behind her, as silent as the dawn itself.