Monday, June 12th 2017

At 28 years old, you would think I get it wouldn't you. That everyone leaves me and that no one I love will ever stay. Yet I convinced myself that now would be different – once again I was wrong. Walking the streets I no longer feel safe and why should I? There's no one who would come after me should I get hurt, no one to hug me when I cry. Cold water seeps through to my socks like the night air crawls into my body, breeze rattling through my now empty head. It's been a week now - a whole fucking week since he died.

My parents tell me I should go and see a therapist, talk about what I saw, but that's the problem. There was no dramatic death, no bloody murder, no heart attack in front of an audience. I just woke up one day and he was gone. The doctors said it was a heart failure, when in fact what they really meant to say was they have no idea what happened – he just died. We were going to get married you know, me and him. The bastard. He slid that ring on my finger, promised me a future and now he's gone. As the rain beats down on the pavement ahead I think of the tiny feet that were supposed to make a sound down my hallway, I'll never have that now. 'It'll get better Liz' Alfie says some day's in that patronizing big brother way, the same voice he used when I grazed my knee as a kid; as if it was just something I'd just 'get over'. The arrogant bastard.

The rain pours down above as fast as the silent tears roll down my cheek, but despite it the usual Hubbub that engulfs Little Wokely remains. God I hate the noise. They should be mourning too, I just lost my husband and yet the rest of the world goes on turning in its own merry way. It's not fair, it never has been. To make matters worse I have to go into work today, where all my colleagues will look at me with sympathetic eyes and feel sorry for me. That's what I hate the most - the pity. I can imagine the office now, everyone dressed smartly, ready to start a fresh day as I wander in with greasy hair and blood shot eyes. Oh yeah, I'm so excited. My feet are already numb in these god forsaken heels, but a woman's got to look hot if she wants to get anywhere in business, apparently that is still expected when you've just been widowed. At least I suit black.

I hate this town, I hate everyone in it and their stupid smiling faces. My heel falls into a drain as I step off the pavement to avoid a large family, who had completely sprawled across the pavement. With each tug of my foot I grow more frustrated. Stupid stuck up family. Stupid Alfie. Stupid Simon. That's when it happens, my foot not only comes loose but I am flung backwards, stumbling right into the path of the Number 94 bus to Burling. As my head crashes into the tarmac below the world goes dark.

A flash of a red rose. A callous hand reaching up to a hotel door and a silky black dress falling to the floor. The flowers at a grave destroyed. The glimpse of dull light in blue eyes. A silent help spoken on chapped lips.

Bolting upright I'm assaulted by bright light and whirring machines, I barely register the beeping heart monitor besides me as ragged breaths shake my body, matted chocolate hair falling into my face. Nothing else matters when one thought and one thought only engulfs my mind – Simon wasn't killed. He was murdered.

Collapsing again into the uncomfortable hospital bed darkness engulfs me, but it doesn't manage to hide the image playing over and over again in my head. Simon died begging for help.