Here we are again; waist-deep, the woman struggles to wade through the water to the steps of the lighthouse, bathed in moonlight. It is a waning moon, a seemingly dour face watching the events that are to unfold. The waves wash over the foundations, parting at its' bulk.
Illuminated only by the moon, for the light has long burnt out, the structure is imposing. Is it safety or a ruse? In the absence of a light, she notices a figure crouched, waiting. Such stillness, it could almost be a shadow except the feeling that one is being watched closely.
She's nearly at the steps. Seaweed is wrapped around her ankles, slowing the progress, but her fingers are about to grasp the rock, out-stretched.
It feels like everything is moving in slow motion. In reality, she's been grabbed - hands scraping along the rock in an attempt to cling onto the land - submerged into the water. Her legs thrash as she's pulled further into the depths, bubbles escaping her mouth as she tries to scream...
*
Cut to a darkened room. Flailing arms twisted in a sea of sheets. A lungful braced to scream.
And he's not here to wake her gently, hold the shaking body still. He will never be here again.
Coming back to reality, her wild eyes calm for a moment. Her hand moves to his side - no, just the other side now - and strokes his pillow. Will it still hold his scent? There's a snotty sniff and a pained realisation; no one's coming to save her.
*
The room seems bare. It isn't, but compared to the jeans and socks that used to litter the floor, the backpack with endless crumpled notes, the television they'd bought with Student Finance (and he'd taken. Leaving her without even that as a distraction), the pictures from Copenhagen, Italy, the little weekend to Devon. The room felt bare to her.
Tokens and trinkets left behind - the earrings from their second anniversary, the menu they'd written travel plans for the next five years - all of it was now removed, destroyed, smashed or burned. Well, they were actually thrown into a plastic box and shoved under the bed. Far enough to prevent her from easily taking it out and torturing herself with all over again. She was left with the basics of the university accommodation - a single bed with pine headboard. Exposed brick painted standard-issue cream, drips of dried paint embedded in the carpet. Oily blutac marks from pictures pulled amongst the images of family, friends from back home, and plenty of the family dog from her childhood.
The image closest to the headboard showed her at around six, dressed as a little spider for Halloween with both arms wrapped around the dog - a blonde Labrador cross - who is also looking festive with a little black cape.
There is a gentle light as she switches on the bedside salt lamp. Her features look soft, bloodshot eyes and purple bags underneath are hidden in the soft glow. On the bedside table - messy with coins, a pair of glasses, two books with their spines broken and face down, a retainer that should go back into the box by her sink, but never does - her phone lies. She picks up and opens it. No messages. There's a small sigh. She reaches for her glasses - why wear contacts when there's nothing, no one, left to make an effort for? Why even get dressed? But she goes to the drawers and finds a pair of leggings to pull over her pajama shorts, a pair of mismatched socks - bra is definitely out of the question, so a hoodie instead. She had already made the decision to get coffee. If good dreams evaded her mind, then her mind made the choice to evade sleep.
*
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