I wasn't going to let her die. No fucking way! She was my best friend for Christ sake!
This was Charlotte. The Charlotte that I grew up with, the Charlotte who's name I could never say properly when I was a little girl, the Charlotte who I always called Scarlet.
This was Scar. I wasn't going to let her die.
If you look at someone, and you know they're going to die even though they don't want to, the someone who's not the martyr, the someone who wants to live and you know you can stop it, you would wouldn't you?
The empty glass is sitting there on the kitchen table, staring at me.
I can still smell her blood, even in here. I can't escape it. I had blood on my clothes and blood on my hands, in more ways than one.
I felt sick.
The glass still sat there, judging me, patronising me. Ok it wasn't, but It felt like.
So I threw it at the wall watching it smash into smithereens.
It was satisfying for about a millisecond.