These are the moments she misses him.
The twisted seconds which creep past in regimented succession.
There is no order to the transitory hours and try as she might, attempts to infuse them with colour fall swiftly by the waste side.
As she transfers her bags from the boot of the car to the front doorstep, she is distantly aware of the dead wood which floats irksomely inside her chest. Occasionally, as if the sandy banks of the shore drift into its eye line, it rolls in on the tide, thundering rhythmically against the confines of her rib cage. There is no escape.
The battle is all but lost; the safety blanket of familiarity slipping between her fingers, the velvet soft cotton fraying at the edges as it begins to come undone. It is still traceable and yet its comfort it lost.
He wants her out. Every frown and passing comment paying testament to his brutal determination and each wince on her part serves to fuel his bruising ego as one by one they rebound from his slick exterior and tumble back towards her at lightning speed and she braces herself for impact.
A coil of hatred fabricates inside her and she cannot push it away. It is a hollow sensation; a jagged, haggard cut which billows open leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
Her school is no longer a place she recognises; it is his in every way but name, for her prescience is still indicated by the plaque on the front of the door. But for how long? How much time will slip past before she is forced to release everything she holds so dear? Her eyes flicker across at the two bottles of wine which rest on the work top. What will it take to numb the pain?
Her thoughts retract, her eyes refocusing.
She will not give in; her chaotic resolve and refusal to move aside gracefully bubble up inside her and every cross word exacerbates her determination to succeed.
Darkness has cruelly captured darting memories but a lesson learned is a lesson gained for from the fading memories, she is able to nurture the dying embers and allow them to engulf her in their richness for inside this shadow of gloom, there is a distant trail of colour; a dream, an illusion, a spark.
A tender bead of sunlight pushing though an overcast sky.
A flush against pallid skin.
A feeling.
For all the things he has left her with are enough to allow her to realise, to believe, to cling to.
Like the fading seasons and the tides, change will inevitably come and she will fly; soaring above the abundant clouds, fears and anxieties crumbling in her wake.
It is a hollow sensation; a jagged, haggard cut which billows open leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
There is no escape.
