Ronnie stood in the bathroom, her hands gripping onto the sides of the porcelain basin, her eyes staring into her reflection in the mirror. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she just looked.

Can they see it? When they look at me, can they see it too? Can I see it? If I was just a stranger on the street and I saw me, would I be able to see what I know? Is it written on my face? Or anywhere else? Is it?

Ronnie sucked in a sharp breath, only realising at the moment she began to feel dizzy that she hadn't been breathing.

One of the most basic functions and I can't even do that.

'Damaged' has never before been so fitting.

She blinked, her mind engulfed in darkness for the briefest of moments, before the harsh light that filled the bathroom took it's place.

Max banged his empty glass down on the bar. "Stick another one in there, will yer?" He asked, slurring his words as he pushed the glass towards Ronnie.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" She asked, her voice soft, concerned.

"No," Max replied, bluntly.

Ronnie didn't move.

"Max, this isn't going to help-"

"How d'you do it, eh?" He asked, his voice laced with a bitter venom Ronnie hadn't heard before. "How do you wake up every morning and work here when your daughter is dead?" The atmosphere in the pub shifted, an uncomfortable silence blanketing the punters.

Ronnie could feel the dozens of pairs of eyes upon the two of them, she could feel them watching their every move, listening intently to what was being said.

"Tell me, Ron. I need to know," Max begged her. His hand shot out and grabbed the one she had placed on the bar, gripping it tightly. Ronnie looked down at the physical contact, unsure of what to do. Her instinct had been to pull away, to remove the emotional intrusion, but she couldn't. For some reason, she couldn't do it. "When does it stop? When does the guilt stop?"

"Guilt?" Ronnie asked, her voice barely a whisper, not trusting herself to speak any louder.

"I had an affair with my son's wife, you threw your daughter out of here. You called her crazy and rejected her. I hurt my son, you gave your daughter away. When does the guilt stop?"

Ronnie shook her head, twisting her hand beneath Max's, trying to pull away from him, but he just held on tighter. His fingers digging into her skin and refusing to relinquish his hold over her.

"Stop it!" She demanded.

"You did though, didn't yer? You threw her outta here like she was nothing, telling her that she wasn't yours. And I screwed up my son's marriage. If it wasn't for me, they would've had years and Bradley would've been able to hold his first born. We both hurt our kids, Ronnie and we both lost them. So come on, gimme a time frame – tell me when it stops."

Ronnie shook her head once more. She wanted so desperately to cover her ears, to not listen to Max's words. Her skin crawled with them, the sounds wheedling into her mind until all she could hear was the echoes of them.

"You lost a child, tell me when it stops feeling like this. Come on, tell me!"

"No!"

"Tell me!"

"No, I will not use my daughter's memory to-"

"Don't give me that – I just want someone to answer the question. When does it stop hurting?!" Max yelled, losing what little composure he had left. The open palm of his free hand connected with the varnished bar top, making everyone in the room visibly flinch.

Ronnie looked down at their hands, Max still gripping onto hers as though she was tethering him. But to what? What was she tethering him to? Sanity? Grief? Mourning? How could she possibly be someone to hold onto when she was free falling?

Without looking up, she answered his question. "It doesn't."

Ronnie blinked, the memory dissipating. She felt the warmth seep down her as the red ribbons swirled across the bowl of the basin.

"It doesn't."