Hello everyone, I'm back. I apologise for such a long absence. I have a string of excuses which I won't bore you with, suffice to say we have internet now, and touch wood we will have no more problems with it! I hope you are all well? Thank you for the lovely comments I've received so far. I've decided that I will allocate a day to each story, so that each will be updated at least once a week. This story will be updated on Tuesday evenings.

Thank you in advance for the comments!

"Connie?"

Rita's fingers were cold and Connie flinched from her touch.

"Don't."

She coughed, her ribs pinched and ached, her face stung and when she spoke the skin felt tight, but the real pain was within her, deep inside.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the moon whilst she caught her breath and steadied her stomach.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rita next to her, crouching on the floor, her fingers against her lips, her eyes wide, and every breath she took fogged white as she exhaled.

Slowly, slowly, she raised up her knees and pushed herself up with her arms. Her back twinged so sharply it made her wince, and for the first time she closed her eyes because of the pain.

Moments passed and still she didn't open her eyes. In her mind she was going through what had happened, she was taking each piece and she was turning it to ice inside her own body, closing herself off to it until she had nothing left to feel except the cold. Something which she hadn't had cause to do since she had been with Michael.

"Connie...?"

She could hear Rita's breath quickening, she could hear the panic in her voice and she opened her eyes to look at her.

"Did they touch you?"

Connie's question surprised her, it was Connie whom she was worried about...she shook her head which seemed some small comfort to the other woman who began slowly readjusting her clothes to cover herself.

"We should go to the police."

Rita whispered, her voice breaking. Connie ran her fingers through her hair before forcing herself to stand, ignoring the ice cold stab of pain between her legs.

"We're not going to the police."

She held out a hand and helped Rita to her feet. Just the tone in which she spoke meant that Rita knew not to say any more on the subject. Her voice was hard, solid, clear and cool and when Rita looked her in the eye all she was was her own reflection.

In silence they walked, side by side, back to where they had started. They stood outside the bar again, only this time Rita used her phone to ring for a taxi, and while they waited she did her best to avoid replaying the evenings events within her own head. She glanced to Connie who stood so still, her hair damp and dark, matted with vomit and blood. Connie had twisted it into a knot and tucked the bulk of it into the back of her collar, but curls still sprang free about her ears, curling at her jaw, the only part of her that seemed alive, fluttering in the breeze.

"You could come back to mine."

Rita ventured. It was clear she needed medical treatment, she was pale, and though the bleeding at the base of her head had stopped, it needed seeing to, and there was no way Connie could give it the attention it needed herself. And there were the other injuries too...internal injuries that she tried not to think about.

Connie cleared her throat and paused a moment before she spoke.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

She said finally, just as the taxi pulled up beside them.

"Connie..."

But Connie ignored her, instead she slipped unsteadily into the taxi and gave her address to the driver who merely nodded his head, waited for the two of them to do up their seat belts and began to drive.

Connie watched out of the window as they drove, she watched the city roll by, windows illuminated by the black and orange of Octobers Halloween decorations. Plastic pumpkins were set in window displays, full of sweets and adorned with fake spider webs.

The drive was relatively short, and Connie's face remained turned to the glass, but in her reflection Rita noticed how she would avert her eyes when the glare of street-lights dimmed to reveal her own reflection staring back at her.

"Just here."

Connie spoke quietly as the driver pulled into her road and began to slow, searching for the house numbers.

He parked, she handed over a twenty pound note, refused the change and stepped out of the taxi. Only noticing that Rita had followed when she turned to say goodbye and the taxi was pulling away. She widened her eyes and Rita was unsure for a moment whether it was anger or confusion that creased her forehead.

"You can't be left alone...not after hitting your head."

She paused whilst Connie regarded her, lips pursed with an unreadable expression.

As if admitting the nurse was right she simply withdrew her key from her bag and made her way to the door, letting herself in, leaving Rita to close the door behind her.

She went straight to the kitchen, Rita following, glancing up at her surroundings.

The kitchen was large and glossy, every surface shined, every appliance threw back an inverted reflection. The entire room looked as though it were torn from an interiors magazine.

Connie set her bag down on the kitchen counter, flicked on a switch that started a coffee machine ginding and slipped her feet out of her shoes.

"Coffee?"

She asked, glancing to Rita who was watching her intently. Now that she had removed her shoes she wasn't that much taller than Rita herself, and that fact alone surprised her.

She nodded, and Connie set out two large white mugs down on the worktop next to the coffee machine.

Rita cleared her throat, she wanted to ask if Connie was OK, she wanted to grab hold of her and cry, and ask her what the hell just happened. She wanted to talk about it, or talk it over, to imagine the ways in which they might have saved themselves. But instead Connie passed her a cup of coffee that was almost too hot to touch and she had to set it down on the table nearest her to save from burning her fingers whilst Connie held hers between both hands, not noticing when her palms began to burn raw.

"Would you..."

Rita stopped, alarmed at how loud her own voice sounded in the silence. Connie looked at her, the cloud lifting from her eyes and she took a sip of coffee, letting it scald the roof of her mouth.

"I could check you over...your head..."

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you."

Connie interrupted, though her tone wasn't as harsh as expected, and she forced her lips to smile slightly.

"There is a guest room on the first floor next to the bathroom that you can use."

She paused and glanced at Rita's clothes.

"I'll leave you a change of clothes on the bed."

She said simply, the closest she would get to acknowledging what had happened.

Rita nodded, still unsure of what to say, still silently begging Connie to talk, so that she wouldn't have to go to bed alone in an unfamiliar bed, where she knew she would cry herself to sleep.

"I'll say goodnight."

Connie said suddenly, and taking her coffee with her, she left Rita standing in the kitchen by herself, lowering her gaze to the floor as she passed her by. Only when she was at the top of the house, standing in her own bedroom did she stop. She stood for a moment, just breathing, collecting herself. She sought out a pair of her own pyjamas, pale grey silk ones that she wore so often, but tonight she didn't feel as though she were herself enough to wear them.

She folded them over one arm, and from her wardrobe she pulled jeans and a jumper that faded from dark blue to white, she collected all of the items together and took the stairs back down to the first floor where she turned the light on in the guest room and laid the clothes out on the bed ready.

Once back in her own room she stepped into the en suite shower, turned on the water full blast, and whilst the water scalded her skin she stripped herself free of her clothes with her eyes shut, throwing everything she wore into a pile in the corner where the blood seeped from the fabric and ran in ruddy brown rivulets towards the plug hole.

She washed her hair, she pulled grit and congealed blood from each strand, she scrubbed her face until her eyes stung with soap and she washed her body, pressing down so hard with her exfoliator that her skin turned pink, yet the familiar burn of excessive scrubbing never seemed to come, and with her hair still wet she crawled into bed, her body wetting the sheets.

She pulled the duvet up over her head to shut out the cold, and she closed her eyes, falling into a fitful sleep, a sleep where she dreamt her feet were bleeding, and her hair was plucked from her head by blackbirds. In her dream she went from house to house, looking for refuge but not a single person opened there door so she gave up speaking. She found herself on the side of a mountain where every day was snowy. She stood outside without a roof, without shelter, and before long she was made of ice—her flesh, her bones, her blood. She looked like a diamond, it was possible to spy her from miles away. She was so beautiful now that everyone wanted her and people came to talk to her, but she wouldn't answer. Birds lit on her shoulder, she didn't bother to chase them away. She didn't have to. If they took a single peck, their beaks would break in two. Nothing could hurt her any more. She had become invisible, queen of the ice. Silence was her language, and her heart had turned a perfect pale silver colour. It was so hard nothing could shatter it. Not even stones.