You opened your eyes; they stung from the light winking through the cheap beige curtains. You rolled over to the cheap ‘Mickey Mouse’ alarm clock that you’d had since you were a kid. He pointed jauntily to three fifteen. You lay on your back staring at the grimy ceiling, with its flaking paint and peculiar speckles of mould. A single tear dripped down your cheek as you feel the rough chafe of the cheap woolen sheets against your bare skin and you remember what you had before. You roll over to hug him, but he is not there. It registers dimly in your mind that you have done this every day for the last year, and the outcome never changes.
You walk down the hallway, littered with memories; children’s toys, his shoes, constant reminders of the life that you had and the cruel way that it was snatched away from you.
Numbly you wander into the small kitchen and scan the surfaces. The scent of squalor drifts up your sleep subdued nose, awakening your senses like a sharp slap to your face. You decide that a cup of tea will bring you round. You reach for a mug, your eyes catch the yellow one, Van Gough emblazoned across it in intricate lettering. It reminds you of him.
‘Miss Du Preez, are you there?’ he calls. It is summer and the scent of freshly cut grass wafts through the small house. A baby cries. He is concerned, but it is soon subdued by its mother, who wanders to the front door to greet her guest. He is shocked by how gaunt she is; her paper white skin contrasting starkly with the curtain of ebony hair that ripples and sparkles in the late September sun. Her eyes widen as her mind registers who you are.
I knew he was bad news from the start. When he knocked on the door, the sun shied behind scudding clouds, like the small child that had hidden behind its mother’s skirt when I’d returned the book she’d lent me.

Screeching loudly, the kettle brings you awake from your daydream. Reality surges over you in a torrential wave of despair. You pour the steaming brown liquid into a pink ‘Matisse’ mug. You cradle it, taking comfort from its warmth, letting the tendrils of steam caress your face. The smell of freshly cut grass washes over you through the open window. It reminds you of him.
***
he surveyed the hallway of the small house, but regretted doing so almost instantly. At the far end of the narrow corridor hung a portrait of a young man and woman, their arms entwined, his over hers in a protective manner. He wished he could protect her now. Protect her from the pain. But he couldn’t. Nobody could.

I opened the door and scanned his face. His brown eyes clouded with an emotion I could not place. Was it grief? Perhaps it was guilt. His delicate features creased into a frowned. His body stiffened. A reaction to an unknown stimulant. A thought?? An object? A memory? I would never know.

He started to speak. ‘Miss Du Preez, I’m afraid…’ I didn’t hear the rest of what he said before I sunk to the floor, sobbing hysterically.

The shrill ring of the telephone jolts you back to the kitchen in your small council flat. You look at it suspiciously, not trusting the news on the other end of the line. Not trusting the outside, the knowledge of what horrors the outside world could bring.
After what seemed like an eternity the answer phone clicked on. ‘Hi Lynelle, are you home? Please pick up? Ok, so maybe you aren’t home. Well its Jenny, Lydia’s foster mom, you have remembered its her birthday tomorrow, haven’t you? And well, I know things are hard for you with it being the anniversary of Ray’s, well anyway, I’ll call round later to pick up her present. I’d really appreciate it if you’d make the effort.’ The answer phone stumbled over its words. Struggled to find a way of saying what it meant without offending you. Lydia, your daughter, so sweetly devastating. Another reminder of him. A constant reminder of the life you had together before the accident.

You allow yourself to bathe in the memory of him. You survey your life, the shell of a human you have become.
You scream at the walls, at yourself. At God. Screaming at the punishment He has served you, this nightmare world he has created for you.

You sink to the floor. You are desperate for it to end. The cold metal of the razor blade cuts into your palm. The smell of blood and freshly cut grass envelopes you. A shadow blocks the light from the doorway. You look up, he is there. Your guardian angel in a leather jacket has come to take you away to the next place. He reaches for your hand. You take it and the pain goes away.

You wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee and man’s deodorant. You roll over and feel for Ray beside you. He is not there. You look for the ‘Mickey mouse’ alarm clock. It is gone. A shadow blocks the doorway, and you look up. Your guardian angel in a leather jacket stands before you in his Calvin Kleins. You survey his shaggy hair and bleary eyes and wonder if he has brought you to paradise. You look out of the window, to find that paradise is a street in New Jersey, just three blocks from hell.