#4audrey

When I was a little girl, my mum put a Winnie the Pooh nightlight on the landing for me just in case I got out of my bed during the night. It emitted the softest, most golden glow, like a star had been put inside it, and it helped me overcome my fear of the dark. I grew up - I forgot all about this nightlight - and then he left and I was reminded of just how terrifying the dark can be. When he loved me, I didn't need to be afraid of it - I didn't even need to be afraid of myself. Now I'm sleeping with a nightlight again instead of him because it's the only thing that can ward off the nightmares, the only thing that makes me feel safe enough to fall asleep.

The thing is, I knew in my heart that it was an ending of sorts but - even though I've always been terrible at endings - I couldn't bring myself to be sad. I didn't have it in me to mourn what we were losing because every time our laughter echoed through the empty park I felt like I could live forever and even though it may very well have been the last time, belting out sad songs with you underneath a boundless, velvet sky healed every would I've ever had. My contentment was deathless as we flew higher and higher on the same swing set my dad used to push me on when I was small and if I had wanted to, I could have reached forward, plucked a star right out of the air and popped it into my mouth. I could have stayed lost with you in that moment forever because it's the closest to heaven I've ever been and the whole time I can remember thinking that if all endings felt this sweet, I wouldn't mind losing everything.

I had this desperate desire to tell you about all of it: the crunch of the autumn leaves under my feet, the little children climbing One Tree Hill, the way the sun cast this glorious haze over the whole of Greenwich. I wanted to write you a letter about my new home, all the dogs I met, all the smiles from strangers, the bagel I ate for my breakfast, the way I'd have given it all up just to feel your warm hands in mine once more. Just once. That would be enough.

You go outside and tip your head back to look at the sky. Your dark hair falls away from your face and you find yourself squinting in confusion when I tell you that I've swallowed the sun. You made me feel so worthless, so faceless, and I needed you to know what that felt like. So I did what I knew best and I left you stumbling around in the dark with nothing to hold onto, all the light in the world snuffed out. I am made of fire now, and you don't remember what my face looks like.

How do you live with a mother whose idea of love is burning down bridges and then burning the ashes? How do you live in her house, constantly awaiting her next episode, staring at your bedroom door and waiting for her to burst through it? You go days without eating because you're terrified to go downstairs and you hope that this will help you shrink small enough to fit into your childhood hiding spots - all the places she'd never think to look. You cut your wrists, hips, thighs, any parts of your unloved skin that you can reach in hopes it will slow your breathing down before she hears you panicking - she's already reminded you once today that there is no room for weakness in her house. You smell burning again and get ready to bid farewell to another bridge, another memory, another part of your relationship that you'll never see again. You're not as bothered as you should be because in all honesty, there wasn't really a relationship or a bridge to begin with.

It feels the way it felt last time. The acrid stench of burning fires everywhere fills my nostrils and I can't help but notice that I'm repeating myself. I suffocate underneath good and bad days because no matter what I do, it doesn't make much of a difference. Purposely, I leave dirty handprints on every surface I touch, black mould between every crack, and I am running out of clean air to breathe. I fall asleep. I hope for it to be eternal.