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February 8th

Four days.

Still no sleep. I should have stayed on the pills. A wave of emotions inside me is about to crash hard. I lie on the bed big enough for a family and think about killing you. When I’mangry, I could do it. You should know how much you’ve hurt me, and how I feels as if I’m still kidnapped, still tied to you. It would be all over if I could do it. I understand when people say revenge is sweet. I curl up, tight as a nut, and cry as if I’m losing something, or it’s already lost.

In the afternoon, I walk around this city where I lived for months while Mum and Dad and I waited for your court case. I didn’t want to go home then, back to school, even when my parents tried to convince me, not even when Dad had to return so he wouldn’t lose his job. It was as if I’d break a spell if I left.

There are more high-rise buildings now, more office workers and tourists. But this time, no one stares at me. In a department store, I study the knives, winking in the artificial lights:pick me, pick me.And I do pick them; one by one, I test their weight, how they feel in my hand, how they nick the skin on my arm, how swift and how smooth.

I take one small, very sharp knife, then collect a bedspread, blue as cuckoos’ eggs, sheets, a ceramic bowl, a kettle that whistles, the softest mohair rug and an iron. It’s fun carrying it all to the cashier.

‘New house,’ I say. ‘Moving in with my fiancé.’

The girl behind the desk smiles like she’s happy for me.

‘A nice new start,’ she says.

It feels right. The word nesting comes to mind. But what exactly am I preparing for? I leave my new purchases in the footwell of the hire car, too embarrassed to take them up in the lift, past the discreet, perfect receptionists.