STOLEN

I lay in my bed looking up at the ceiling, listening to the tip-tip-tapping of the rain on my window pane, and the howling of the wind whistling through the trees, counting how many cobwebs were dangling therefrom, wondering why I haven't hoovered my ceiling in three years. I haven't left my room for that same amount of time.

Tip-tip tap the rain continues. It hasn't halted or lightened up in the past three days. The wind, too, has got louder instead of calming likewise. It seems to scream at me: "stop lying there feeling sorry for yourself, get up and live!".

I look around my room, at my bare walls, with streams of wallpaper still glued here and there, and punctured by holes where I've took down shelves and the bracket that supported my television. I was planning on decorating this place before I fell into this blue funk.

There's a funny smell surrounding me. Tip-tip tap the rain beats. I've smelt this malodorous smell for quite a while now. I don't know where it comes from, whether it's coming from this room that I'm lying in, or if something in my fridge is past its sell-by date and rotting away, or maybe something in my bins is causing the stench. I can't remember the last time I emptied them. It might possibly be me. I haven't showered for ever so long. All I want to do is close my eyes to sleep, let blissful slumber rescue me from this melancholy, monotonous subsistence I've falling into. But sleep doesn't come for me.

I can't remember when I first sunk into this void of darkness. I was such a happy, optimistic, "there's always a silver lining at the end of every cloud", type of gal in my younger days. My gloom took hold of me about three years ago. Before then I was happy. I was engaged...

Patrick! Ah Patrick, the love of my life!

Where is Patrick? Does he know I'm alone and missing him? Would he ever come back and see me?

The wind has suddenly picked up, howling wildly, making my windows shudder furiously, like a distant, tragic memory has come creeping from the back of its mind, to awaken terrible nightmares that it has long since forgotten, and is banging on the window to get to the evil soul who's the hero of them.

Patrick, my dear Patrick. The love of my life. We met in a bar. I, sitting on my own, feeling sorry for myself, as usual, when the waitress came over to my table, with a glass of red wine.

After informing her that she has got the wrong table, I did not order that, she told me it was from a man sitting at the bar. She pointed him out, and my head followed the direction of her finger.

He was the most beautiful man I've ever seen! But, unfortunately, I don't drink, so I sent it back with an apology and my thanks but I could not accept it. The next thing I knew the man himself appeared to make his apologies, and buy me the drink of my choice.

I should have seen the signs then and there! Patrick had a problem. We stayed till the bar closed. He took me home with him, and the whole time he sat with me, a beer tumbler was never out of his hands.

We were together for seven months, before he asked me to marry him. At first I said no, and the second time, and third; his drinking was getting worse and worse by day, and his temper flared every time he would lift a beer can to his lips. He scared me. But on the fourth time of him asking, I said "yes". Reluctantly, of course. But he would cry every time I rejected him, so I figured he must really love me, and love is so hard to find.

Would this rain ever stop! I fear it's going to smash the window if it doesn't hold up soon. I must phone double glazing on Monday. I'm very cold.

My last memory of me and Patrick was the time of my decorating fit. I had already decorated my living room, bathroom and kitchen, and now I was working on my bedroom.