My palms are sweaty. I go to wipe them on my jumper, but they shake too much to hold the fabric. My breath comes shorter and shorter. I look down at my pen. What have I done?
I sense rather than see it coming. The time, dreaded as it is, drawing nearer. Please not me, I beg. Not today.
Now it has a form. Red. Pretending to be kind. Closer. Always closer.
Surely enough, it moves towards me. No. No.
It's stopped.
Avoid eye contact.
'Now, Skye. Perhaps you'd like to read what you've written?'
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