The room has been pervaded in demolition. It’s all over the walls, it’s weeping into the floor boards, it’s running down my face. My chest throbs on the brink of explosion and I gloomily remember to breathe. Palms sweating, head thumping, heart pulverised. My brain feels swollen and my words are trapped. My jaw is clamped shut and it aches as my body grows colder. Like miniscule needles, hairs stand erect on my pale, bloodless skin. I am transfixed on those burnt-out, red eye-balls. My glare is frozen – in temperature and in time. I experience remorse for my appearance. My hands are bolted around my protruding middle – a protective shield against unspoken judgment. The floorboards groan under the hesitant movements of those size-eleven work shoes and the 14 stone weight they are hosting. A blanket of orange luster swiftly surrounds us. The feeble, ridged figure is adumbrated in the sudden clash of light and dark. The deeply furrowed, frazzled face has become pitiable – a protruding bottom lip and fat, shining tears. Painstakingly, I cast my gaze downwards to the blonde, bewildered, bitty figure perched adorably between us. Plunging to the ground, the tall, dark silhouette has become inconsolable. Soft little footsteps. The two become one as I remain detached, watching from a harrowing distance. The thick air is desecrated with heavy sobs. Tiny three-year-old-fingers fastened like burdock seeds firmly to a dark-grey, pin-striped, executive collar. Shrill screams as they are gently, yet adamantly peeled away. I fill with loathing as the past mocks my existence and the future slips beyond the orange luster. Darkness is slowly flourishing once more, blistering my skin and stealing my breath. I long to follow the warmth but have learned to know better. I heave as undelivered words flood my beaten chest.