My melancholy returned as I climbed the stairs to my room. Self-doubt began to pull me down. Was it me? Did they dislike me and the rule break was their excuse for my dismissal? Confidence wasn't something I had in abundance and fact is, the Milton's firing me had dented it.

Feeling lonely and vulnerable, I entered my room, trying to pull myself from descending down into a dark hole of depression.

My spirit lifted a little when I saw a glass of Port and envelope on the bedside table.

Taking a sip of the Port, I opened the envelope. It was a Thank You card which read: So sorry it didn't work out, Billy. Best wishes in all your future endeavors. Hopefully the enclosed extract of Elliots' autopsy report will go someway to explain Mrs Milton's extreme sensitivity. Signed: Mr Henry Milton.

My second sip of Port was accompanied by a warm glow. I pulled out the old piece of paper.

Sadness enveloped me as I read:

The report gave me some understanding of Mrs Milton's grief and mental state; and it corroborated what the locals in the bar told me. I guess my covering his face had painful associations for her. And it did go someway to explain my dismissal, making me feel better about myself.

Taking another sip of Port, I felt woozy and suddenly wondered how they knew I'd covered his face: what triggered the alarm?

That question swam round my head while packing my paltry belongings back into my backpack ready for my morning trip back to London.

But despite my few belongings, I couldn't finish the task as a combination of the port and worry conspired to compel me toward the bed.

I lay down and felt myself drift towards a deep and heavy sleep.

......

I woke wearily, my head buried deep in the pillow. Still too groggy and sleepy to open my eyes. I listened to muffled voices emanating from some place above me.

Events of the previous day came back to me in hazy half-bites. But it was the voices that I struggled to comprehend.

I deciphered the Milton's cleaner whom I had briefly met: "Really, he just upped and left, with no warning, how terribly rude," her voice dripping with disappointment.

Then Henry's response: "Yes. We did our best to dissuade him, but he was most determined to terminate his position," he explained.

What?

Was I really hearing this, this blatant lie?

My head remained burrowed in the pillow, my eyes tightly shut like I was in some kind of semi-sleeping limbo. My head throbbed and I felt severely hung-over, yet I'd had just a few sips of port.

The voices continued to mumble on, this time discussing the minutia of their day ahead; yet still I didn't want to open my eyes, fearing the sudden light and the pain it might inflict. The throbbing was off the scale and I felt the urge to thrust ever deeper into the bed.

Then I remembered Mrs Milton's instruction – a cab was calling for me, "don't delay!"

I rolled from a fetal position onto my back, my hand stroking my forehead in a futile attempt to relieve the pounding.

The mumbling voices continued and while I tried to hear the conversation it dawned on me that their sounds were coming from somewhere above me.

But? There was no 'above me.' I was on the top floor of the manor. Or at least I know I went to bed on the top floor of the manor.

I sat bolt upright and opened my eyes.

But my eyes wouldn't open.

'They must be cruddy with sleep,' I thought, and rubbed them vigorously.

But no, they were stuck. My eyes were clamped closed.

At this point, I was pissed off rather than panicked and I swung my legs from the bed. At least I tried too – my legs wouldn't move. I ran my hands over them; there were no restraints, yet they were restrained by something.

My legs were inert. I couldn't move from the waist down.

My head desperately tried to comprehend what was going on with me.

"Help me." I said, somewhat pathetically.

"HELP ME!" I shouted, angrily.

No one responded to my desperate calling.

Checking my eyes again, I felt the edge of my lids and ran my fingers slowly around them. They were fused tightly to my bottom lid, as though they'd been welded shut. I felt the hard ridges of a molten plastic material around my eyes.

I wanted to cry, but held back as the tears had no outlet and I feared my eyes would flood and bust.

Recalling the previous assault on my ears, and now this with my eyes, my anger continued to rise.

My temper gave way to terror at being blinded and disabled. I threw my head back and inhaled a great lung-full of air. Then I screamed: screamed, and screamed again.

......

My screaming continued until my vocal chords collapsed, giving way to a guttural, animal like groaning.

I felt removed from the sounds that came from me, but they continued – until the soft touch of a hand on my shoulder silenced my groans.

"Who's that?" I asked, my voice: scratchy, scream damaged and cowering.

"Mrs Milton, is this you?"

When there was no reply I became passive, like a child desperate for forgiveness, "I'm sorry if I missed the cab, if you take these things off my eyes, I'll be on my way. I promise I won't mention a thing about this to anyone," I whimpered.

There came no reply, but the hand remained resting on my shoulder. I touched it, my fingers tracing the contours, searching for clues as to the person's identity. The hand was smooth to the touch, hairless and soft which made me perceive a young female in my head.

"Please, who is this?"

The response was a gentle grip on my shoulder, which gave me no answers and did nothing to assuage my growing anxiety. In fact, it simply intensified my fear

Then, in the blackness I became aware of a smell. The overwhelming smell of lighter fuel invaded my nostrils.

Using all my strength, I tried to swing my legs off the bed. But they wouldn't budge.

The hand left my shoulder and I felt the bed rise when the weight left it.

With a jolt, I remembered the woman from the pub recalling Elliots' death. The truth hit me hard: I was going to be burnt to death. I was literally going to be FIRED, as some kind of warped retribution for breaking the rule.

As I lay helplessly awaiting my fate, I surmised the Miltons were crazy with grief and motivated by vengeance for the death of their son, Elliot.

Laying my head back on the pillow I wondered, 'how many more had suffered this fate before me?'

......

The sudden indentation of the bed and the sheets tightening around me, told me my executioner had returned. Strangely, I thought of my mother and hoped that she'd find comfort in the fact that I didn't die alone.

The soft glug of liquid being poured from a vessel filled the black space with a fiery fear. But I was resigned to my fate; a sudden calm soothed me.

I flinched when I felt a soft wetness being compressed over my right eye. Gently my eye was being swabbed, and whoever was doing it continued on my left eye. Without my sight, my remaining senses were hyper heightened and the soft breaths on my face, accompanied with a gentle touch suggested a caring, rather than violent presence.

Hope fluttered in my stomach.

I didn't talk as the unseen person continued to swab my eyes with the strong smelling solution. I remained like a cowed animal, dependent on a kindly human for my savior.

The unseen presence continued to work on my fused eyes with a conscientious care. Eventually, I felt my lids loosen. My right eye partially opened, and I saw a strange blurry figure, leaning over me, "Please, is this you Mrs Milton?" I asked, again.

Again, there came no reply, only soft breathing and a continued swabbing of my eyes.

My left lid suddenly pinged open, and this time it was the invasive light that blinded me.

Slowly my left eye became accustomed to the light and it began to focus. The sheet that covered me was my first sight: brightly colored and covered in cartoon characters.

The colors mesmerized me and it felt like I was re-discovering my senses all over again, especially when my nostrils filled with a sweet and soothing fragrance that replaced the odor of lighter fuel. It was the smell of lavender.

Scanning the room and filling with relief at my restored sight, I felt my right eye ping fully open.

Instinctively rubbing my eyes and pulling off the detritus of gunk that still remained, I eventually looked around the room for whoever had saved my sight.

But the person found me first. Looking down on me was the smiling, pale face of a middle-aged man. A plastic collar, like the kind dogs wear to stop them from licking their wounds was fastened around his neck.

When I recovered from the shock of his strange appearance, I asked, "Who are you?"

His smile lingered a little before he spoke, "I'm Elliot."

"You're dead," I said, confused.

He placed a cotton wool swab back into a bowl, "Don't be silly, Billy. Do I look dead?"