Song: 'Hurt' - Johnny Cash

-*-

Recuperation. Dad was expecting me on Tuesday. He was surprised when I arrived on Sunday. I had the clothes on my back. I had my passport. I had my handbag with my medication. I had run away.

Broken. I was exhausted from the flight. I fell into Dad's arms. My body was failing me. It could not even stand up. He guided me to the room. I collapsed onto the bed. Incoherent, I wailed.

"Please make it all go away Dad, please."

Sustenance. He fetched me some water. He made me a sandwich. He sat on the cold tiled floor. He hummed children's nursery rhymes whilst holding my hand. My tears fell. Eventually, I went to sleep.

Day one. Self-pity. I wrapped myself in blankets. Worthless, pathetic, undeserving. These words circled around my head like scavenging vultures stabbing their beaks into my mind. I had experienced this before. That time the reason was Dan. This time the reason was of my own making. I was drowning under emotional negativity.

Phone. It beeped. It vibrated. It flashed. It was the same yesterday. I did not look at it. I knew who was calling. Each sound was an electric shock through my heart. I imagined him. He had his head in his hands. He was staring at his phone. I hated myself. I had hurt him. He was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Day two. Baby. I curled up in a small ball. I grieved for our loss. I sobbed. My eyes were sore. My tears stung my cheeks. I pushed Dad away the previous day. He sat on the floor outside. He tried to talk to me through the closed barrier. He told me he was worried about me. He told me he was here for me. He told me he loved me. His voice cracked. More tears flowed. Then he told me he had spoken with Harry.

Day three. Harry. I lay on the bed. I watched the ceiling fan. The room was quiet. My phone was silent. I ached for Harry. I punished my mind. I was selfish to run. I was unfeeling for leaving a letter. I was a coward. A selfish, unfeeling, coward. He deserved better. He had given everything. Dad still sat outside the door. My thoughts were not thoughts. They were spoken words. I was shouting at myself. He cried in helplessness through the wood.

"If only your Mother were here, she would know what to do. I need her here to help me help you but she is not here. Help me, Tasha, please talk to me or talk to Harry. We love you so very much. Please do not shut us out."

Day four. Rise. I sat up. My phone was silent. I stretched. An odour unleashed from my unchanged clothes. I showered. Sweet-smelling skin. Clean hair. New clothes bought for me by my loving Dad. A revitalised body. Mind not fooled. Everything was not okay. Luckily the mirror was steamed up. I could not look at my reflection.

Dad. I opened the bathroom door. Faint snores came from his room. Two nights he had slept outside my door. An airbed mattress was there. A creased up blanket. An indented pillow.

I went into the kitchen. I binned the old sandwich. I went out onto the balcony. It overlooks the town. The sky was clear. The sun was yellow. Dad appeared behind me. He looked tired. He rubbed his eyes. He rushed towards me. He hugged me tight. He kissed the top of my head. I told him I had grieved. I told him I was sorry. I told him I was now fine.

Talk. We sat on the balcony. I wrapped my cardigan around me. He spoke. I answered. He urged me to let people in. He pleaded to let people help me. Especially Harry. He did not realise I had ended it. Harry had not told him. I was not going to tell him. I could not face the questions. How could I tell him he was never going to be a Grandad? The time for that was not now. I had put him through enough.

I seemed back to normal. It was an act. I was in complete control on the outside. Anxiety raged within. I hid the wrist bandages. My walls were high. No emotion was breaking through. I had recuperated.

Six days I spent in Spain. Now I am flying back to London. I left positively. I have inflicted enough burden upon my Dad. Harry is going to Orlando. He has a launch event for Four at Universal. It is easier returning knowing he is not there. His diary is still linked to my phone. The phone that remains silent. I do not want to call his PA. It could lead to a conversation he may not yet have had with the people in his life. I silence the notifications instead.

Work. I am signed off for another week. I return early. Media speculation has ended. A story fed into the press that I picked up a virus that hospitalized me. I doubt anyone believes that. I do not care. Work colleagues are supportive. They stop by my desk to ask how I am. They wish me well. On rare good days, I smile and thank them. On bad days, I nod and keep my head down.

Monotony. My routine becomes key to existence. Get up, skip breakfast, bus to work, work, work more, bus home, try to eat, attempt to sleep, repeat.

Gemma. I owe her a debt of thanks. She came to the hospital promptly. I want to call her. I am a wimp. I text her instead. She responds kindly curt. 'No problem, I hope you are recovering well.' What did I expect? I got what I deserve. It is likely Harry spoke to her. Harry. He confides in her a lot.

Anne. Oh God. My precious relationship with her is ruined. Hold your tears, Tasha. You do not deserve to cry. You are the reason, Tasha. Remember. She has texted me a few times. 'Please let me know how you are, I am really worried about you.' I text her back. I apologise. I thank her for coming to the hospital. I say I am recovering well. I hope to see her and Robin soon. She responds, 'I am pleased, we are looking forward to seeing you and Harry at Christmas as planned.' Harry. Me. She does not know.

Christmas. It is supposed to be the season to be jolly. The store windows sparkle. Lights reflect in the puddles on the pavements. The Norway spruce tree in Trafalgar Square is large. A kind gift to the UK from Oslo since 1947 for us helping them during the Second World War. It represents a beacon of hope and friendship. It looks lonely.

Alice. She has been my beacon of friendship. I am lucky to have her.

Work Christmas party. I had been looking forward to it. Harry was going to come. Now I am not. Now he is not. I contact the party planning team. I apologised that he has work commitments. Harry. I do not want to go. I do not want to dress up. I do not want to be sociable. Alice will not take no for an answer. I agree to go to shut her up.

Kensington Roof Gardens. A prestigious atmosphere in London. One and a half acres of gardens high above Kensington High Street. Plants. Flamingos. Streams with bridges. The party is black-tie for the men. The party is cocktail dresses for the women. I have not bought a new dress. I am wearing an old black chiffon dress. I am wearing black heels. I have a black clutch. My ensemble matches my mood.

A Moroccan theme. The marquee is swathed in red and gold fabric. Round tables of ten with elaborate floral decorations. A four-course dinner. Spicy food. I pass. A band. They are quite good. Harry. Drinks. Champagne. Cocktails. Wine. Red and white. Vodka shots. Unlimited.

Alcohol. I sink more than I care to remember. I drink ridiculously. I am ridiculously drunk. Alice escorts me out before I embarrass myself. We exit into the cold of December. The London chill hits me. Alice hails a black cab. I slur I am not ready to call it a night. I suggest we go to a club. She ignores me.

Cab. It is hot. I feel sick. The cabbie kicks us out in Camden.

Cafe. We find an all-nighter. It seems friendly. There are seven tables. Only three are taken. The cab drivers finish up their mugs. Business is about to fall out of nearby venues. We sit at a table. Two coffees. A plate of chips. Lots of salt. Too much vinegar. Not enough tomato ketchup. The owner is young. An Italian. His name badge says Mario. He shouts he is going outside for a smoke. He asks us politely to keep an eye on his place.

Truths. The coffee hits the spot. The chips soak up the alcohol. I feel more sober. My mouth spills the past weeks. Alice holds my hand across the table. She knew something was wrong. She has been worried. She has been waiting for me to talk. She listens. She sympathises. She consoles me. Then we go home.

Next morning. I have a raging hangover. The sound of two Berocca vitamin tablets fizzing in my glass of water irritates my senses. Alice stayed over. We are lying in bed. I have not talked so much in weeks. I thank her for being a good friend. She tells me to reserve that judgement. Last night was about me. Her comfort. Her listening ear. Her support. Her love. Today is a different day.

Harry. She tells me I have not been fair. I have treated him badly. I cry. I say I am a horrible person. She says it is not a time for tears. She has no sympathy for that this morning. She hugs me. She says I can wallow or I can do what is right. She says I owe him more than I have given him. She asks me to stand in his shoes. He is probably hurting very much. She says I should call him. Meet him. Talk to him. I owe him that courtesy and respect.

She is right.