A child stands by the edge of the door. She is in school uniform; her hair is short and she shoulders a small backpack.

(I’m here, Mum

here

HERE)

The girl is shouting in a vacuum.

‘Who are you?’ I ask stupidly.

Ah, no need. No need.

The girl is shocked to see the blood between her mother’s legs. Blood flowing without cease, too powerful, too intense, murdering Mum. Is her sister emerging from the open rose petals?

A sister who doesn’t cry. A sister who doesn’t exist.

(Lucky you are, Sister, frozen for ever, inseparable from Mum, while I wander, my home lost)

My mother dies, making no effort to hold on.

(Mum Mum my tiny hand wipes my tears Mum I know you want to die you want to go but first tell me your secrets)

‘Do you want to know about the red line on my wrist?’ Suddenly, sweat on her forehead, Mum struggles into a sitting position and looks towards the girl.

The nurse and doctor also see her.

‘It’s blood,’ the child says.

Mum shakes her head firmly.

‘Blood is life,’ she demurs. ‘That line was my first death. I’m not dying here.’

The girl lurches like a startled horse.

I awake in my pitch-black room.

‘Why?’ My boss gapes like a goldfish, but her eyes smoulder like a hawk’s. She wants to know the reason behind my resignation.

I say I’ve received another offer. That makes much more sense than saying that I can’t be part of all this, sometimes present and sometimes not.

And it makes much more sense than to confess that I don’t want to treat blood as an enemy.

I want drops of blood to be ink on my book, encrusted in the lines of destiny that twist and spin history on my palm. I want to make sacrifices like blood does, play with puddles, ooze sores, flare in anger.

My boss doesn’t persuade me to stay, nor does she offer me a raise or promotion. She just nods and congratulates me. I don’t know if I should be happy without the burden or take it as a slap in the face. I’m just a cog that can be replaced if it comes loose. They aren’t losing me, and I’m not losing anything.

Once out of my boss’s office, I head for the company toilet. Stress always makes me need to pee. Three doors, all marked blue instead of red. Blue means a stall is empty and red means it’s not to be opened. Forbidden. I open the door at the end out of habit. I’m surprised, embarrassed: the stall is occupied.

‘Sorry! I thought—’

I’m about to close the door again when something holds me back.

It’s you.