She wanted more than anything to move on and get rid of this pain, but it seemed impossible. Amelia started to put on her make-up as quickly as possible. She picked up her powder case and dabbed her face, but then her eyes were drawn to her neck. She let out a sigh.

“Will this bloody thing ever heal?”

The nip Byron had given her on her neck the last few times they made love never seemed to clear up. It remained red and raised and the two pinprick wounds that she had never quite understood refused to heal.

As time went by she began to resent it and its very sight made her angry. Every time she looked in the mirror, she was reminded of Byron—her secrets and her strange life that she never could quite understand. She never did allow herself to dwell on the catalogue of strangeness that she had seen and heard in Monaco. If she did, she knew it would only make things worse, so she shut it out of her brain.

The only thing she couldn’t avoid was the bite mark on her neck. People commented on it all the time. She had made lots of excuses, but the truth was she didn’t understand it herself. She had come to look at it like a symbol. It wouldn’t heal just like her heart.

Stop it, Amelia chastised herself. She was getting lost in her melancholy thoughts again. She quickly powdered the wound, as she did every morning, to try to make it less noticeable, and finished getting ready.

Amelia stepped out into the cold, bleak morning, and put up her umbrella. She used to enjoy this little time to herself in the morning. She would put her earphones on, listen to her favourite songs, and read all the morning news on her iPhone as she travelled by Tube into central London.

Now every song reminded her of love, and her broken heart, so she got on the Tube and sat in silence until she arrived at her stop. As she walked out of the station, she was sure she could feel someone watching her. She quickly looked around but saw nothing. It was a strange feeling, and she had felt it often over the past few months, but had just brushed it off as her overactive imagination.

The London streets were busy, and people around her rushed as they tried to get to their destinations and out of the rain. Up ahead she saw the only slightly bright part of her morning, the little coffee stand on the corner that she stopped at every morning before work.

It had been taken over by a new owner six months ago. The new owner, Wilder, was a lesbian and tried to chat her up and make her smile every morning. Nothing much made her smile these days, but Wilder tried her best.

She walked up to the stand, and funnily enough, despite its popularity amongst the office workers around here, she never had to wait in line.