With my back to the wall, I rise up the treads of the staircase, taking care to avoid the third from the bottom. As I reach the top, a door creaks and I almost fall back down. Clinging on to the banister, I swallow the ball of fear lodged in my throat.

I look at the bathroom door at the end of the corridor off the mezzanine, fully expecting it to suddenly swing open. I almost wish it would – to put me out of my misery.

There’s a draught as I edge closer towards it, a cold stream of air that chills the intense heat raging through my body. Holding the knife out at arm’s length, I kick the door open with my foot and make a noise that doesn’t sound like it’s come from me.

Switching the light on, I catch my breath, forcing myself to focus, even though all I want to do is squeeze my eyes tightly shut. The closed shower curtain sways gently in the breeze coming through the open window, and as much as I’m relieved that it explains a lot, I still can’t relax until I’m sure that nobody is hiding in the bath behind it.

I count to three in my head, or it might have been aloud, and pull it brusquely backwards. The metal rings screech on the pole, jangling the very few nerve endings I have left.

It’s empty.

Is it me? Am I allowing paranoia to poison my mind and alter my senses? Am I hearing things that don’t exist? Seeing things that aren’t there? My faculties are so compromised that I feel as if I could conjure up anything if it matched the narrative that everyone else is convinced is my life.

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, alarmed by the hollowed-out version staring back at me. I could collapse in a heap, giving in to whoever has set out to destroy me, or I could fight back, safe in the knowledge that I’ve not done anything wrong, aside from holding out on a few home truths. I pull myself up, standing taller and holding my head high, revelling in the inner strength such a simple gesture can spawn. I need to focus on the things that implicate me in a crime I didn’t commit and discard the psychological attempt to bring me down. It’s time to sort the wheat from the chaff.

By the time I’ve crossed the landing to our bedroom, I’ve already forgiven myself for thinking that someone had been in the house and am convinced that everything that has happened up to now can surely be explained. Nobody is out to get me; it’s all just a catalogue of coincidences. I almost believe it until I see my sister’s pink bunny rabbit lying on my pillow.

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