I go back to the leaf. The wind has dropped and it has ceased to tremble. I think about the old me. Sometimes I’m amused by her. When I think of the energy I used to expend getting hurt or offended. All those years I spent running the rat race, chasing my ratty tail, following the rat rules, being the right kind of mother, wife, daughter, breadwinner, keeping my home the right way, wearing the right clothes, holding the right opinions, drinking the right wine, eating the right food, bearing the right cynicism. For what? It all seems so utterly pointless. Is that what Dr. Robinson wants me to write about? The darkness? Those nights I would wake up in a panic, my heart beating so fast, that ache in my body, like I was breaking? I don’t want to think of the pain. I am safe now. That was the old me, who felt too much.

Now I am free.

I glance down at the computer. It’s an old Dell with no plug – in case I try to prong myself to death, I suppose. I can’t remember when I last wrote anything.

‘What am I meant to write?’ I ask. The Squeak wipes a little spilt water off the tray and puts the napkin in her pocket. Before she goes she leans forward and looks me in the eye.

‘Why don’t you just do everyone a favour and write down what fucking happened?’

She’s kind of impressive. She’s straight to the point. I go back to watching my brave little leaf while she and her fat arse leave the room.

I won’t let her upset me. I get up and go to the bathroom. It’s not that great pissing your pants, to be honest. I use the loo and wash my unfamiliar hands in the mini basin. There’s a sheet of shiny metal above the sink and I see myself again. Thank God it’s blurry but I can tell I’ve had better days; I’m not looking my best. My hair is no longer lovely. It grows in strange red clumps like patches of coarse grass, my scalp visible. What the hell happened? I pat my head. I resemble a much-loved, worn-out child’s soft toy, although I feel no love, only exhaustion. I peer closer. My eyes are bloodshot, the whites all red. My face is covered in broken veins, my neck a myriad of colours: purples and reds, greens and yellows. I bring my hand up to my throat to check I’m not wearing some kind of ghastly autumnal scarf my mother might have given me. But this is no place for the fashion-conscious. I rub soap over the sheet of metal until I start disappearing.

* * *