Day 64:
Shedding my skin and fucking crawling out of it. I can’t hack this place any more, I long for grass. Burn these buildings and walls and grow grass, and then the naughty grass. So we can all get high as the sky and not give a fuck who falls to the ground. Not give a fuck if I fall to the ground. I won’t.
There is no meaning any more, no light at the end of the dank tunnel, no big celebration party, no sudden epiphany. No people. There are no people. It’s the real world, and bloody hell, it is a lonely place.

Helen can barely accumulate the energy to type, as winter bites at her tired hands. Her pupils dilate and she vomits into a half-empty bucket on the floor. She swears and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She silently curses all uncooked cheeseburgers to Hell and gently lies back on her bed. Her ceiling has veins, she notes. These veins threaten to send the roof crashing down onto her any second, killing her instantly. She pictures her funeral; a coffin (perhaps an open one), a vicar and her mother, maybe. Maybe her mother would show up and shake her head in disappointment and say something along the lines of; ‘you should have fixed that ceiling, Helen Mason. I told you it was a death-trap.’ She can see it all unfold in front of her eyes. Her mother would pretend to sob to keep up appearances for the gossip-enticed vicar. She would then return home, pour herself a large glass of rosé and resume her incessant bitching about all the scantily clad youths that television shows these days. Nothing serious phased Helen’s mother. She was more enthused by the prospect of a soap cancellation than by her own daughter being accepted into Oxford Uni.