Stevenage 10 June 1992

Am I really going to let someone that shit still have so much influence over my emotions, allow the selfish bastard's actions to make me feel so unlovable? He's been inside wreaking havoc since I was six - I shut him in and I should have fucking shut him out. I've been grieving for that unloved child for too long. You can have her, because I don't want her any more. I'm beginning to see that it wasn't her that was unlovable, it was him that was incapable of loving.

She takes the 15 year old letter and sets it alight, carefully, deliberately, burning holes through his black name, watching the ash fall on to the dry silver of the sink. When the pages have gone she'll scoop up the ash and pour it back into the original smooth, blue envelope. She's looking at the handwriting on the front of it now. The address is capitalised, but he's written the postcode in an odd way; almost three blocks of letters rather than the usual two. She spits at it. It's an affront. He had no right to. "All I can think of to say is that I love you, I allways have, and whatever the future holds, I allways will." She knows this was a delusion. She seals the envelope back up and goes off to find a stamp, ready to send it away.