The visitors

She hates it when they come. No good things have ever resulted from any of their visits but they insist on cropping up now and again.

If they are there in the morning, she hopes they will go away by lunch time. Those are not good days.

Sometimes one of them will nag and fuss. The criticisms drip through every other sentence, feeding the ball of insecurity. Other times, they will all sit in silent, eating her food and drinking her coffee. Their stares enough to tell her of their apathy. Their touches, cling to her heavy bones.

She loses focus no matter what and time ticks by without waiting.

She isn’t sure which she hates more.

The weather in London seems to always coincide with their visits too, grim and gray. She loves the buzzling city, she really does. It’s why she can’t move away, even when things get tough. But it’s hard to remember that when the things you love lose their vibrant colours.

They don’t normally stay too long, but one visit can cloud over the rest of her week. The worst thing is, she is always left feeling empty afterwards. No matter how many spoonful of sugar can help ease the hollowness.

Sometimes it would rain, when they visit. The sounds of cold droplets make her want nothing more but to crawl under a blanket and never face the world again.

She hopes they won’t come back anytime soon.




A/N: I came home on Wednesday feeling crap (probably because it was my diet day among other things) and this story was floating around in my head. So I gave it a go. Hope it wasn’t too confusing!


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