"Oof."

She'd slumped down on the couch, expecting herself to sink into it, but it turned out it was a lot harder than it looked, and now her backside was telling her to be a little more careful next time. She winced, leaned forward and placed her drink on the table with what she thought was ladylike delicacy, but which was actually cack-handed drunkenness.

"Hey Kris," yelled a familiar voice over the din of the club. "You all right?"

"Yeah," she yelled back, aware that her head was lolling like a ragdoll as she turned to look at the person who had addressed her. Through her blurry wine goggles, she could just about make out the figure of her best friend Maxine, who had a habit of looking out for her any time she got drunk.

Maxine and Kristina had come out on a Saturday night for once. Kristina didn't normally like to do this, but she felt like she didn't see Maxine anywhere near often enough these days, especially with the fact that her evenings were normally taken up with extra work. Maxine never turned down an opportunity to go out to their favourite club — well, it was more Maxine's favourite club than Kristina's — and, more often than not, watch Kristina get steadily drunk over the course of the evening.

She wasn't drunk right now, of course; she was in full and perfect possession of all her faculties, and any lolling around was purely the result of tiredness, not the "few" glasses of wine she'd consumed this evening. "Few" was the descriptor she used when she'd lost count, which was usually the case after two small glasses of pungent house wine. This evening, she'd actually had five; Maxine knew that, but Kristina had, as usual, lost count, and as usual it was apparently up to Maxine to ensure she didn't get up to any mischief. Keeping an eye out for Kristina over the years had helped Maxine develop an astonishing tolerance for alcohol, so much so that she was pretty confident she could drink even the most hardened football hooligan under the table at a moment's notice.

"I'm fine," Kristina reiterated, even though Maxine hadn't said anything else to her. "Totally fine. Absoposolutely fine. Hey, that guy's pretty fit."

Maxine chuckled.

"He is, isn't he? But I'm not sure you're in any state to strike up a conversation with him right now."

"I told you, I'm fine," Kristina slurred, picking up her glass and taking a big swig, then wincing. "I just… bollocks, no I'm not. Excuse me."

She snatched up her handbag , stood up hastily and trotted as quickly as her heels could take her towards the toilets. Maxine sighed.

"Classy chick," she muttered to herself.

*  *  *  *

Not long after, a slightly sober Kristina was walking arm-in-arm with Maxine down the road. Kristina throwing up usually meant two things: firstly, that she would almost immediately become a lot more alert; and secondly, that she would probably want to walk home. Maxine knew that Kristina didn't need the support to walk any more, but held on to her arm as a sign of affection towards her friend regardless.

"I've had a shit week," said Kristina. "Life sucks."

"I don't understand why you're still in that job, Kris," replied her friend. "You obviously hate it. Why do you still do it?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, wafting her free arm into the night air in an exaggeratedly philosophical gesture. "Denial, perhaps. I don't want to feel like a failure."

"And why should you feel like a failure?" Maxine asked. "Incidents like that little scrote you told me about earlier aside, you're doing all right, aren't you? You told me most of the other kids seem to quite like you."

"They do seem to," she said. "But I don't know if that's because I'm a pushover, or because they actually like me. I shouldn't care so much, I know; I'm not there to make friends with them, but still. But…" She trailed off.

"But?"

"Well, the school got inspected last week," she said, hesitantly.

"Oh, right," said Maxine. "I remember you telling me. Everyone was stressing out about it."

"Yeah," replied Kristina. "Well, it turns out that I'm an 'unsatisfactory' teacher."

"What? Says who?"

"Says some bitch who came in, observed twenty minutes of one of my Year 9 lessons in the afternoon, then wandered out before we got to the interesting bit. Oh, I really wish I'd let her have it when she gave me her 'feedback'."

"Oh, fuck her, Kris. You just said yourself, that doesn't sound like a fair assessment at all."

"That's not all, though," Kristina continued. "Now the school's in Special Measures because it sucks so bad, and I feel like it's my fault."

Maxine stopped walking and turned to face Kristina.

"Look, Kris," she said seriously. "If something like that's happened it's pretty clear that there's something very wrong with the whole place, not you. I really doubt they'd put the whole place in Special Whatevers because of one person. Not that I believe you did anything wrong anyway."

"I… I guess," she said. "But every time I hear the Head talk about the results of the inspection and the feedback and I hear the word 'unsatisfactory', I just feel like they're talking about me. It sucks."

"Oh, Kris," said Maxine. "C'mere." She wrapped her arms around her friend and gave her a hug. Kristina sniffed and reciprocated the gesture. The two girls pulled apart at a "weeeeyyyy!" of encouragement from a gang of drunken men a little further down the road, and continued on their way.

"Point is," Maxine continued, "you can't blame yourself. You can use this as an opportunity to improve, or you can use it as a kick up the arse to go find something else to do if you're really having such a miserable time."

Kristina said nothing. She knew that Maxine was right, but didn't want to admit it. The pair continued walking in silence for several minutes — Maxine knew when not to push her luck.

"Thanks, Max," said Kristina after a while. "I needed tonight. I know we didn't do much, but, still. Thanks."

"Any time," she replied with a smile.

*  *  *  *

Kristina wasn't quite sure what time it was when she woke up on her couch, but the TV channel she'd apparently left playing for background noise while she drifted off to sleep was displaying nothing more than a digital "this channel will be back later" page on the screen, so she figured it probably was the early hours of the morning. Someone — she figured either Maxine or herself — had put a heavy woollen throw over her, and it was lovely and warm, but she still felt a little uncomfortable. Peeling back her makeshift blanket, she realised that she had apparently fallen asleep in her clothes — though at least she had taken her shoes off.

"Ugh," she groaned to herself. "Real classy, Kristina." She swung her legs down off the couch, pushed the throw to one side and reached around behind herself to unzip her dress. She wriggled out of it and tossed it on the floor, then unfastened her bra with an exaggerated gasp of satisfaction — she was convinced that she wasn't wearing quite the right size, but she did like that one — and similarly flung that aside, too. Then she wrapped herself in the cocoon of her makeshift blanket once again, enjoying the feeling of the warmth enveloping her bare skin.

She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come again. She felt completely sober now, but too tired to get up and actually go to bed properly, so she decided to stay on the couch for now. There was no-one here to judge her, after all. Fumbling around beside herself for the remote, she flicked the TV onto a channel that didn't close down in the early hours of the morning, then closed her eyes again, only half-listening to the dull mumbling of what passed for late-night TV on whatever channel she'd randomly hopped to. She was dimly aware of it being some comedy show that she didn't find at all funny, but the number of times it had been repeated meant that it was comfortably familiar, and a good way to break the silence in her flat.

She didn't like silence, or the dark, but was ashamed of these feelings; they felt childish and silly, and she had never admitted them to anyone, not even Maxine. But she had a good enough reason for them; given no other stimuli, her mind would inevitably be drawn to the things that were making her more anxious than anything else — her job; her lack of love life; the fact that she didn't really know how to make friends with her colleagues; and, of course, incidents like the one that had unfolded on Friday.

Oh, why did she have to think of that? Now it was creeping into her head again, even with the sound of the TV distracting her from her unwanted thoughts. Her eyes still shut, she fumbled around for where she thought she'd left the remote, and found the volume button by touch to turn up the sound and drown out the noise in her head.

It worked. For now. But it was only a temporary measure; sleep would soon take her, and that's when her subconscious would get to work. She was tired of the nightmares, but knew there wasn't anything she could really do about them; sometimes she wished that life was more like a fantasy story she'd read as a teenager, in which a young girl banished nightmares from people's souls and minds with the help of a magic blade that allowed her to enter another dimension — the land of dreams.

Before long, her mind wandering through idle flights of fancy caused her to drop off to sleep without noticing.

"Based on what I saw there, that was an unsatisfactory lesson," said the sour-faced woman.

"Fuck you!" bellowed Edward, bursting through the door.

"Your behaviour management needs some significant work," continued the woman, apparently oblivious to the profanity-spewing teenager in the doorway. "And the pace of your lesson is all wrong. You didn't have a starter, and you spent too long on teaching time."

"Fuck you!" cried Edward again, throwing a table aside.

"Unsatisfactory," said the woman. "Special measures."

"Fuck you!"

Kristina covered her eyes, dimly aware that what was unfolding was nothing more than a dream from her subconscious, but terrified of it all the same. She didn't know how much more of this she could take, and things were only going to get more and more difficult in the coming weeks. What could she do?

On the couch, her unconscious body twitched in its sleep, an occasional moan escaping from its lips. But there was, of course, no-one around to hear it; she was, as she had been ever since she left home, completely alone.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine, Mum."

Sian knew better than to reveal her true feelings to her mother by now. One hint of sadness, anxiety or any emotion outside the "happiness" part of the mood spectrum, and she'd be bombarded with a torrent of questions, ostensibly in an attempt to make sure she was "all right" but which almost inevitably made her feel worse than she had in the first place. Consequently, she'd taken to bottling things up somewhat. She knew it wasn't altogether healthy, but it had been a successful coping mechanism so far, and she wasn't about to change now.

Besides, the fact that she was feeling a little dejected wasn't, for once, due to anything in her own life. Instead, she was feeling bad on behalf of someone else; specifically, her teacher Miss Charles, whom Sian had felt was perilously close to the edge today.

Sian pondered to herself that this was, sadly, nothing unusual for Miss Charles, whom she liked and respected very much but secretly felt probably wasn't cut out for life in a school like Longmore. Not that this reflected badly on Miss Charles in Sian's mind; Sian herself often found herself thinking that she wasn't really cut out for life in a school like Longmore, either. But it was the hand that life had dealt her, and so she'd deal with it, whatever it took. It built character. At least, that was what she always told herself.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mum, I promise I'm fine. Now I'm going to go and do my homework."

Before her mother could protest, she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom, closed the door — carefully, so as not to sound as if she was slamming it — and turned on the radio. It was time for the show she liked with the songs from musicals; she'd always been a fan of songs from the shows, partly because of her own studies, but had never intended to become the sort of person who listened to them in her free time. The fact that this show typically coincided with the point in the day where she would typically do her homework meant that it was a regular companion, and it had got to the stage where it was a comfortably familiar, pleasant presence to work alongside.

She unzipped her bag and took out her planner, opening it on her desk in front of her. There was only one thing she needed to do today; the rest could wait until next week. Finishing off those Maths questions needed to be done for Monday, though. It was her own fault — she'd gotten herself involved in a particularly lively and animated conversation with her friends Jasmine and Nicola rather than working in Maths today. Their teacher Mr Abraham didn't mind them chatting usually, but did insist that everyone complete all the work that was set by the time the next lesson rolled around — and the next lesson was Monday. She could do it over the weekend, of course, but Sian objected to doing homework on Saturday and Sunday unless she absolutely had to; she'd rather give up her Friday night instead, even if it was for Maths.

Sian hated Maths lessons. She knew this was an opinion that wasn't worth expressing, however, because almost everyone in her class seemed to hate Maths — and this was the top set, too. She found her distaste for the subject frustrating, because she understood that it was something that was important to everyday life in various ways, but she also knew that today there were more tools than ever that meant people would never have to remember what "some old houses creak and howl through old age" meant ever again.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, reached into her bag and drew out her Maths textbook and exercise book, then opened them both to the pages she'd marked earlier. She picked up her pencil and was just getting started on the first problem when her phone chimed. It was a chat message from Jasmine.

heard tht miss charles wuz proper mental earlier lol, it read. did u see it? xx

Sian pondered how to reply — or even if to reply — for a moment. On the one hand, she liked Jasmine and always enjoyed chatting to her; on the other hand, she also liked Miss Charles and didn't really want to gossip about her.

No, I didn't, she replied after a minute, with her customary perfect use of spelling, punctuation and grammar. She refused to compromise her own standards for the sake of convenience. Knowing Edward, though, I'm not surprised.

It was a gentle lie to try and steer the conversation away from Miss Charles. She had seen Miss Charles go "proper mental" earlier, of course, but she didn't really want to talk about it, and in fact it was recalling the incident that was making her feel so anxious right now.

She put her phone down and picked up her pencil again. It wasn't long before her phone chimed again, but she grit her teeth and told herself that she wouldn't look — much less reply — until she had conquered the first of the questions she had to complete this evening.

The question, as it happened, was rather easy, and so in a matter of moments the phone was in her hand again.

yea, came the reply from Jasmine. edwards a dick lol sounds lyk miss charles wuznt redy 4 him xx

Can you ever be ready for Edward? she replied. I don't understand why he even comes to school. Not that he does very often.

By the time the reply came back from Jasmine, Sian had conquered the second problem, too.

well its cuz his ma got fined for him being off all the time lol, it said. he may be a dick but i guess hes still scared of his ma xx

You could be right, she sent back. My battery's low and I'm about to have dinner, she lied in an attempt to end the conversation. I'll talk to you later?

The third question took a little longer to calculate, and Jasmine's reply arrived in the middle of the process, making Sian jump. She frowned, and managed not to look at her phone until she finished, though, secretly feeling quite pleased with her own self-discipline.

ok babe, read the reply. ttyl xx

Sian flicked her phone onto silent and tossed it onto the bed. There were four more questions to go, of increasing complexity, and she wanted to get them out of the way sooner rather than later. She knew all too well that it took a good two or three times of saying goodbye — or fake goodbye, at least — to get rid of Jasmine, though a long silence often did the trick, too.

The radio had started to play Memory from Cats. As much of a fan of musicals as she was, she couldn't stand Cats, and particularly couldn't stand Memory, so she flicked off the radio and completed the rest of her homework in silent protest to no-one in particular.

*  *  *  *

Later that evening, after she'd had dinner with her mother and father, Sian lay on her bed gazing at the ceiling. She thought of this as her "thinking position", though in actuality it was more an "anxiety position"; she tended only to lie staring into space like this when she was worrying about something or someone. And she couldn't get Miss Charles out of her mind.

She kept replaying the scene from earlier over and over in her head. She wondered if she should have stood up and said something — probably not, she thought; although she counted herself quite lucky that she was one of the few people in her year who was both academically gifted and relatively popular, she didn't fancy her chances against the seething ball of rage that was Edward. Edward was too unpredictable; he might have listened to her, he might have redirected his anger away from Miss Charles and towards her, or he might have gotten even angrier.

Sian didn't understand Edward, and that scared her. She was the sort of person who liked to figure people out as soon as possible so she knew how to act around them. She was generally quite good at reading people shortly after becoming acquainted with them, but with Edward's frequent long absences from school, she'd never really had the opportunity to get to know him, and, if she was being honest, didn't really have the inclination to get anywhere near him when he was present.

She understood Miss Charles, though. She could tell that Miss Charles was suffering, and that made her sad, because not only did she like Miss Charles as a person, she respected the amount of knowledge Miss Charles had of her subject. She liked spending time with Miss Charles, and she liked studying music with Miss Charles. It was just a shame that the experience had to be spoiled by people like Edward. She didn't even know what Edward was doing in that class; the boy had no musical talent whatsoever, and his assertion that he was "a drummer" translated, in her experience, to him being able to do little more than bang out an unsteady four-on-the-floor beat at an uneven tempo and high volume.

She closed her eyes, and saw the classroom again.

"Fuck you!" Edward yelled.

"Now, Edward," Miss Charles said, her voice wavering. "If you need to take a moment outside to calm yourself down, please do. Otherwise, please return to your seat."

Sian could tell that Miss Charles was scared. The young teacher's hands were shaking, and she was propping herself up against her desk for security — something Sian had noticed she did when she was nervous.

"Fuck you!" Edward screeched again, driving his fist into the wood of the door and apparently feeling no pain from the impact. Sian saw Miss Charles flinch and shrink away from him slightly — she certainly didn't blame her for that, because she'd felt scared too. This wasn't her first encounter with an Edward rage, unlike Miss Charles, but experience didn't make them any easier to deal with.

"Urgh, stop it," muttered Sian to herself, rolling onto her side on the bed and holding the pillow around her ears, as if doing so would cause the memory to stop replaying itself. It didn't work, of course — it never did — but that never stopped her from trying at times like this.

Eventually she sat up. Lying in thinking position wasn't achieving anything; she just wanted to distract herself with something — anything. She pulled out her phone and looked at it; she scrolled through Twitter and Facebook but found nothing of interest, then checked her favourite YouTube channels for any updates, but it seemed like everyone she might want to watch was having Friday off. Eventually she settled for a favourite cat video, watching it four times until it made her giggle out loud and start to feel slightly better.

She lay back down again and closed her eyes, trying to force her mind's eye to see the cat jumping in and out of cardboard boxes rather than Edward screaming "Fuck you!" at the top of his voice.

It's the weekend, she said to herself. And it's not your problem. Just relax.

She took a deep breath in, held it a moment, then released it. She did it again, then again, then again — and finally sank into a dreamless sleep.

The sun was going down; the light was fading. But she couldn't bring herself to move quite yet. Lolling back in her chair, her breathing heavy and laboured, Kristina Charles wanted nothing more than to get out of this place. But her body was telling her something else; it was telling her to calm down, relax, take a moment.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath in, then rolled herself forward as she exhaled noisily. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, the papers scattered all over her desk gazing back at her; cold, unfeeling. They weren't going anywhere unless she moved them, but the last thing she wanted to do right now was touch them, look at them, do anything with them. But she knew that if she didn't do anything with them now, they'd still be there at the start of next week, and things would just continue to get worse.

It was times like this that Kristina resented the teacher's life. Even as the rest of the world was being drawn inexorably into the future thanks to technology that seemed to get more advanced by the day, the teaching profession remained resolutely set in its ways, seeming absolutely determined to keep the world's paper manufacturers in business. Everything was dealt with through some sort of printout; her desk was covered with everything from school newsletters to action plans via behaviour trackers, and she hated all of it. She wanted nothing more than to just sweep it all off her desk, into a black bin-liner and be done with it. She had contemplated it on several occasions, but had never been able to bring herself to do it.

She heard the distinctive "click" of her classroom door pushing open, accompanied by a gentle "tap, tap, tap"; looking up, she saw the familiar face of Martin, her head of department. He was smiling that gentle smile he always seemed to have on his face; she envied his seemingly unflappable nature and wished that she could "switch off" as easily as he seemingly could.

"Hey, Kris," he said. "Long day?"

"Uh," she replied. "You could say that."

"Well, the week's over now. Why don't you leave it behind for now and come to the pub?"

She looked from Martin to the stack of papers on her desk, then back to Martin. An unspoken question hung in the air.

"Leave it," he said. "I know you've had a rough time today, and the last thing you need right now is to be fretting about all that paperwork. Just leave it." He leaned in in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial fashion. "Between you and me, I ignore a good 90% of it. Most of them are like utility bills; you can leave them be until someone comes chasing you for them."

Kristina chuckled. She'd learned this herself quite early on, but she always found it amusing when someone as seemingly respectable as Martin — her direct superior, no less — effectively urged her to shirk her duties. She was under no illusions; she knew perfectly well that most of her colleagues had managed to survive as long as they had simply by knowing what work them simply had to perform, and what could be safely ignored and left behind.

"Fine, whatever," she said, shrugging and getting to her feet. "I'm not achieving anything here anyway, and moping in the dark isn't going to solve anything."

"That's the spirit," said Martin. "I think your first drink's on me."

*  *  *  *

Raucous laughter erupted around the table. Kristina made an effort to join in, but felt she didn't quite get the joke — or perhaps she simply wasn't in the mood. Either way, she was bluffing, but no-one seemed to notice.

No-one ever seemed to notice her. She was pretty sure that most people around this table probably knew her name, but she was equally sure that not one of them — with the possible exception of Martin — knew anything beyond that about her, barring perhaps the subject she taught. That said, she didn't know much about any of them, either; in the few months she'd been in this job, she'd had trouble getting to know people, partly due to her own natural shyness and partly due to the fact she'd felt from the very beginning that the staff of Longmore Community College had already formed their cliques well before she'd arrived, and that it would take a more confident woman than she to break into their inner circles.

She picked up her wine glass and swished it from side to side, the swaying waves of the wine within proving vaguely hypnotic. She wasn't even listening to the conversation around her any more; inwardly, she was counting the minutes until she felt it would cease to be impolite to get up and just leave, but another part of her mind wondered if anyone would actually notice if she did just that right now.

She downed the remainder of her wine and decided to try an experiment. She put her glass purposefully down on the table, picked up her handbag and stood up.

"Y'all right, Kristina?" said Paul, whom she knew only as the Northern PE teacher, and often the butt of some light-hearted ribbing from the "cool kids" of the English department. She was surprised to be addressed by him, but his gently lilting Sheffield accent put her somewhat at ease.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said quietly, scratching her face in the way she normally did when she was feeling uncomfortable. "I'm just. You know. I'll be right back." It somehow didn't feel quite right to tell someone she didn't know that well that she was just going to head to the toilet and decide from there whether or not to make a break for it.

She excused herself and walked out into the corridor that housed the doors to the toilets. As usual, the corridor smelled strongly of urine — a stench that was wafting out from the gents', she assumed — but once she was into the ladies', the stink was replaced by that of cheap perfume, presumably applied hastily by young women off out on the town after a long week. There was no-one in the toilets when she entered, but the smell was strong; either the owner of the perfume wasn't long gone, or must have drenched herself in the fragrance enough for it to stick around long after she had departed.

Kristina opened the door to the cramped cubicle, put the seat down and sat down. She didn't need to actually "go"; she'd just come here for a moment's escape and a bit of peace and quiet. She knew that with her mind the way it was at the moment, that wasn't necessarily a good idea — quiet rooms tended to cause her to dwell on things she would rather forget — but it was, for now, preferable to sitting at that table pretending to be sociable.

Suddenly, she felt a tear run down her face. She had been expecting that she was probably going to cry this evening — she knew herself well enough by now to recognise the signs of an impending mini-breakdown — but hadn't expected it to come on quite so soon and quite so suddenly. Resigning herself to the apparent inevitability, she just let the tears silently roll down her face until there were no more.

*  *  *  *

"Hey, Kris, you all right?"

It was Martin.

"I'm all right," she said, not turning around. "I just need to go home. Sorry."

"It's all right," he said. "We were just worried about you. You were gone a long time and then you headed straight for the door without saying goodbye."

"Yeah, I—" she began, not sure where that sentence was going. She started again. "I just. I'm not feeling well. Sorry. See you Monday."

She started walking, determined not to look back over her shoulder. She didn't know if he was watching her walk away or whether he'd already gone back inside. She told herself that she didn't really care one way or the other, but really she hoped that he wasn't watching her. She felt like a pitiful wreck of a human being right now, and just wanted to curl up in bed and go to sleep. It had been a terrible day to draw a terrible week to a close, and she wanted to leave it well and truly behind her, just like she'd left the stack of papers on her desk.

She knew those papers would be there waiting for her when she got back, and in all likelihood the fallout from the terrible week would still be there when she got back too. But that didn't matter right now, she told herself. It was the weekend; a time to reflect, relax and regroup. There was no guarantee that next week was going to be as bad as this one, and who knows? All those papers might have magically vanished by the time she got back. If only.

*  *  *  *

"Fuck you!" the kid screeched. His name was Edward, and this had been her first encounter with him. She'd heard his name before in staff meetings, but since he was a serial truant, it was rare for him to be in school. She'd been secretly hoping that his truancy would continue indefinitely, culminating in his expulsion from the school without her ever having to come face-to-face with him, but here he was, every bit as unpleasant as she'd been led to believe.

"Now, Edward," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "If you need to take a moment outside to calm yourself down, please do. Otherwise, please return to your seat." She could feel her voice quavering as she said the words; she hoped it wasn't as obvious to the ears of her class.

"Fuck you!" he yelled again, punching the door. He followed his profanity with an incoherent yell that didn't appear to contain any words, then walked around the room throwing his classmates' pencil cases and books onto the floor. It was an utterly bewildering sight; it would probably have been comical to Kristina if it weren't so terrifying. She knew that this kid could snap — further than he already had, anyway — at any moment, and she didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, something in her mind went, and she felt like she was watching herself, out of control.

"You little shit!" she screamed. "Get the fuck out of my classroom now before I pick you up and throw you the fuck out! If you're so fucking ungrateful that you can't be bothered to sit down and shut the fuck up, then just get the fuck out and don't fucking come back, ever!"

There was a moment of silence. She could feel the entire class looking at her in shock. No-one was breathing. Time seemed to be frozen.

Then he leapt at her with a feral roar, screaming bloody murder — possibly literally. She put her hands up to defend herself and—

She finally woke up, breathless. Her heart was pounding, and the darkness of her room felt like it was constricting her, choking the life out of her. She was panicking, almost too scared to move, but she eventually managed to summon the strength and courage to reach over to her bedside lamp and flick it on.

As the light filled the room, she unsteadily sat up, resting her back against the headboard. It thumped gently against the wall as she leaned her weight back into it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath just like her CDs had trained her to do, then exhaled through her mouth. Again, in; again, out. Once more, in; one more, out. She felt the panic slowly subsiding, though her heart was still racing.

This kept happening, and she couldn't control it. Her subconscious mind apparently liked nothing more than to look back on the day's events, and reinterpret them into "what if" scenarios that culminated in the worst possible outcome, usually involving some combination of furious anger and/or violence. She always woke up feeling guilty, even though she knew that she'd done nothing wrong; in reality, she'd handled things carefully, calmly and as effectively as she could under often difficult circumstances, but in her mind, things had gone as badly as it was possible for them to go.

She knew she had to change, to grow, to get stronger; she just didn't know how she was going to go about it.