Her eyes were swollen shut, her throat scratchy and her bladder extremely full. Those were Sarah’s first thoughts upon waking, as the crushing weight of reality settled on her anew.

She decided the bladder needed sorting first, but with her eyes still partially closed, her shins found every piece of sharp furniture on the way to the bathroom.

As she relieved herself, she tried to recall the events of last night, but her memory gave out after the second bottle of wine. She recalled lots of crying - as had become a standard part of her nightly routine - some calls from concerned friends which she’d answered with a slurred “I’m fine… yes it’s Celine Dion, YES AGAIN… Look, I’m fwine, fline, wine? Eurgh…” and then, what else had she done?

As she made her way from the bathroom to the kitchen, in need of an extremely large cup of coffee, her feet hit off empty wine bottles. She wasn’t sure which were from last night, because they’d been building up over the last 3 days and she didn’t have the energy to gather them all up and face the jangling walk of shame to the recycling bin.

Empty food containers lay scattered across the kitchen island, and despite her numbed senses, the reek was palpable. She reached for the cupboard to find that there were no clean mugs, but found a large picnic thermos that would do instead.

As the kettle noisily began to heat, she rubbed her sore eyes and took in the state of the place. When had this become her life? Even with the curtains drawn- a state they’d been in for the past 3 days- she could see the dark smudges of spilt food, wine and tears covering her usually pristine white couch.

On the coffee table lay her dead bouquet of roses. The term ‘bouquet’ was generously applied in this case; the few remaining petals were barely clinging on to the stems, having been flung against every nearby surface in Sarah’s fits of rage, then crushed to her as the loud sobbing wracked her body, and as a final indignity, used as a microphone for her spirited Sad Ballad crescendos.

It depressed her further, seeing the remnants of her wedding bouquet scattered across the room. She’d been meticulous in picking out just the right roses, colourful, fragrant and full of life. Now they lay lifeless on the floor.

She thought about joining them there, until the loud sound of the kettle announcing its readiness brought her back to reality. She knew she should pull herself together already, as her mother had kindly reminded her yesterday as she tried to force her way through the front door.

“I’ll just tidy up a bit darling! You won’t even know I’m here- you could shower you know, wash your hair-“ her pleading had increased in both insistence and sternness with each of Sarah’s rejections, until eventually she’d declared “oh pull yourself together woman!! You’ve got to snap out of this! He was a scoundrel, a waste of space - he would never have made you happy! Better to find that out before you chained yourself to him!”

But he had made her happy. And she thought she’d made him happy. And just like that the tears were welling again. She held her giant thermos of coffee up to her mouth as she scrambled to find her phone. 5% battery remaining. “You and I both”, she thought, as she wiped the smudged and dirty screen.

12 missed calls. Most were from her mother, who’d also followed up by text to say “maybe we could do lunch tomorrow?”, then “Aunt Petunia is still in town for the wedding, she’d love to see you”, and finally “2f why areyou punishing me???!”

Her mother’s aptitude at texting always decreased with her mounting disappointment. More texts from Kayleigh and Hannah, “just checking in?”, and the more subtle “going to the shops- do you need anything? I could stop by! Just say! No pressure!”.

No, she did not fancy company. She was thinking that just as a loud familiar knock sounded from the front door. She felt the blood drain from her face. It couldn’t be… “Sarah, it’s me. We need to talk.” Him. Fuck.

She was going to be very sick.