The Uninvited Guest

He followed me home again today.

It had been a good shift at work. Julie said I'd been picking things up well and stand a good chance of getting the permanent job. I wanted to believe her and felt almost happy as I left.

The street was empty when I got off the bus and I thought I'd beaten him for once. As I walked past the overgrown bushes outside the McConnell house I felt that prickling sensation down the back of my neck. I picked up the pace, trying to get home as quickly as possible but without making it seem like I was hurrying. After all, I'd sworn I wouldn't let him rule my life. Not again. Not now.

I hurried through the gate and let it crash back against the post, not even bothering to check whether it had latched shut. I was already fumbling for the key, so it was ready between my fingers as I took the 3 steps to the door almost at a run. My hand shook as I tried to fit it into the lock. There was a chuckle from behind me as I made it through the door and slammed it. I leant against the gloss white, catching my breath, scanning familiar, comforting details: the neat little mirror above the keyshelf; my good red shoes separated from the scruffy trainers by sensible flats; the blue-patterned rug I'd been given by Trina the day she left. Details to ground me, remind me of the good. Then the chuckle came again from the half-landing - low, derisory and pitying. 'Thought you'd beaten me, had you? You don't get away that easily...'

I closed my eyes and breathed. If I concentrated hard enough he would leave me alone. I've done it before after all, fought him off for months at a time. But he always comes back in the end.

Sometimes I think if I turn round I'll actually see him. Squat body crouching in the corner, a sneer playing across his hateful face.

His words shouldn't hurt me but they do because I know, deep down, that they're true. And his words are relentless.

'That dress? Really? You think you can carry it off?'

'When they laugh, it's you they're laughing at, you know.'

'That's it, go on, stuff another biscuit down. Who cares if you get fat? No-one loves you as you are now anyway...and who can blame them?'

If I open my mouth to answer, all he does is laugh, and I fall silent.

In the kitchen, I made myself a sandwich and ate it standing up, just like you're not supposed to. The application form I'd filled out yesterday evening was there on the table. All I needed to do was check it over again and sign it.

'She didn't mean it, you know. All that stuff about you, picking things up quickly. She was just being kind. Letting you down gently. She's probably laughing about you right now. Imagine how much more she'll be laughing when she reads your application. All your pathetic attempts to sound like you're any good...'

His voice followed me in here, as I stuffed it into the grate and lit the fire.

I read somewhere that keeping a diary can help. Writing problems down is supposed to ease your anxieteis. Focus on the positives. But the scratch of my pen on the paper isn't enough to drown him out. He's leaning over my shoulder even now, cackling at my writing. 'Look, you've even spelt anxieties wrong, idiot girl...'