"I think there is a darkness in me. Religion scares me, but religion could help me. But I have long given up hope in that.

Surely the image of her with her wild, wild eyes and long straight hair whipping out in tangled strands, like a monster with unrelenting fingers and dark blood nails, black and a sheen of red, as she twirls and whirls like a demented marionette on a string held by an unseen and untamable force, is enough to frighten anyone, let along someone co-existing with her.

I think my boyfriend has been gone far too long, my crutch is gone. She is back. I miss them, yet she is part of them. And she frightens me. I can feel her. See her. Touch her. Frissons of fear, longing, sudden black thoughts of carving up flesh and drinking hot blood. Not necessary only my own. The hot burst of fluid. Will I never be truly free?

And I can see her wild dark eyes, the pupils so dilated that they are like a bottomless pit. Her eyes, so like mine but quite devoid of defined sanity.

And the other, with her starched, buttoned demeanour, her disapproving presence that leaves a bitter aftertaste after any sort of pleasure, coupled with the insidious whisper by the other going, "Cuckoo, cuckoo, flying over the trees".

And sometimes I fear to look at what I write, fear seeing the angular madness she writes in.

I think I need help. Or more sleep. An over-active imagination I tell myself. Maybe. Perhaps."