Days become weeks.
Weeks become months.

In the early days after Dad's death, I'm visited by every resident of Whitstable passing on their deepest sympathies; PTFA ladies bring dinners wrapped in tin foil, friends and neighbours look upon me with their tilted heads and pity in their eyes. Elderly residents are the worst, constantly reminding me  "how young he was," and "how I now have no one".

But as the days dwindle by, so do the visits.

I try to keep myself busy, I try to carry on, but every thing now feels stale and forced.

Death's parting words are right, the pain does become a dull ache, but the loneliness is unbearable. For such a long time my life revolved around my dad and caring for him. Now I'm not really sure who I am or what I'm to do.

Even when I'm in a crowded room, I still feel so very alone. No conversation interests me, yet I nod and smile in the right places. I carry on, because that's what you do , but I don't feel as if I'm really living. I'm just treading water.

Tonight is the same as most evenings. I go to Bell's pub, The Devil's Den. I sit on the same barstool with the same faces, talking about the same things.

I drink and I drink, hoping to ignite something in me. I catch Bell's concerned face watching me from time to time, mentally tallying up what I've drank.

But true to the saying, I find no answers at the bottom of the bottle, so I stumble home alone, admitting defeat on my quest to trigger something in me that will bring some clarity to the shitstorm that is my life.

The town is empty with only a blinking street light for company and the odd car bombing past. Everyone with any sense is home in bed or with their significant others.

In my alcohol infused brain, I decide to cut down the alley that shaves five minutes off my walk home. Ordinarily I'd avoid this alley as it's frequently known for muggings and the preferred business place for dealers to sell their wares out of sight of the general public, and most importantly, police.

But I give no shits, for who or what I see. So I continue to stagger down the alley, bouncing off the walls like a pinball.

My staggering is halted by the crunching of broken glass beneath my feet, I side step, trying to avoid a trip to A&E- but instead I fall into a fence, my useless body sliding down to the cold hard ground. I hear a deep laugh from the shadows in front of me, but I'm unable to see who it is that's so amused by my pathetic attempts at walking.

"Hey man, you ok." The voice snarls, trying to portray concern but dripping with glee at the easy mark that's in front of him.

He steps forward out of the darkness, only half lit up by the moonlight. The baseball cap is pulled down low to hide his face, his dirty jeans hang low, revealing a glinting knife in his waist band.

I thrash about like a fish out of water as I get to my feet, no longer feeling the warm courage in my belly that alcohol gives you, and instead sobering up with the realisation of the situation I've got myself in.

I try to front it out. "I'm fine, thanks," trying to sound far more braver and sober than what I am.

"We've all been there mate," the voice sniggers. "I'll walk you home, I'd hate for something to happen to you".

"No," I blurt out. "I'm fine, but thank you for the offer".

The menacing figure takes another step closer. "Hey man no need to be rude, was just trying to be neighbourly... wasn't we guys?"

I hear them shuffling out of the shadows, ready to corner me like wounded prey. My hazey mind tries to calculate how I'm going to get out of this alley, but before any stream of thought can gel together it's interrupted by a scorching pain that burns at the back of my head. My hand instinctively goes to it and is met by warm wet liquid that covers my palm and trickles down the back of my neck.

It's my blood.