I waved half-heartedly as Callum tooted his horn and sped off down the road. The pristine white of the German compact car seemed at odds with the worn red bricks of the terraced houses lining the street. He disappeared around the corner as my keys slid into the lock.

My head pounded as I forced myself against the thick wooden front door, using every ounce of residual energy to push it open. The same action two days ago had been easy. I had been so full of hurt and fury, that I'd been numb when I finally returned to the flat after the fight. I had roamed the streets for hours, until blistered soles and sodden clothes forced me to return. In that haze, I hadn't looked at the front door beside my own as I'd jammed my key into the lock, and I hadn't tempered my swing as I flung the door shut behind me. Instead, I had let it thunder against the frame, the large bay window in my bedroom rattling in disapproval. Now I inched the door shut and nudged it closed – anything to limit the thudding headache. It felt like each heartbeat, every rush of blood, battered against my skull like the crash of waves against looming cliffs.

Aching feet carried towards my bedroom, and I dropped my overnight bag at the threshold. My bed called to me, even in its state of disarray. Crumpled bedding and bunched up pillows lay strewn across the king-sized bed. The covers I usually cocooned myself in during winter, were kicked to the floor and a small round divot showed where Nightmare had snuggled up while I'd been away.

I hadn't slept after the fight. I couldn't. Despite how warm and comforting Nightmare felt nestled beside me. By the time dawn peaked over the slate roofs, I had my bag packed for Fire Festival and a stash of food and water left out for Nightmare. I was gone before the amber sky turned blue.

The rest was a blur; a restless, listless, thoughtless blur.

I could vaguely remember the rush of wind against my skin as Callum drove, too fast, up the Northumberland coast. His music had blasted against my eardrums as it blared out of the open window.

If Emma or Callum had cared about the cold, they hadn't mention it. Instead, they had let me lie my head against the headrest on the back seat, my eyes closed, while the wind lashed at my skin. The refreshing sting kept the tears at bay, at least long enough for the bottle of vodka to make me as numb as the cold made my skin. That was the last conscious thought I had before the hazy parade of obnoxiously loud laughter, music and the descent of darkness.

From what I could remember, the setting for the festival had been beautiful, in that quiet, brutal, kind of way. The wild coastline, with its vast expanse of grey-blue sea, and muted green dunes rolling into the golden sand, was soon replaced with a palette of black and orange as bonfires raged on the coast.

An old castle rose from the dunes and watched over the carnage. In the space between our arrival and stumble down to the beach, its ruddy stone walls softened under the rosy glow of sunset before disappearing into darkness, as the sun sank out of sight.

What had once been quiet and peaceful, with the hush of waves caressing the sand, was ravaged by the blast of music and crackle of flames. Each burning pyre acted like a beacon, drawing revellers to it as they stumbled along the sand, bottles and cups grasped in their hands. They were a far cry from the families and elderly patrons who had come for the actual Fire Festival within the castle's grounds. With its artisanal market, glowing art installations and family friendly fun, it was the PG-rated version of what happened beyond the castle walls.

It was a sacrilege, for that place of such natural beauty, to be turned into something so loud and brash, but it was everything I had needed it to be.

From the way my eyes itched I knew I needed sleep, but one whiff of my hair told me a shower couldn't wait. The heady scent of burning wood clung to the dark strands, leaving a trail through the flat as I trudged to the bathroom.

I could remember the way the candles lining the pathways had flickered in the cool coastal breeze as Emma, Callum and I, wound from Kelly's beach house, down to the party. The fires peppered along the stretch of sand had created an orange glow which seemed to ebb and pulse into the night sky.

Those beautiful dark skies, which were so black, that even the dimmest stars were visible when I'd crept out to the dunes hours later, away from the roaring glow of bonfires and laughter. Even as I'd sat there, I had heard the muffled shouts of people indulging in a night that seemed almost ritualistic. Like it harked back to an era when the flames were more than a source of heat, or an arsonist's greatest temptation. But instead, burnt away the ghosts of the year gone by and prepared the earth for the new year ahead.

A bottle had swung limply from my wrist as I'd sat on the dunes and listened to the rush of the waves in the distance. I hadn't been aware of my body, other than the way the grasses pricked against my skin, slicing at my arms as they danced in the breeze. It was there Keiran, the guitarist from the bar, had found me, in that state of uncomfortable numbness. Desperate for something to burn away the last remnant of feeling that even the whiskey couldn't reach. I had wanted to forget about the Watchers, about Book Boy and his beautiful blue eyes, about the things I'd said to him and the truth he'd mirrored back. I had wanted to reset the clock and re-enact that moment of rebirth I'd had four and a half years ago. The one where I'd metamorphosised into something stronger than my former self. An old flame had seemed the perfect way to spark the powder keg inside me and burn away the past six months.

While the shower heated behind me, I leaned against my bathroom sink and looked at the evidence of the weekend in the mirror. My creamy skin was peppered with splodges of olive and mauve. I could almost read the tale of the night as if it was mapped out on my skin.

I could see where Keiran had started kissing my neck, harder than he needed to, because he thought I liked it like that. And when I didn't resist, too numb with whiskey, he'd moved to my collar bone, leaving a muted trail of blackened bruises. Maybe then I'd shifted, leaning into him because the feel of him on my skin was better than the bitter cold of the midnight coastal air. I could only guess that the trail of purpling kiss marks leading from my collar bone to my breasts came after that moment, before I'd pushed him off.

As I'd shoved him off me - ignoring the way he protested as I stumbled away and left him hard and cursing in the sand- I had realised, bitterly, that no amount of alcohol or meaningless sex was going to fix it. No matter how much I'd tried. Somehow, the past six months had changed me, so much so that the things I used to turn to, didn't feel the way they did. Even now, as the haze of memories swirled in my mind, that realisation was a sharp needle piercing through it all.

After leaving Keiran, I had a foggy memory of crashing against the smooth surface of bathroom tiles, reaching for the toilet while Callum held my hair and Emma murmured softly at my side. I wasn't sure what she'd said, or what Callum's reply had been, but I could remember the feeling of gratitude I'd had as I leant against the cool tiled walls. Then there was laughter, about something the alcohol had erased, while Emma dabbed at the tears tracking down my cheeks.

They had seen me in the midst of that spiral, and they hadn't judged. Instead, they'd stroked my hair and asked how they could help. There hadn't been many in my life who had given me that space to fall apart yet promised to keep those pieces of me safe, ready for when I was ready to put myself back together.

Except for him.

The flash of when I came home to find Nightmare in the kitchen rattled through my mind, dragging with it the memory of his arms around me as my tears soaked his t-shirt.

My face twisted, and I clenched my eyes against the images in my head. With a hiss, I turned the tap in front of me with a metallic squeak, and water thundered into the sink. It was icy cold, but I splashed it against my face. It was enough to shock the thoughts from my head and propel me into the shower, followed by a  litany of innocuous tasks – anything to keep busy.

***

Messages from Emma and Callum peppered the day and broke the monotony as they recounted the gossip and new inside jokes from the weekend. It seemed odd that this time last year, the only messages I had from them were questions about what shift I was working, or where the latest order of napkins had been stashed. Half of which were left either unanswered or with a one-word response.

A small smile at Callum's latest response tugged at my lips while I battled with the back door. The bin bags in my hand clinked and rustled as my other fiddled with the locks and handle. I'd ran out of chores to tick off, so I'd finally decided to clear out the spare box room. So far, I'd only managed to create more mess and a mountain of black bin bags.

A waft of cigarette smoke greeted me when the door finally opened. I barely managed to count to three before Gina's voice sounded from her balcony above.

"Where did you disappear off to?" She called, her question punctuated with a tight sucking sound as she took a short drag on her cigarette.

I didn't bother asking how she'd know I'd been away.

"The Fire Festival, at Bamburgh. Some work friends were going, so I tagged along." As I talked, I stuffed the bags into the big bin and held my breath against the sweet rancid smell that greeted each movement. Years of rubbish and God knows what else had coated the bottom of the bin with a murky sludge that smelt like death.

"Is that the one with the Fun Fair and fireworks under the old castle?"

I'd forgotten about the Fun Fair but now the memory of bright lights and music came into view. Emma had wanted to stay chatting with Max, so Callum had dragged me to the bumper cars. We'd cackled as we'd careened around the rink while above us the tails sparked with electricity.

I dusted my hands off as I replied, "yeah, but people usually go for the bonfires and music."

I squinted up at Gina, my eyes tightening against the bright wintery sun. It was grey, as always, outside, but the white light was still dazzling. Gina released another plume of smoke, and it billowed from her pursed painted lips.

"Did you take that lot with you?" Her head nudged to the flat above my own, her neighbours. I flinched against the unwelcome reminder, and my reply was a flat 'no'.

"I thought they might have gone with you." The 'you' was distorted as she inhaled another puff. "They seemed to pack up and go not long before you did." The words floated on smoke. "First the dark-haired lad, then the other two."

If Gina registered my silence, she didn't let on as she kept talking. "They made one hell of a racket when they left. All sorts of shouting and banging going on. I think it was the first time I'd ever heard them." She paused to suck in another breath of smoke. "I have to say, if they're going to keep up that kind of noise, I'll be glad if they don't come back."

"So, you haven't seen them since?"

"Not a peep. Not that I saw much of them before. You know me, I don't like to pry." I could almost hear the knowing smile in her husky voice. She flicked her cigarette end into the plant pot beside her. She'd obviously emptied it recently as it landed with a soft dink against the terracotta.

I huffed a laugh as I turned back to the flat, but I didn't bother to voice a goodbye. I could already hear the squeaking of her chair as she got up and made her way back inside. I tried not to think about how I felt about the Watchers leaving.

I wasn't sure if it was the fresh air, or remembering how busy this weekend had been, but suddenly my body felt heavy and sluggish.

My boots scuffed against the floor as I drudged back through the flat towards my bedroom. As I went, I pulled the hair tie from my hair and dropped it somewhere for Nightmare to play with later, when she returned from her afternoon wander. Next, I kicked my boots off and left them piled with the others in the hall, near the hat stand laden with my coats.

My eyes dragged from the pile, looking longingly at my bed. I could just about glimpse it through my bedroom door.

But before I threw myself on the mattress, I paused and stared ahead at the front door.

The letterbox was slightly ajar and caught in its grasp was a piece of folded paper. A spark of interest kept the exhaustion at bay for a moment longer as I approached and carefully pulled it free. In a world of electronic bills and bank accounts, it wasn't very often that I got mail.

The paper felt thick between my fingers, like the expensive wedding invitation my cousin had sent when I was five. I had marvelled at how pretty it had looked, with the embossed gold lettering and flowers pressed into the page. My mother had let me keep it on my bed side table as I'd counted down the days until the event. This page had the same weight, but that was where the resemblance ended. There was no address or name present, and the edge was jagged as if it had been quickly but skilfully torn. I unfolded the paper and scanned the almost entirely blank page.

Almost, but not quite.

Because there in the centre, in masculine black handwriting I had always imagined, but never seen, were two words that were both utterly simple yet endlessly complicated.

I'm sorry.