It's hard being me.

I'm sure I'm not the only one to have ever said that. In fact, I would think that someone is saying those exact words, or thinking the equivalent thought, right now.

Being anyone is difficult, I would think. Life is always tossing us a grenade to juggle, making us centre ring in the Big Top of our own little world. Will we stumble? Will we fumble? The spotlight is shining right down upon us, its beady eye waiting with bated breath to see what might happen.

Not that either spotlights or eyes have breath, bated or otherwise, but I'm sure you get my meaning. I'm not the weaver of words that my brother is. He can crochet a quilt of quips bedded upon a sea of sarcasm. I can't. But then, I didn't have the upbringing he did. He learned, long ago, that jokes were a better defence than his fists.

He wasn't a fighter, my brother, though he was dragged into enough scrapes to build up some small prowess. He learned to duck and to run, more than anything. And when he couldn't, he learned to block and to bounce. He could never, really, bring himself to retaliate. He accepted his fate.

With a name such as his, I'm not surprised. Our parents, our father mainly, took great pleasure in tugging at the immense weight they'd hung about his neck the day they named him. When the school bullies were bored with him and were looking elsewhere for their fun, our father, whose arse is likely not in Heaven, picked up their baton and ran with it.

I don't know about my brother, but I often wonder if they named him such just so they could keep themselves entertained for a few years.

Sometimes, I couldn't help myself. Sometimes I joined in. I'm not proud of that, but it's done now. We all do things we wished we hadn't, but sometimes that little imp gets into the back of your head and just gives you the right - or wrong - nudge. It had happened, admittedly, on more than one occasion, whilst growing up. I'd make fun of his name, goad him, even laugh as he was being beaten.

But I still loved him. He was my baby bro. We'd fall out and we'd bicker, but we were family.

Are family. Is my baby bro. Not past tense. Not yet.

I always knew I was different.

Again, that's something so many others will say and have said. But I was. People liked me.

Yes, I know. Why would that be such a bad thing? It shouldn't be. I should have enjoyed it, embraced it, but I didn't. Not that I was miserable - far from it. I was a fairly happy child. I didn't have the trouble my brother had. In fact, I almost think he sucked the problems from me before they could hit. Took them upon himself. Almost liking stopping a bullet for the president. I had an almost charmed life.

In complete contrast to his.

But it wasn't something I could control. I'd have given him some of my luck if I could have. Some of my... attraction? No, I didn't particularly think I was attractive, not particularly. Maybe pretty, but that was all. By 'attractive' I mean the way people just seemed to like me. They seemed to gravitate towards me, like I was a black hole and they were caught in my pull.

I'd have pushed if I could. Maybe my brother and I were polar opposites. I pulled, he pushed. Or was pushed, in a lot of cases.

I knew I was different. The bullies that beat my brother shouldn't have liked me. The dog that was ready to eat the postman's leg should have wanted my arm for dessert. But the bullies did and the Rottweiler didn't. And they went away with a smile on their faces. Even the dog. Not pretty...

It wasn't too long before I realised that it was the coin. The two pence coin.

See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck. That's how the story goes, but not quite so the reality. I saw a two pence. I picked it up. And since then, since the first day, back in school, when I flipped the coin and caught it in the palm of my hand, everyone around me has had good luck.

In the hall at school. I was hall monitor, on 'corridor duty' with my friend Zoe. I had a little yellow house badge pinned to my school jumper. We were there to try and make sure that other pupils didn't run or fight. To be honest, we were there to be ignored. That was fine, we knew that'd happen. Or we'd be stood talking to our friends. It was just something to keep us in on the rainy days, really.

The coin was on the floor at my feet. I don't know how it got there. It certainly wasn't dropped, or I'd have heard it. Neither was it there when Zoe and I arrived, or I would have seen it.

Will Bronson, not quite the leader of the school Bully Brigade but certainly wanting to be, was picking on a second year.

The Bully Brigade was meant to be for seeking out and stopping any bullying. Certain pupils were asked to point out instances of schoolyard abuse to teachers. The fact that the upper echelons of the group were filled with the very folk they were meant to be dobbing in meant that the Headmaster could say there was no such thing as bullying at his school. When a thump or a kick were on offer as payment for pointing your finger, you kept your hand firmly in your pocket.

Will was a thug, and everyone knew it. That included the teachers and his parents. The former overlooked the situation in favour of another cuppa and Rich Tea biscuit in the staff room and the latter daren't say anything in fear of their son putting his foot through the television set. Or smashing all the plates in the kitchen. Or feeding their pet dog rat poison.

Though that had only happened once.

They were, however, on their third television in a year.

Zoe had called out to Will to leave the second year alone. We were in the same year as him and he liked my friend a little more than she liked him. In fact she didn't like him, but he decided not to notice. This one-sided attraction did, though, give her the authority to try and convince him to behave. He didn't take any notice, but at least he wouldn't turn his anger on her.

As she was telling him to stop, and he was ignoring her, I was bending down to pick up the coin that hadn't been there previously. My attention was on Zoe and Will. It wasn't until I felt the coin land in my hand that I realised I'd flipped it.

For some reason, I called out.

"Wilson!" Sniggers from the other pupils at my use of his full name - a practical hanging offence (a definite black-eye offence). A thunderous look from the bully. "Leave him alone."

Zoe and, I suspect, a number of others, stared at me. I felt my face flush. I can't say what prompted me to speak out, let alone use a name that had been scratched from every register in school.

Wilson's eyes locked on mine for a long moment and I could see the cogs grind in his mind, contemplating the punishment I was going to receive.

Then:

"Sorry Joy."

A shrug, a turn, a pat on the head of a certain victimised second year.

A stunned silence.

That was the first. I didn't associate it with the coin, of course. It was nothing special. A bully who decided to not be one anymore. It happens. He was bored. He wanted to see what it was like to be liked. To see a smile instead of a frown. A grin rather than a grimace.

It happens, doesn't it?

I think I put the coin in my pocket. I don't actually remember. It wasn't in my hand, at least. Later, I'd bought a chocolate bar from the tuck shop. Crunchies were my favourite, but I'd resigned myself to the cheaper Double Decker. The price difference was two pence. Thanks to my finding that coin in the hall, I had the required amount for my preferred choice.

My pockets were then empty of money.

But later, on my way home, passing the arguing couple, flipping the coin I shouldn't have had, the couple suddenly putting their arms around each other and laughing... I felt sick.

Not at the fact that a coin had mysteriously appeared in my pocket - I don't think I even noticed, as such. And not at the couple laughing and kissing where they'd been arguing and looking like one was going to slap the other.

No, I felt sick because something good had happened. I think. It was hard to pin down. I could feel a pull, in the pit of my stomach, towards the man and woman. As if my gut wanted to hug them.

It passed in a second, but I could still feel its echo for a long time after.

At home, I didn't eat much of my tea. I complained of 'women's problems' having not long started my periods, and went to bed.

I didn't sleep. I had dreams. They weren't nightmares exactly, but they did unsettle me. People smiling and laughing. Me in the middle of it all, huddled into a ball. Crying.

A shower, some toast and a giggle with Zoe on the way to school dragged me out of my subdued mood. By the time the first bell had gone, I was back to my old self.

And I'd left the coin on my bedside table, next to my alarm clock. It was about the only surface in my room that I kept clean. The clock, a simple digital affair with a huge (much used) snooze button held pride of place. I didn't want to accidentally hit anything else when I was woken, bleary eyed, by its insistent beeping.

So the coin was honoured to share that space, in a way. Plus, I didn't KNOW, but I had a funny feeling. It was a bizarre notion, but one I couldn't shake. I didn't want the coin with me. I wanted to leave it behind. I'd get rid of it later. Give it to my brother or something.

Morning register passed with the usual suspects making jokes or staring out of the window, wishing they were somewhere or someone else. The day itself bimbled along at a leisurely pace, not wanting to rush and be done with before it had had a chance to enjoy itself. By last period, I was walking in a daze, the insipid attitude of the day seeping into my bones to lull me into a zombie state. All that I lacked was a shuffling walk, arms outstretched, and a thirst for blood.

The only thing I did have a thirst for was orange Lucozade. Not for the sporty energy filled boost it might give, but for the taste. I liked it, and drank it by the gallon at home. I'd been given my pocket money the day before. It was hit and miss whether we'd even get it, let alone it be a regular Friday thing, so I was always pleased to receive the £5 I was allowed. I say allowed - my brother could often be thrown a few coins, as if to a homeless tramp in the street. Even though I didn't get pocket money often, at least it was an amount that I could deem worth having.

That makes me sound selfish. I should have been pleased to have anything. I was, honestly. It was just that my friends would have money in their pockets all the time. I would have to make excuses and jokes to hide the fact that my parents were, in my friends' eyes, poor, but in reality forgetful and uncaring. So I was grateful, I really was. But peer pressure could be suffocating sometimes.

The corner shop was on my way home. It wasn't actually on a corner, but everyone called it that. It was a small newsagent that served the few surrounding streets. I'd thought about taking a job delivering papers but... well... I didn't. Laziness, perhaps, but again, the thought of comments from my friends - who would never be tied to a job when they can be watching TV or having fun (jobs were for adults) - was enough to never actually take up that particular form of employment.

Mr. Kirman was the owner. He was an old man, past retirement by a millennium. Though a schoolgirl such as myself thought anyone above the age of 21 or so was old, I realised Mr Kirman was far older than my parents and was quite probably a grandparent in his own right. He had a fuzz of grey hair that circled his head like a fluffy halo and wore a permanent smile that had etched crows' size nines in the edges of his eyes.

As I walked in, I could hear raised voices. A group of boys, Will Bronson's acquaintances (minus Will), were throwing a can of drink between themselves. Mr Kirman was asking them to stop their messing and either pay for the drink, put it back, or leave. They were laughing, calling him 'granddad' and tossing the can, every so often waving it in his face so he'd grab at it, then snatching it away again in a fit of laughter.

Mr. Kirman saw me and shook his head, telling me to turn around and leave. It was a kind gesture but one of the gang saw the signal and turned to me.

"Joy!" His name was Craig. I didn't know his surname but his nickname was Limb. He had a habit of telling his victims he'd tear them limb from limb and enjoyed the notoriety such a moniker gave him. My insides sank and felt like they wanted to crawl out of my toes toward the door.

"Craig," I said quietly.

"What are you buying me?" he asked, stepping forward. The other boys had stopped their game and were watching, their expressions those of hyenas circling a dying prey.

"Nothing. I just want a drink, that's all."

He imitated me in a stupid high-pitched voice I doubted he could make if his testicles had dropped. I just looked at him, not saying anything. Mr Kirman told them to leave me alone and get out, but they ignored him. So did I, for that matter. All I saw was the mighty Limb and his pack.

"Give me your money," he said, holding out his hand. "Your money or a kiss."

This made his brethren laugh. I didn't think any of them had touched lips with a girl, or touched anything else, either. Still, I didn't want to find out how far they'd go to experience it. I didn't get my pocket money often enough to have come to rely on it, so I decided to simply hand it over rather than risk a mauling or it being taken.

I reached into my coat pocket. My hands wrapped around the five pound note, and something else. I pulled them out. Laying on top of the note was a two pence piece. THE two pence piece.

I frowned. Craig snatched. The note and coin fell to the floor, the coin rolling to his feet. He bent to pick it up, leaving the fiver were it lay.

"Two pence? Who has five pounds and TWO PENCE? You been saving up, Joy? Charging tuppence a kiss?"

With a crooked smile I would happily have slapped off his face, he said: "Heads you go, tails you kiss."

I went to protest, but the coin was in the air before the first word was out of my mouth. I saw my hand reach out and grab it before it could land. Someone else must have pushed my arm because I certainly didn't catch it intentionally. Both my own eyes and those of my tormentor went wide.

Then my stomach pulled. Stronger this time, with a twist as if my intestines had suddenly knotted.

Then Craig spluttered.

Then he turned, took the can from the boy who was holding it and placed it carefully on the counter.

"Sorry, Mr. Kirman," he said. "I've changed my mind. I don't want this now."

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the shop with his entourage following.

Mr. Kirman stared, speechless. I bent to pick up my five pound note from the floor and ran before he could ask any questions. It wasn't that I didn't want to answer those questions, but saying anything about what had just happened would have made it something when it was nothing. It would have given it a substance and that would have meant it was real.

The Bully Brigade had turned right out of the newsagent. I turned left. It wasn't the way to my house - for that I would have had to have gone in the same direction as the boys - but I didn't care. I just need to be moving. A direction would have meant I was thinking and I SO didn't want to do that.

Another left turn and another brought be to Cambridge Road. It was a long street that had shops at one end and my school at the other. On the opposite side to the school were the Seven Hills. Rats the size of dogs were meant to roam free and only the brave dared to go in. Granted only a low fence, a horizontal metal bar held in place by knee high concrete posts, served to keep the unwary out and the beasts in, so I didn't exactly believe they existed.

But everyone said they did. So I had always chosen caution and had yet to venture inside.

Caution required thought, though, and I had left my thought on the counter next to the discarded can of drink.

I stepped over the bar and entered the domain of the Drat. Well, what would you call a creature that was part rat and part dog? A Rog? Talk sense.

I expected a chill to sweep over me, bristling the hairs on my arms even though they were hidden beneath the sleeves of my coat. It didn't happen. Neither was I attacked where I stood by other-worldly animals desperate for a piece of my leg or my throat. Nothing changed. Outside of the Hills was the same as inside.

I started to walk. I just needed to walk. I wanted the air to be crisp and the sounds to be muted. Neither was the truth. But I was, at least, alone.

Apart from the coin that should have been lying on my bedside table keeping my clock company but was now still held tightly in my palm.

Why would that make me feel like I was not alone? It was a piece of metal, not a person or a pet. It didn't have a voice or a soul. It was just two pence.

Sure it was.

I dropped the coin on the floor, not looking where it landed. I ignored its fall, letting it hit where it wanted. I was nonchalant. Uncaring. Otherwise occupied. And that took a lot of effort. My mind kept wanting to turn my head, to direct my focus to the dirt at my feet. I forced myself not to. I forced my feet to move and my eyes to remain fixed ahead. If I couldn't see it, then perhaps it could be left behind.

Perhaps it would leave me alone.

I didn't know what to expect in the Seven Hills. As such, my footing was unsteady and my sense of direction erratic. I almost felt like a ship in the Bermuda Triangle, my compass spinning out of control.

Get a grip, I told myself. It's a bit of wasteland. I looked back towards the road to get my bearings. As I walked further away, I calmed down. The cars and the people were ruffling my feathers and the solitude of the coinless Hills was smoothing them back down.

There was a steep dip, the surface treacherous with holes and dips and boulders. The ground beneath my feet shifted. My feet above the ground didn't.

I landed on my bum. It hurt. A small cloud of dust danced around me, laughing at my less than graceful decent. I coughed and it sounded flat as if the fullness of my voice had been squashed under my bottom by my fall. Something glinted in the setting sun, a flash that made me blink. I leaned forward and pulled the coin from the ground at my feet.

I almost said 'Hi.'

It was warm. I held it in my hands, letting the heat spread up my arms. I was suddenly cold and this was battling the chill into submission. I closed my eyes and let the desolation of the Hills wrap around me. For the first time in SO long, I didn't feel outcast.

Yes I had friends. Yes, Zoe and I were almost sisters, we were so close. But still. There was an edge - a boundary around me. A salt circle. I didn't know whether it was my own invention or that of others, but it was there. Mine, I suppose. People liked me, but I just couldn't give it all back.

In the Seven Hills, there was no-one to judge or to need or to bother. I felt at home, if a little dishevelled.

Odd that. I was in a place that most my age would avoid. Most any age for that matter. I'd not set foot in here in my life, yet I felt as if I knew it better than my own house.

I gripped the coin, the warmth dissipating into my body. Being there had altered my opinion of it. It was no longer something to cast aside. It was something to be held close.

I could have asked 'why me?' There'd be no answer. Who would I ask anyway? My parents? If I wanted the sort of derision that was usually reserved for my brother, then yes. A teacher? Hardly. As good as some of them were at teaching - and as dire as others were - I didn't think they'd quite understand.

What would I say?

<I think that, if I flip this coin, I can make people happy. Or I can make bad people good.>

A couple of incidents didn't make that the case. A coincidence or two hardly proved my gut feeling. I'd be laughed at. Talked about. I'd be taken to a counsellor. I'd be made to talk about how people seem to like me.

Narcissism, I think it's called. An exaggerated idea of one's own importance. I didn't have that. I had the reality of it. It was something I'd just lived with. People tended to do as I asked. I didn't often get told off or bullied or treated with anything but respect. In most cases, at least. Occasionally someone would slip through. But now, with this coin, it had been taken to a new level.

I needed to test it. I should make sure, before I said anything to anyone, just how true my feelings were or how effective the coin was.

And if I was right, if I could do it, then what?

I had an argument with myself. Part of me wanted to ignore the coin and do everything I could to get rid of it. Live the life I was living. Another part, stronger and more forceful, insisted that I should do something with this gift, or whatever it was. I should use it to help people. Yes, it made me feel sick. Yes, it scared me. But, I must have been given it for a reason, isn't that what they say in the movies?

For Spiderman, with great power came great responsibility.

For Joy, there came questions and fears and doubts.

Not that I had anything resembling power - great or otherwise. I had a poxy two pence coin, one that somehow wouldn't leave me alone. One that somehow acted like a magnifying glass to the 'liking me' thing. I just hoped that magnifying glass wouldn't, eventually, burn me out.

Well. If only you could turn your head and make HINDsight FOREsight. You can't, though. So I made my decision on a stupid, movie-inspired, sense of right.

In many ways, it was the right choice. For others. For those I aided and for those I indirectly helped by altering the outlook of the bully or the thief or the murderer.

It was also the path that led my descent into Hell.

If only I'd known. If I could have seen the future at that point, would I have carried on? I don't know. I really don't. As I stood, brushed off my clothes and walked out of the Seven Hills, I couldn't foretell that each flip of the coin would eventually feel like I was being flayed, the skin stripped from my body and the spirit stripped from my soul with every catch.

You know that the heels are going to kill your feet, but you still go on the night out in them, and suffer the pain. Not quite the same as knowing I'd suffer from helping people but doing it anyway, but I'm not the lyricist my brother is. I'm sure he wouldn't call himself lyrical. He'd say he was just weird, as if it was something to be proud of. Who'd want to be normal?

Well, I wouldn't mind.

I knew, though, upon leaving the Hills behind me and walking home, that I would keep that coin close. I'd do what I could, however it might make me feel. You don't have the voice of an angel and leave it to the frogs to sing. Or something like that. How come these things always sound better in my head? How come my brother could always twist the words around his little finger, having them dance across his tongue to whichever beat he chose?

There's been many times since then when I've wondered at my choice. After all, I'd only found the coin - or it had found me - the day before and already I was convinced that it was haunting me and making me do things. A possessed coin, perhaps, one with the spirit of... what...? A saint? Not something demonic, I was sure. Otherwise people would die when I flipped it. There and then, I'd chosen to keep it and let it guide me. To use it to help people.

I was always the decisive one, though. My brother could turn procrastination into an Olympic sport, if only he would get around to it. If this had happened to him, he'd no doubt be trying to rid himself of the tuppence for quite some time, denying the possibilities of the good he could do. I wasn't like that. It was happening and I had to deal with it.

On the way home, I passed an old couple. They had faces like walnuts, the lack of elasticity in their skin making it collapse upon itself. They must have been nearing the end of their eighth decade each and were holding hands the way I hoped I would be with someone when I was that old. The man was shuffling, leaning heavily on his stick and the woman was a little spritelier, with less of a shamble and more of an actual step as she moved. She laughed at something he said and the pair of them smiled warmly at me as I passed.

The coin curling through the air was welcome. The punch in my stomach wasn't, but I could live with that.

The old man stopped. I thought it was for a breath. He arched his back as if to ease his aching bones, then they continued to walk.

Except he was twirling his walking stick with a perfect Charlie Chaplin spin.

The pain in my tummy lasted longer that time. With each toss of the two pence, it worsened. But the smiles on the faces of those affected were a warm soothing hand to gently rub it away.

I revisited the Seven Hills many times after my first venture in. Whilst my parents thought I was drinking cider on street corners with my friends, I was exploring the dips and the hollows of the one place I felt calm. It was as if there was a lull in the world, particularly at the centre. No sounds from the busy roads that surrounded the wasteland could be heard. The depression prevented me from seeing the outside world, but also served to defeat anyone's attempts to seek me out. Not that anyone would. In all my time there, I'd not seen one other person enter.

That was fine with me. I liked the solitude. Just me, myself and the silence. And the coin. Even on the odd occasions I neglected to pick it up, it had always appeared in my pocket or purse. Once, when I had neither pocket nor purse, I'd found it under my watch on my wrist.

I gritted through the pain in my stomach. My parents, however, were uncharacteristically concerned. They became increasingly worried as time went on and I went from a grimace to a groan to a doubled up heap. I did my best to ignore it - it was the price of happiness - but they thought something was wrong rather than very right. Hence the hospital. Hence the tests for cancer or for Crohn's or for any other illness I might but didn't have.

The protests of a young girl were shouted over. Mum knows best. Dad couldn't bear to see his baby girl in so much pain. I wondered where my real parents were. I knew that, if this had been my brother, the same concern wouldn't have been displayed. Knowing that nothing would be found, I had no choice but to succumb to the invasions of the doctors.

School had been left behind and I was officially an adult, but the medical staff listened to my parents. I should have fought it. I should have hidden it. But how could I? I'd become some sort of avenging angel in the face of Sorrow, the flip of my coin being my sword and the catch my shield. And when the afflicted is my friend...

It had reached the point where I didn't have to see the person. I didn't even have to know them. I'd find the coin landing in my palm and it would feel like the number five bus was driving through my stomach. A couple find out they're having a baby naturally after numerous failed IVF treatments. A wheelchair bound ex-soldier would begin to feel his toes and eventually be able to move them. A car would manage to brake just before it hit the child. The failed engine on the plane would splutter into life once again.

It left me breathless and reeling on the floor, but it was ok. I'd chosen this. I'd accepted my fate so many years before. My parents and the doctors, of course, knew none of this. To them I wasn't fine. To them I was a stubborn girl who needed to listen to reason and let them help.

I was laying on my hospital bed. My mother was sitting beside me. She was reading a magazine, the fact that she was actually in attendance proof enough that she cared. She wasn't required to interact with me as well. I was pleased. She didn't need to be there. Nor did I.

I hadn't seen Zoe for a while. We were still relatively close, but she had a boyfriend. She had a life. My life was other people. I didn't own myself anymore.

I didn't even know she was pregnant.

But I felt it. I felt her anguish. Her pain. I felt the slowing of the baby's heartbeat as the placenta became detached.

I reached beneath my pillow and retrieved the coin. I hadn't time to pick it up from home when I was practically dragged in here, but I knew it would be there. My mother's attention was on whichever celebrity was being unfaithful to whichever celebrity with whichever celebrity.

She didn't see me toss it. She didn't see me catch it.

I woke up, groggy. My throat hurt. My stomach had a sharp, jagged pain across it. I was still in my hospital bed, but something was wrong. Very wrong. I had an empty feeling inside of me.

My mother was sitting next to me, not holding her magazine. My dad was standing next to her. When had he come in? My brother walked in a few seconds after, holding a cup of water. All three members of my family were there at the same time. That didn't even happen at tea time, really. It was darker, too. Later.

Once my mum had told me what had happened, I began to scream. And shout. And swear, something I didn't regularly do. They left soon after. It was the shock, of course. I'd get used to it. It was for the best. I calmed down a long time after that, though, even now, my anger bubbles up like Etna on the rampage.

I'd passed out. After a long screech of agony, I had fallen off my bed, clutching my stomach, hit my head and not got up again. They had rushed me to the operating theatre. I have no idea why seeing as they had no idea what, but they, in their infinite medical wisdom, had given me an emergency hysterectomy. Perhaps that explained why I had been hysterical upon finding that little fact out.

Perhaps it was because of what I'd done. What wrong I had righted. With the flip of my magic coin, I had reached out, taken hold of Zoe's umbilical cord, and reattached it. I'd held the unborn baby in my metaphysical hands until its - her - heartbeat had steadied and strengthened. She would be born four weeks later, fit and well with a good set of lungs and a beautiful smile.

I only know that because I... just, somehow knew it. I didn't see Zoe again. I couldn't. Not after the birth of her child had resulted in the loss of any chance at children I might have. I didn't blame her, not at all. Nor did I really blame my parents or the doctors. How were they to know? They did what they thought they should. What they felt they had to. Much as I had been doing.

I didn't deal with it very well. I almost felt as if I had actually lost a child, not just my womb. The spirits of any offspring I could have given birth too had been cut away to save me. Except I hadn't needed saving. I had been doing the saving.

My parents died while I waded through the mire of my misery. I couldn't stop it or help it, nor could I feel it. They were gone. They could quite easily have gone shopping.

The coin changed from being my friend and comforter to being my tormentor. I left home. My brother no longer lived there. He'd escaped, but I'd stayed behind. I wished I'd done as he had. I spent two days and two nights at the heart of the Seven Hills, without eating or drinking. I simply sat there. Wallowing probably, but at the time I needed what only the Hills could give me.

Focus.

I felt myself slipping away, and I couldn't hold on tightly enough. My sanity was a mist that was clearing in the morning sun and I was still walking around in the night.

I went home, showered and changed, then made myself comfortable at the computer. I needed to research. I needed help. I had lost my mind, I realised, long before - so I believed. At school. The day I found that coin.

Asylums. The internet can tell you anything about everything. I surfed using a mouse and keyboard to skim the waves of information. Eventually, I picked one at random.

Dr. Henry Connors. Psychiatrist. He was as good as any. Any port in a storm, isn't that the saying? Well, I was at sea and looking for somewhere to dock before I was dragged under by the Kraken of my craziness. Connors would suffice.

Of course, I was wrong.

I told him everything. From the coin to Will and the bullies and everything up to Zoe. I even showed him the two pence. He didn't laugh, as I thought he must. He just listened, then he gave me a hug and took me through to the recreation room of the asylum.

And I waved goodbye to the world.

I had hoped it would stop, the things I could do. Maybe taking away my womb would remove the power I had. My ability to become a mother had gone, so perhaps my ability to mother in the way I had been for so many years. It hadn't. As my own mother hadn't particularly known what she was doing, clearly I had no real awareness of such things either. The coin had gone. I suppose it couldn't enter the walls of the mental home, though I couldn't see why. But it was no longer in my possession. I can't remember when I'd lost it, but, as much as I was pleased it was no longer constantly by my side, I missed it.

But its absence made me realise something. When it all carried on, when I was still healing and fixing and suffering, I understood, finally. It wasn't the coin, not at all.

It was me.

Two years I stayed under Dr. Connors care. I don't remember all of it. Often I would be drugged to stop me screaming in a pain I couldn't possibly have. In that time, the asylum flourished. People seemed to want to throw money at Connors and he was glad to accept it. I didn't know, at first, if it had anything to do with me. It never occurred to me that it might. But then, one day, the drugs didn't work. Whether they'd messed up the dose or given me someone else's medication, I still don't know. Whichever is the truth is irrelevant. I was subdued, but not in the complete daze I would usually be in, oblivious to everything except my own name when it was called.

Connors took me to a treatment room. He showed me a photo. I don't recall who it was of, but the person, a man with a beaming smile of artificially whitened teeth, was obviously very wealthy. Connors told me to 'do it'. He pushed me to 'do my thing'. I didn't know what he meant at first. How stupid was I? Then I realised and did it.

Somehow.

Instead of flipping a coin and having my stomach wrenched from my body and shove back upside down, I pushed with my mind. It felt like I was licking the photo. Caressing the cheek of the millionaire's printed visage. 'Good girl' he told me. Then I was led me back to the recreation room.

I walked out of there the next day. No wonder the asylum was doing so well. No wonder it had doubled in size in the two years I had been resident. Connors had used me. He'd made me push people into donating, subsidising, approving. I hadn't known. How could I? The drugs masked it all.

Nobody prevented me from leaving. Why would they? How could they? A little push was all they needed. I was a fast learner. Always had been.

I returned to my parents' home. In the middle drawer in the kitchen had always been, for as long as I could remember, a writing pad and a pen. For all I knew, it had been the same one for all those years, never used apart from a quick shopping list or to jot down the odd phone number or two.

I wrote my brother a letter. I needed to explain to him. Whether he believed me or not didn't matter. He just needed to know. My parents would have thought it was all down to the hysterectomy and, to be honest, they could think what they liked. My brother was different - in more ways than one. He didn't suit this family. I was odd and our parents had been a couple who acted as if they didn't have children. Or that their children were there for the entertainment value. My brother was... normal. He had a dark, dry sense of humour and sometimes had strange, rambling thoughts, but he was just an ordinary guy.

He deserved to know the truth, even if he might think I was crazy.

I told him everything. Well, almost. Strangely, I could tell him about the coin and how it had affected me and what I could do, but I couldn't bring myself to talk about Connors and the asylum. I thought that, if I mentioned a mental home, he'd automatically dismiss everything I'd said. Besides, I didn't want to admit I'd been used. I didn't want to say that Connors had used my gift for himself. It made me feel dirty. It tainted all the good that I had done.

I told him what I was going to do. And how. And I said goodbye.

Beneath the writing pad was a pile of envelopes. All were stamped. Mum had a weird habit of getting a book of stamps and putting them on envelopes ready for when she needed them. She said she'd prefer that than having to write a letter and not having a stamp ready. It resulted in some messy envelopes as she made mistakes and scribbled them out - preferring scruffy to losing the cost of a stamp.

I wrote the address and slipped the envelope in, licking it carefully. I'd once read a story of someone who'd cut their tongue on an envelope and had baby cockroaches growing in the wound from where their eggs had been laid in the glue.

The post box was only a short walk away. I'd hoped the fresh air would blow the cobwebs away from my mind and clean out my soiled thoughts, but it didn't. Pushing the letter into the slot of the post box, I paused, looking at his name. It would be the last time I'd see him. Not that his name was him personally, but it was the closest I would ever again get.

Sin.

He didn't like his surname. Our surname. I didn't blame him.

Back at the house, I made myself a coffee. Sin and I had employed a cleaner to look after the place whenever we weren't there, but keeping the fridge stocked with fresh milk was something we'd neglected to ask her to do. Luckily, I took my coffee strong and black. Like my men, I used to joke back when I still knew what a joke was.

The cup steamed. It still remained untouched when it had cooled and the limescale in the water had floated up to form a film on top.

Time.

I walk upstairs. I'm not sure why I don't want to do this in the kitchen or in the living room. It seems more fitting to be upstairs in my own room. I hope that Olivia, our cleaner, won't be too distressed, but I can help with that. A little nudge now that will lay dormant until it's needed.

Do I lay on the bed? Sit on the floor? Stand in the middle with my arms out? It takes me a moment to wonder, worry almost - as if it actually matters. I sit on the bed. I may as well be comfortable, if only for a moment. I rest my arms on my legs and close my eyes.

A jump. I suppose that is really the only way. The only way to be sure. I wonder how people decide the method they'll use. Do they draw pieces of paper out of a hat? Stick them to a dart board and blindly throw? Perhaps I'm not that imaginative.

I can only think of one way. One that won't hurt others, that is.

My car is in the garage. It's barely been used for so long, I am worried that the handbrake might be seized. It isn't. The car, old but more reliable than any person I've ever met (and cheaper to run), starts first time. It beeps a hello to me, which is actually the warning alarm telling me there's not a lot of fuel. I have a 30 minute drive ahead of me. It will be enough to get me there.

I press the button for the stereo, wanting noise to distract me from my course but, after surfing through radio stations where the songs and ads claw through my ears like rabid dogs, I press it again. I enjoy the resultant silence.

My mind wanders, but that can't be helped. Parts of me want to turn the wheel, either to return me to the house or to force me across the central reservation and into oncoming traffic. I let them fight it out amongst themselves, but ignore their demands. I have my goal set.

The Humber Bridge. Once the longest single span suspension bridge in the world, apparently. Probably still one of the most expensive tolls, though. I know people who are afraid to cross it, fearful of it collapsing or a freak wind blowing them off into the River Humber. They'd rather drive the two hour round trip through Goole than the two minute crossing over the bridge.

It doesn't bother me. Even now, when all their fears are going to come crashing down upon me. I'm doing what I must.

I find it funny that, to park my car, I must cross to the other side, to the viewing area, and then walk back. There's an area on this side, but the walk to the bridge is further, and my legs might have more control over me than my hands, causing me to veer off my course. I have to pay the toll.

There used to be, before the bridge was built, a ferry that crossed the river. I suppose paying the toll is almost like paying the ferryman. Chris De Burgh would be pleased, especially with the pollution and colour of the Humber giving it a kinship to the Styx.

I park my car, locking it. Habit, of course, as it really doesn't matter if it's stolen. I won't be needing it. The walk to the bridge is longer than I expected. I pass a man on a bicycle and a couple. They're coming off the bridge rather than going on it. I'd rather not have them close to me. I don't want to upset them, or scar them.

Even now, I can't help myself.

I wait for a lull in the sparse traffic. I climb over the barrier, brushing the dirt, rust and flakes of paint from my palms. I may as well be clean as I do this.

It will hurt, I know. A lot. I may scream.

A random thought occurs to me. I should have an epitaph. A final word. Like the captain of the Titanic asking for more ice in his drink.

Name's Joy. I make people happy.

And it's killing me.

The world is going to have a good day. A happy day. A JOYous day, in fact. I suppose it's my leaving present. A pity I can't gift wrap it.

I feel something warm in my hand. I know what it is. I can't help but smile.

I put out my hand in a loose fist and slip my thumb under the two pence coin.

Flip.

And...

Catch.