THE SCREAMS ECHOED THROUGH the empty room.

The sobs followed, with a heartrending loss that would wrench at the emotions of any close enough to hear. But there was no-one. The log cabin had been specifically chosen for its remote location. A getaway. A retreat in the warlike sense of the world. Wounds needed to be healed. The body of her life, lying prone on the floor of her emotion, was not the only casualty. There were many. Too many.

But Megan didn't care about them. The hurt or hurting were collateral damage. It had to be so. She cared only about herself. Somebody had to, didn't they? Nobody else was willing to battle through the wall of thorns and rescue the fallen maiden. She had to pick herself up. Carry herself there. Even Claudia, her old friend, hadn't delved deeply into her problems or really asked why she needed to run away.

Running away. That's what she was doing. Rather than stand and fight or, if nothing else, stand and take the hits, she flew. There were not many places for her to go. Claudia's offer of her parents' cabin if needed was only half hearted. It was something one said when you didn't expect the offer to be accepted. It spilled from the same bloodless vein as a post-bereavement 'if there's anything I can do, you know where I am.'

"Your parents have a log cabin? That's cool!"

"Sure. You can borrow it whenever you like."

It wasn't quite like that, not so simple, but that was the essence of the conversation. Claudia had been Megan's friend since school, though distance and situation had stretched the bond they once had. They still kept in touch. It was less frequent as time went by. Weeks secretly clubbed together to form months where they hadn't spoken to each other. Social Media 'likes' were the occasional interactions as the daily river of life swept them along. So, when Megan asked if she could take Claudia up on her offer to stay at the cabin, the latter agreed but didn't join her. She had an appointment to go to, or the dinner was in the oven. Or something.

It was fine. Megan didn't need or really want anyone to know apart from those affected. Sympathy would be patronising and, more to be expected, frustration or disdain would be condescending. She would deserve the comments. Some of them anyway. Not all. It wasn't her fault. Not entirely. It never was. She was self-destructive sometimes, she would admit. It was a gift, she'd say. But it was unintentional.

She wanted to be happy and, when happiness was within her grasp, she would become afraid. She'd feel unworthy. Then she'd take a match and set alight the glimmer of good that had done its best to light up her existence. It would flare for a brief moment before crumbling to ash.

There would be no phoenix to rise, gloriously renewed, from the embers. There would only be Megan, crawling. Her hands and face blackened and her clothes torn.

Mentally and spiritually, at least.

The log cabin was as remote as she could possibly imagine. Surrounded by acres of trees and having only one road in and out, she could easily feel vulnerable. If someone was hunting in the forest or on the run from the authorities and came across the cabin, they would find a solitary woman with a world of sorrow weighing heavy on her back. Defenceless apart from a cry that would be heard as far as the tree line and was useless against any intruder. Thoughts of such violence failed to occur to her, however. They were confined to the shadowy corners of her mind; the open spaces of her consciousness being crowded with repeated showings of her fall from grace.

The boyfriend. The growing relationship that had progressed almost to the point of cohabitation. The pressure building inside and the ignorance of knowing why. The shortness of breath as she saw him messaging someone else. Anyone else. A glance at another woman, which had to be—had to be—attraction rather than a simple look. The agony as her increased paranoia made him back off from wanting to move in and begin to call her less. The accusations from her. Accusing friends of lying. Of sleeping with him. Of him cheating.

But he wasn't. He loved her. She knew he did and hated herself for her spiral into the darkness. It was as if she were a bystander, looking in from the periphery, watching her cry and despoil and, finally, tear apart.

Every time, it was the same. The boyfriend would leave, her friends would turn their backs on her and she would grovel and hope to get them back. They came back a little less every time, in numbers and in emotion. If it wasn't for Claudia, who was still Megan's friend purely by the advantage of distance, she felt she would have nobody. Those few who remained were, surely, her best friends, for they hadn't abandoned her, but she could feel the wall they had collectively built around themselves. It ensured the slings and arrows of her outrageous behaviour could injure them no longer.

The living room was bare. Apart from a sofa against one wall and a small, square table, there was no other furniture. A mirror hung above the fireplace which, itself, was home to thick, long-cold ashes.

Megan's scream had been thrown around the room by the emptiness, leaving the sound as flat and detached as she felt inside. Her sobs soaked up the chill from the winter-strewn landscape outside like an emotional sponge and let it seep into her bones, leaving her shivering beneath the heavy blanket she'd wrapped around herself. She wanted to feel the cold. She wanted to experience what it must have been like inside her boyfriend. His casting her aside. His turning away from her as if she were a stranger in the street. Icy. She sat against a wall, not feeling worthy of the comfort from the couch.

No! Face up to yourself. Know what you've done and who you are. Stop hiding behind the hurt. It wasn't just you. You caused pain to yourself as you inflicted it on others.

She choked back the tears in the hope that they might wash away her guilt. They didn't. Holding them in only served to bottle it up like a genie desperate to get out and create havoc for those who locked it away—to hell with the wishes.

It was always this way. Megan's friends, those who remained, told her she had a big red button with a large sign saying DO NOT TOUCH! In much the same way as she found it difficult not to press her finger against a wall with a WET PAINT sign, she had to touch. She had to press. She had to stand and watch the fallout and be caught in the blast, tainted by its toxic heat.

The glass in her hand was empty, a red stain in the bottom from the dregs of the wine. Like blood. The blood from the open wounds she had slashed through her life and those in her life. It would be so simple, she thought. Probably the lightest of taps would break the stem. It would leave a sharp edge keen enough to slice through her wrists. Better for her. Better for her friends. Definitely better for any men foolish enough to chance by. She held it by the rim and listened to the voices from each of her shoulders. Drop it! Let it break so you can use it to mend what you've broken! No! Don't do it! You're stronger than that!

But was she? Was not smashing the glass and using its jagged edge to end her pain the stronger option, or was it the coward's way out. Would taking that plunge and bringing her trail of devastation to an end be the better way. For everyone? Megan sighed. She poured herself another drink, emptying the bottle into the glass.

"Cheers," she said to the room. It ignored her, not even offering the comfort of an echo. She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She swallowed the rest of the wine in a few gulps and brought her hand down harder than intended, the impact breaking the bowl from the stem of the glass. The bowl, now completely empty, spun on the floor like a game of truth or dare. Megan knew the truth and, with the sharp edge now in her hand, wondered if she dare.

Both she and the glassstared at each other, an impasse of shaky intention. They remained that wayuntil she fell asleep.