MEGAN AWOKE EARLY THE next morning. She was still against the wall but had slid down into a foetal position. Perhaps her body remembered that the only place she'd felt safe and something resembling love had been the womb. Her mother had loved her back then. Briefly. Surely? Didn't mothers always love their unborn child? Wasn't it an innate emotion they couldn't help? Like something that came along with the heartburn and the morning sickness? At some point in Megan's shitty existence, there must have been love. For a moment, even if a moment was all it had been, it was there. Her mother had never admitted to it in her manner, as far as Megan could remember, and had certainly not spoken the words out loud. Megan held onto the notion, though. In a world where she was an afterthought in her own home, she had little else.

But she knew she was an unwanted child. An accident from the one night stand her mother had 'enjoyed' with a complete stranger she'd met at a night club. Her father had been passionate. He'd been tall and good looking and so drunk he passed out half way through the deed. That was what her mother had told her on many occasions. His name hadn't been revealed and Megan believed this was because it had never been known. Or, at least, his real name. Perhaps he'd given her a false one so his wife or girlfriend didn't find out. Megan's mother was, as rumour whispered, an 'easy lay' after being dumped on by partners. She decided to give what she had freely rather than ending up paying for it herself in emotional baggage, which was never cleared out when the relationship ended and the time came to move on.

She blamed her inability to keep a grip on a man of her own on her mother. Mum didn't try. She wasn't interested in doing so. She'd been there, done that—in every sense of the word—and lost the T-shirt.

"You're better off on your own," she'd say. "Men are more trouble than they are worth."

She would know, having had the experience of so many.

But Megan didn't want to end up like her mother. She wanted something other than a life of open-legged cynicism. Unfortunately, she felt her mother had cursed her. Being the offspring of such a person had doomed her to a life as emotionally devoid. She desired a better life too much. She needed it so badly. Her desperation walked in front of her like a pall bearer before a hearse, warning those ahead of the oncoming corpse. A dead heart that had never lived. It had never truly beaten or, if it had managed one feeble attempt, had that beat quickened by the touch of another.

Empty hearts gather no love.

She would have it engraved on her tomb stone. Tattooed on her back. Recite it to herself as a mantra in the mirror after brushing her teeth. Words to live by, though, from the moment you're born, you're dying. Perhaps Megan's attempts to find love were her way of exorcising her mother's ghost. Her mother was still alive, somewhere in the world, but Megan felt her influence in every breath and it was choking her. A demon in human form, mocking her decisions and her life from afar.

The cold floor was her mother again. It told her to get up. Get moving. Get her arse into gear and drive. She stirred but remained in neutral. The cold was, in a way, comforting. The hardness of the uncarpeted floor was the flagellation of her penance and she took its pain without complaint. Until she moved, at least. Then her back complained. Her joints moaned at her. She was a cruel driver and they no longer wished to be passengers on her journey into Hell.

She mentally told her body to shut up and put up. Pushing herself into a seated position took time and effort, and even the wine from last night joined in the protestation by throbbing through her brain with a pulse all of its own. She moaned and held her head. It hurt, but what didn't? Pain was her soul mate. She told it her innermost secrets. It responded by being her constant companion. Coffee would help. Apart from wine, coffee helped all the world's problems.

She pushed herself up and made her way to the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on. Letting it boil, she returned to the lounge to collect the pieces of glass lying on the floor where she'd been sitting. She took it to the kitchen and dropped the bowl in the bin. The wine stain now turned sticky, resembling blood all the more. The stem was in her hand, still. Her thumb pressed against the sharp edge until it cut, then she sucked on it. After a moment, she held the glass against her wrist. It looked as if it should be there. It was meant to have its broken edge against her flesh. A quick flick was all it would take. It would be like a tick checking off the final mistake of her life—breathing.

Megan tried to force her hand down. Tried to break the skin. Split the veins. Spill the blood. She couldn't. Her hand refused to move. Defeated, she dropped the stem in with its fractured other self. She sighed. There really was no hope for her, was there? She couldn't even commit suicide. It seemed she failed at everything.

At least she could make a decent cup of coffee.

She sat on the sofa in the lounge and stared out of the window. The world turned outside, oblivious to her suffering. It cared not for her life or lack of one. It would probably not even notice her absence, and such a thought brought the tears. The branches of the trees swayed slightly. The clouds drifted. Birds flew. It all seemed so free. So effortless. Why couldn't...?

What was the point?

Megan downed her coffee, letting it burn its way to her stomach, taking her breath away. She left the cup unwashed in the sink and walked up the stairs. A shower could often be all that was required to cleanse a soul, though not quite as effectively as alcohol or caffeine. She turned the unit on, upping the temperature to the maximum she thought she'd be able to stand and, after shedding her clothes, stepped in.

The water ran down her, turning her skin red. She ignored the initial flash of heat and waited for her body to become accustomed to the cascade. She enjoyed showers. It was like dancing in the rain without needing to leave your home. Caressing her skin, the water washed over her curves, and she chased the rivulets with her fingers. Her eyes were closed and her head was back, her mind calm.

She let her back be massaged by the impact of the thousands of falling droplets, her head dropping so her chin was on her chest. She looked down at herself. Her figure was athletic with parts pert and smooth, admired by both herself and others, male and female. Megan would never find it difficult to find a partner based on looks alone. Physical appearance was only a first impression, something that should never be trusted. Megan wanted to be liked. She wanted to like herself. But, there was always a 'but'. She didn't like herself and so others found it difficult, too.

She flexed her back. It ached from its interaction with the floor but the hot water was easing its stiffness. Taking a sponge, she coated it with shower gel and reached back. As she rubbed her back, something irritated her shoulder blade. Frowning, she looked at the sponge. Perhaps, being left in the bathroom for long periods between being used, it had started to perish and areas had become hard and prickly. She turned it over in her hands, squeezing. No, it was fine. The itch was still there. She reached back to scratch it. The skin felt rough under her fingertips. Pressing, she could feel something hard just beneath the surface. Had she been bitten? Maybe a splinter from the floorboards?

She pushed and picked at the area, twisting to try and see the problem. The slight swell of shoulder blade obstructed her view so she had to rely on touch alone. The irritation was turning to a sting as she worked it, but she couldn't stop. Something was there.

Finally, Megan broke the skin and managed to take hold of the foreign object. She pulled, expecting a short, sharp piece of wood to come out. Whatever it was, was larger. Longer. She pulled again, crying out as the flesh tore. Still it came, the soreness increasing to agony, her legs buckling. She collapsed on the base of the shower, panting, the water mixing with blood from the wound. She moaned but knew she had to continue. Gripping it again, gritting her teeth, Megan yanked, hard.

She held it in front of her. Her mind struggled to direct itself to the name of the item, though it was obvious. But it couldn't be.

But it was.

Kneeling naked in the shower with the water falling on her, Megan turned it over and over.

A feather.