...a deathly serenade...

go to the Police (even those words annoyed me
even). I continued looking out of the window
again, holding on to the thought that she had
called me—that alone meant something—I
reminded myself. All I knew for certain was that
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
she was shaken and apparently had some money
stolen, and clearly been roughed up: she had a
cut on the top of her lip. After journeying past
the beach, we passed areas I was not familiar
with. The taxi soon stopped outside a few grey
apartments, Lucia quickly got out, and I paid
the driver and had to speed walk now to reach
her. Fiddling in her handbag, she huffed and
puffed before finally finding her key and I
followed with an arm on her shoulder, in order
to take some sort of lead—she tuts slightly,
turning around by my touch, averted eye contact
and concentrated on turning the key in the
door. A loud sound goes behind us, making her
jump; she looked totally fragile by now. —It’s
nothing, I reassure her whilst I turned and saw
an old man throwing rubbish into a large black
skip at the edge of the street. It’s fine. — I’m
just a little... she begun mumbling to then stop
with a grimace, as if she didn’t want me there,
and that she didn’t want saving, which I didn’t
buy into in the first place anyway, being that I
had no real idea of my feelings too. Nonetheless,
just the sound of her voice, as opposed to her
actions, told me that she needed me and I now
had to see to it that she was how she wanted to
be, I told her this, struggling to articulate.
Turning to continue walking up the stairs now, I
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