It came for me in the night again, during the theta states; those moments I'm neither asleep nor lucid. That alone begged all manner of questions; primarily that it couldn't be a dream.

Dreaming only occurs in much later sleep stages, during the REM cycle. Every medical journal agreed. Yet this was the third such experience in as many weeks, each more thrilling and unsettling than the last. So either the medical world was wrong or this was something else entirely.

I tried to slow my breathing, listening for any signs above my galloping pulse. There was nothing to latch onto, but I knew it was there. I could sense it, waiting, planning its moves and I didn't know whether to smile or puke. Jesus, what would it be tonight? More of that exquisite touching and probing? The way it somehow knew exactly where to stroke. The perfect amount of pressure to exert. Or maybe it would take things to a completely new level? Would that even be possible after… last time?

I shivered. Neuroscience 101 posits that fear and exhilaration begin, electrically, with the same response. Same impulses to the thalamus. Same surge of dopamine. Same neurotransmitter activity. The difference between the feelings stems from how the brain interprets those signals. How you allow yourself to be affected by them. With my eyes closed I couldn't figure which was the greater.

The tiny sliver of moonlight, cast across the ceiling from curtains that had never quite shut, faded from my mind's eye. The bed felt cavernous in the dark, my skin clammy, duvet and clothes discarded due to the heat. But I still shuddered when it touched me. It made no sound, yet I could somehow hear it clearly in my head, telling me to breathe. To relax and trust it. I knew I could reach for the lamp to dispel the uncertainty, but part of me – the part that wasn't scared shitless – revelled in the unknown.

It had to be a dream. Nothing as good could be real. One appendage on whatever the hell it was, slithered over my brow, an attempt to soothe my nerves perhaps, while another ignited my libido as it traced hips that Andrew had tactfully described as "womanly". A third feeler lazily looped the circumference of my left breast and I knew the hardness of my nipple would betray me, regardless of the turmoil in my head.

Its touch was soft, slightly tacky, and it explored with the flowing grace of a dolphin through an ocean. I let it. An electric thrill coursed my body as the appendage formed a figure eight around my quivering breasts and squeezed. I opened my mouth and breathed in sharply, fear definitely taking a back seat, just for a moment.

The analytical side of my brain – the one I'd employed every day at work until recently – needed answers to why this creature now plagued my nights. A stress reaction, perhaps? God knows it'd been a hellish few months. The breakdown had come seemingly out of the blue, but on reflection the signposts had been clear.

When Andrew walked out after four years of marriage, citing how distant I'd become, I should have paid attention instead of choosing denial. But it drove me further into work. More hours. More breakthroughs. Less sleep. Blocking out the truth day after day until, like the cam belt on my car that left me at the mercy of public transport, I'd snapped.

And the straw that broke the camel's back? A staple gun. A fucking staple gun of all things. Funny how such small moments can shine a spotlight on the great. Like the way in which two more of the creature's appendages brushed up and down over each of my rigid nipples. Feathery and fluttering like moth wings around a light bulb, yet the effect as deeply felt as when I have three fingers buried deep inside my wet pussy in a bid to propel myself over the orgasmic precipice.

There'd been a lot of that after he left. Perhaps the result of denying myself what my 'womanly' body craved after too many not tonights, preferring to drift asleep alone to the sound of his gentle, rhythmic snoring beside me. Content. Unchanging. Safe.

With Andrew gone – I suspect partly due to our infrequent attempts at starting a family resulting in failure – and my self-inflicted workload rising, switching off at night became difficult. Mind permanently on spin cycle. No position comfortable. Too hot under the covers, too cold sticking my feet out.

Pills were an option, but I was reticent. Too many side effects from such man-made chemicals afloat in my system. So I tried an alternative: exploring my neglected body. Taking myself places I hadn't been in months or longer. Reconnecting. Using the natural drugs my body could provide to banish the tumbling thoughts and slip into hazy sleeps, fingers sticky, the room reeking of unshared desire.

As the creature stroked my forehead and rhythmically tightened and loosened its grip on my breasts, my mind began to wander. I fought to stay focused on the moment, on the exquisite feelings stirring in the pit of my stomach, but found it impossible. Almost like it wanted me to remember.

Memories flapped and jumped like my great grandfather's reel-to-reel until an image stabilised in my mind. I was alone in bed. Naked, like now. Exploring. Starting slow, just caresses over my trim belly, stoking the fires within until the embers began to glow. My fingers moved across hypersensitive skin that almost crackled beneath its surface. Gentle squeezes of my breasts became needier as want welled, just as my unseen invader was mimicking.

It directed me to recall a time the kindling ignited inside me, one hand trailing to my sex, finding it open and waiting. Dripping. I dipped my finger in, teased myself repeatedly, bringing the end in sight then backing off. Over and over. Edging. Circling ever closer to the volcanic lip until I could take no more. Until the only way to quench the magma in my veins was to thrust one, two, three fingers inside myself, and mash my aching clit with my palm. To take myself on a familiar yet uncharted journey towards release, each moment making me hotter. Wetter. More animated. Bucking off the sheets as the flames consumed me, lighting every synapse at once and flushing my perspiring body with its desperate, chemical payload.

The welcome firecrackers in my head would bring closure, at least for one night, allowing me to float to sleep in the sticky aftermath. A pattern repeated almost nightly until, well, the stapler incident.

It started innocently enough. My boss called me to her office and asked if I'd assemble a study group from the workforce. Volunteers to connect up to our latest wave pattern analyser – unofficially termed Professor X for reasons that only X-Men comic fans would appreciate. I was in the middle of another experiment, irritable from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. A deadly concoction.

Hands on hips, a defiant flick of my inky, shoulder-length hair, I challenged: "Can't you send out an All Employee email?"

Eleanor's peroxide bob stayed put, even with the shake of her head. "IT would have a fit. It's not mission-critical."

I sighed theatrically. "I'm in the middle of this research and close to a result. Don't have time to babysit a study group. Can it wait a few days?"

She pursed her lips and brushed some invisible dust from her desk surface. "Not really. Time is money."

I sighed again. "Any recruitment specifics?"

"No. Random sample."

"So how should I get volunteers?"

"Jesus, Chelsea. Use your imagination. Go old school if you have to. Bit of paper on the notice board in the canteen for all I care. Just get it done."

I scowled. "Fine. I'll do it later."

"Now, please. The sooner it's posted the sooner they stop hounding me for results we don't have."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I'm busy."

"So am I. And I don't even have any stationery."

"This isn't a discussion, Chelsea." She reached into her desk drawer and retrieved a sheet of headed notepaper and pen, sliding it towards me beneath cerise nail polish. "There."

I stalked to her desk, grabbed the pen and wrote: "Volunteers wanted for exciting brain study. Ten minutes connected to 'Professor X' while being asked a few questions and recording the results. Email Chelsea.Lake if you're interested."

Clicking the pen shut, I spun the paper. "There. Old school enough for you?"

Eleanor read it and sighed. "Hardly appealing, but it'll do."

I took the pen back and added a smiley at the end. "Better?"

"Don't be such a smart-arse, Chelsea. Just go and stick it up."

I resisted the wisecrack to ask her which orifice. "With?"

She exhaled noisily and muttered, "Want a job doing…" She reached into her drawer again, retrieved a staple gun and held it out. "Here. Try not to hurt yourself."

For the record, I don't hate my boss. Sure, she's a little brusque and condescending at times and is under a lot of pressure from management, but at that moment I just saw red. Total, irrational blind rage flared up inside me and I boiled over; three months of repressed fury released in one instant. I grabbed the staple gun, turned it and fired one into the palm of her outstretched hand.

Time seemed to slow down as we both stared at the blood seeping from the pair of pinpricks beneath the metal, and watched it roll off her palm and drip to the desk. I raised my free hand in horror to my mouth and dropped the staple gun in the same instant. It clattered alongside the drops of blood, scratching the desk surface in the process.

After the initial shouting and tending to the wound, and after I'd sunk to a heap on her office floor crying, Eleanor was remarkably understanding. Far more than I'd have been if the roles had been reversed. I spilled details of the break-up, stress at work and my lack of sleep, while she nodded wordlessly. I missed out the part regarding my nocturnal solo habits. In the end, we decided it best if I take some time off. Paid, thankfully.

I took the bus straight home, alongside midday weirdos and the elderly with nothing better to do than complain to each other about why the service was not on time. Neither group I acknowledged, just stared at the floor, to the point I almost missed my stop and stumbled off the bus in a daze.

Trudging up my street, I jangled keys in the lock on automatic, swung the door shut and just stood in the hallway, shaking and listening to, well, nothing. Didn't know what to do. Eventually animating, I sought out my pyjamas then spent the afternoon feeling utterly sorry for myself on the sofa alongside a slab of chocolate that would feed four and a stack of DVDs. Pretty in Pink. Coyote Ugly. Guilty pleasures.

Perhaps spurred on by the LeAnn Rimes lyrics or the cocoa, when the evening rolled around I'd decided that sorrow wasn't going to own me and that the way to cheer myself up was a drink and some music or dancing. I dolled myself up as best I could remember, opting for heels, a pleated black skirt and lilac blouse, with a little make-up to cover the red eyes from crying. I wore my hair down.

The sun hadn't even set as I took a cab into the city and ended up in Grumpy's tavern. The name seemed fitting, yet the clientele were anything but. It was raucous and hot and energetic: four-deep at the bar, with a six-piece covers band belting out tracks in the corner. The music was more than three decades before my time, but the band were pretty good; The Six Tees, according to the logo on the kick drum. People packed onto the minuscule dance floor laughed, boogied and spilled plenty of beer. I considered joining them. One more drink first.

Several shots in – I treated myself to doubles, bought in pairs to avoid the queue – I was feeling that buzz, swaying to the music as the band finished on a lively rendition of I'm a Believer, cleverly utilising the trumpet player whom I swore was checking me out.

Turned out I was right. He sidled up to the bar after they'd packed away and we got chatting. Well, I got chatting. A real motor mouth when I'm drunk. He had a chiselled jaw and magnetic eyes the same shade as the chocolate I shouldn't have consumed. Playing it cool, he bought me drinks I didn't need and listened to me unload. I like a man who just listens and doesn't try to fix everything.

He was charming. Funny. Flirtatious with a self-deprecating ease that indicated he didn't take himself too seriously. Knew when to shut up. When to interject with a good-humoured tease. When to brush his hand against mine. I shivered every time, the touches stirring something I realised I'd missed, even though I was still technically married.

Closing time came and went as the place began to empty. Perhaps knowing he was onto a good thing, he helped me totter through the oak door into the night and gave me a piggyback a short way, before we both collapsed through laughter at the entrance to an alleyway. Laughter died away as our eyes met and I made a snap decision. Marched him between the buildings, grabbed his lapels and shoved him against the wall, kissing him hard. He responded like I expect all trumpet players would: with good fingering.

In the time it would have taken his band to play Lady Madonna, his hands were in my knickers and were every bit as good as his playing would suggest. Thanks to our extended flirting I was already wet, grinding against his leg, hands clutching his pert arse and urging him on.

It had to be lowered inhibitions: I wasn't usually that girl. The market for giving out on a first date was cornered by Mercy Markham from HR, usually wearing half what I was, rain or shine. Yet I gave out in the biggest way, skirt hiked, everything on the menu. As his fingers crept further into my dampening underwear, slithering between wanting pussy lips, my mouth found his between gasps. I was all over him. Hands everywhere, trying to pull him into me; through me. Lipstick smeared between us, tongues lancing. I must have seemed desperate, but he didn't seem to care. Wanted it as much as I did.

Lips still connected, my hands scrabbled for his belt, loosening with surprising dexterity given my inebriation. He was already surging in his underwear. I could feel his heat as I slid my hands into his boxers and pulled out the thickest cock I'd ever wrapped my hand around. It was a fucking python, I swear. Veined, hard, and eager, it pulsed every time I slipped my enclosed fist around its girth. It felt deliriously good in my diminutive hand. I had no idea how I'd ever fit it inside me but knew I wanted to try and would do anything to get it. Even beg.

I momentarily tore away from his kiss. "Fuck, I want you."

He grinned, working his fingers inside me as far as he could; a task made more difficult by the angle of my body against the wall. "So I feel."

Bringing my hands to my chest, I rubbed and pinched through the thin fabric, feeling the heat coursing my body, electric pinpricks at the tips of each hardened nipple. Looking down at the enraged phallus between us, I bit my lower lip. "Put it in me. Now."

He withdrew his fingers, used my lubrication glistening in the ice blue light from the streetlight to smear the tip of his impressive manhood, and angled it at my needy centre.

My head lolled to one side, barely registering the stares from a couple passing the mouth of the alleyway as they strolled past the spectacle. Me with my skirt up around my waist, panties yanked aside, shoulders against the wall, lunging my hips at this man I didn't know but who smelled musky and right as he guided his massive prick inside me.

The sensation was incredible. I felt full. So damn full. My hands flew to the wall by my bum and curled into the mortar as he eased his superhuman cock into my body. I felt every fucking millimetre split me and gritted my teeth, sucking in cool air to temper the heat inside.

When I thought there was no way he had any more to give, he gave it. Even when we barely moved as I adjusted to his size, my gasps could probably be heard in space. Maybe that's what had summoned the creature to my bedside. Curiosity. The need to find out what had caused my outburst. The need to learn how to please. How to touch me so I might make the same sounds in its presence. To study desire.

Too long for arms, these things – slithering and impossible to count – seemed to be on a mission to drive me wild as they assisted my re-enactment of the scene in the alley. The one encircling both breasts squeezed in rhythm with the other pair that flicked each firm cap. Tapping. Circling. Stroking. I should have been grossed out, but my body writhed and I hummed with satisfaction as the one from my brow retreated and resurfaced on my stomach, tracing a circuitous path down to the object of its affection.

Stopping at the thin patch of pubic hair like last time, it traced the tip through it. I shivered again as it worked further down and found my legs parting, almost without my knowledge. The first I became aware of it was when the colder part of the sheets met my heels and calves. By then, the creature was sketching the outline of my pussy lips, still tucked together but gradually engorging with blood, beginning their journey towards fully open. Accepting.

Fear gripped me once more. Then fluttering excitement. The tip centred on my entrance and lightly flicked between my lips. Like it was preparing for another invasion. God, was I first on the planet to be chosen? For what, I had no idea. Everything had felt different since my renewed verve for all things carnal in the alleyway; the unleashing of my inner demon when the trumpet player finally started moving his entirety in and out of my longing pussy.

Sex with Andrew had been exciting at first. Then perfunctory. Then fantastic again as we tried to conceive, but had tailed off towards the point where he split. I'd thought I could be pretty wild in bed, even deep throating him once, but it dawned on me as this guy's thrusts began in earnest that my behaviour with Andrew was a mere shadow of what I had lurking beneath my dermis. The trumpet player brought it all out. Every drop of raw desire I had was channelled between us.

My hands snaked up his back, feeling shoulder muscles ripple beneath his shirt as the pace increased. I found the base of his neck and pulled him to me hungrily for a kiss that turned to playful bites. Joy bubbled through my body and burst onto my face against his lips as I let him take me. A weight shifted. Nothing would ever be the same and I knew it. The Chelsea Lake inside me didn’t want sympathy or pity any more. Didn't want life to be a drive-by. She wanted to grab it by the throat and fuck it.

And I let her out.

With his band mates long gone and stragglers of punters wandering by the alley, either holding up phones or only giving us cursory looks as if it was commonplace to see people joined at the hips outside a pub, he began to pound into me. Really pound. My gasps bounced off the ragged brickwork. He was so big and so powerful. One of my legs lifted and snaked round his backside, pulling him deeper. I cried out as the position afforded him the opportunity to sink further into my drenched channel.

Faster, our bodies slapped against one another, punctuated by deep breaths and sighs of pleasure into the night. I had no cares. No morals, it seemed. I was exposing my intimate emotions to this stranger and loved every dirty second.

Moving his hands from my hips to either side of my head, he used the fulcrum to jackhammer into me with a vigour that took my breath away. I was unravelling inside. Being fucked like I'd never been fucked. Like it was my first time again, split wide open with every delicious, fat thrust, feeling the rising tide of orgasm from the pit of my stomach to the tip of my scalp. The fizzing in my veins peaked as the world closed in.

All the lights went out inside my head and everything froze like usual. But the entire situation was different. Heightened somehow. Like I imagine an out-of-body experience would feel, watching myself from above, face contorted with ecstasy.

My frame convulsed while he continued ramming into me, perhaps oblivious to my climax, perhaps deliberately. I'd been so used to Andrew, ever the gentleman, pausing to let me luxuriate in the glow, that to have someone ignore it was somehow refreshing. Animalistic. And the sensation: fuck! The sensation was out of this world.

Waves and pulses of my own making crashed into his continued onslaught. No synchronisation. No art. No classical music or opera. I was publicly fucking the sixth member of a covers band, a skinful of alcohol oiling my inhibitions, having the orgasm of my life and somehow knowing it was the start of a new chapter. Accepting the turn of events like I'd been offered the last doughnut in the box. Ready to embrace whatever it might mean, if anything.

His panting in my ear jolted my body back into itself, juddering in pleasure, flashes behind my tightly closed lids like a strobe, enhancing the clarity of my actions in the inner darkness. I snapped my eyes open, made contact with his and snarled at him to fuck me. To make me his. Somehow I took it all. Every delicious, fat inch stretching me like I'd never known, feeling his rhythm break down between my hissed words that probably contained eighty percent cusses a once nice girl like me should never utter.

Eyes locked, my arms on his shoulders, I watched intently as his vision glazed and he shot a torrent of come into my spasming pussy, triggering some rippling aftershocks within my core. Rope after silvery rope fired deep, his thrusts slowing only slightly as I let him finish inside Chelsea the slut. Chelsea the loving it. I purred in his ear as we stayed entwined, coming down separately yet together from our respective highs.

The disentanglement wasn't as awkward as it should have been. He slithered from me – an act in itself that made me come a little more – and we made ourselves as presentable as possible under the circumstances. His load drizzled from me, trapped by the gusset of my knickers, the buzz making me feel twenty times the dirty bitch I'd already demonstrated.

He looked past me and laughed, reaching to brush brick dust from my dark mane. I let him. Kissed him on the lips when he'd done, trailing my fingertips over his dimpled cheeks as I twisted myself from between him and the wall, reversing slightly unsteadily out of the alley with a twinkle in my eye I'd not known in God knows how long. With his come seeping into the fabric of my already sodden underwear, I paced to the next street, hailed a cab and backtracked to the sanctity of my bedroom.

Two days later, the visits had started. And now it was here again at my entrance. Guiding my thoughts. Learning from them. As the memory of the alleyway faded and the stark reality – or as close as I could ascertain – returned, I gasped. Two appendages had peeled my lips apart and I felt it for sure. A breath. Hot against my open pussy.

I tensed as I felt it moving left, right, up, down. Calculated actions, exhaling against my sensitive labia at each compass point, like it was seeking out the perfect spot. It found north and I squirmed. There was a pause, perhaps as it detected my reaction and determined it had located the treasure, then something wet rolled up and over my already slick lips, ending with a flick at their apex. If it had eyes, I probably would have blackened them when my body jerked off the bed, held up by my arms against the cool sheets as I thrust towards the invader and yelled into the night:

"Fuck!"

My hips did figure eights in the air as the creature's sticky proboscis circled my sensitive clit, accelerating my arousal. Every so often a hot blast of air would ruffle the sparse hair I let grow alongside. Whatever it had learned from my memories, it was putting them to good use.

The circling continued, tickling, teasing and my gasps matched the heights to which it was taking me. A tight knot formed behind my clit; the precursor to climax, I knew. I could feel myself beginning to leak moments before something soft clamped around my lips, applied suction and the 'tongue' thrust into me, pressing deep and applying pressure to the front of my channel. It held still, only for a moment, then I twitched and cried out as the upper surface of the feeler rippled like the crest of a wave, from the deepest part of me to the shallowest.

Over and over the undulations continued. Rhythmic. Perfectly timed with my body's needs. The low growl starting in my throat quickly grew to a crescendo of panting and profanity, as the best organic vibrator money couldn't buy turned me into a quivering wreck. A vibrator that could suckle my engorged lips, flick my clit, caress my G-spot and make me feel on top of the world all at once.

I felt wetter than I'd ever been. Juices slopped and slicked inside my hungry pussy. Was it all mine? I couldn't tell. Didn't have the mental capacity to decide as I crashed my hips back to the bed and came harder than I thought possible. Even greater than in the alleyway. I wasn't even sure if I was fully conscious throughout. My body ebbed and pulsed with hot beat after beat on the inside of my skin, like everything was hammering to get out. My brain swam, no memories left, no focus, just immediacy and the searing heat of release.

The creature barely slowed and I could sense its excitement; a constant drone from between my splayed legs. Almost an exquisite tickle, like putting tracing paper over a comb and humming into it, I writhed against whatever it was, elated at being in its presence. Visions began to tumble, almost too fast to grasp, as if it was letting me see inside parts of myself. Beginnings. Ends. Failures. Successes. Truth. Lies. Life. I basked in whatever it let me see, drifting, happy.

Still clamped entirely around the outer lips of my pussy, the undulating inside slowed, then ceased. Spasms continued to fire, becoming further apart with each passing moment. I didn't know if it was the invader or me, but right then I didn't care. I felt only contentment and the tingle of trepidation or excitement. Still couldn't distinguish the difference.

It led my mind to places I wouldn't normally go. Deep parts of my psyche I hadn't let myself access. Letting me see the flawed, yet stark beauty of what I'd become. What I could become. What I'd achieved and what was in store. Flashes of things attained and things missing. Something bigger than just the planet, its people and me. Something to explore. To nurture.

A slow smile spread across my lips, growing wider as I brought my hands to my face and cupped my flushed cheeks, eventually flopping my arms to the side in an effort to cool. My chest heaved in the darkness, breaths and pulse gradually slowing, thoughts beginning to make sense again, forming after being squeezed out during the cerebral and extraordinarily physical orgasm.

As my other senses returned one by one, I suddenly felt empty yet complete. My eyes snapped open but, of course, there was nothing upon which to focus. Just black. I paddled my hand out to the nightstand, hunting for the lamp, and found the cord. Flicked the switch and leaned up on my elbows.

The bed sheets were drenched between my open legs. Utterly soaked, the epicentre clearly my still leaking pussy. I gasped at the realisation I must have squirted. First time for everything. But there was something odd about the sheen that caught the lamplight.

I sat up fully and ran my hands across the smooth sheets at my sides, drawing them over my quivering legs and between them. Touched the liquid. Cold. Definitely wet. I brought my fingertips away and discovered the surface of the liquid was tacky. Weird. I rubbed my palm in it and raised my hand, thick translucent strings forming and snapping as the distance increased.

Tenderly tracing my hand closer to my sex I confirmed it was the same substance that was still oozing from my distended lips. Scooping some onto my fingers I brought it to my face and gingerly sniffed. Honey-like. Overtones of my juices for sure. Poking out my tongue I touched its tip to the glistening matter. A few flashes exploded in my mind. Memories of the encounter triggered by the association, perhaps, or some kind of neurotransmitter activity sparked by whatever it was had shared my bed. I had to know more.

I tapped my tongue against the stuff again, exploring deeper thoughts. Reliving the past few weeks and months in vivid bursts. Full colour montages and snatches of video frames. Incredible detail. Things my subconscious had picked up, but I hadn't allowed myself to see. Letting me learn from a brand new perspective, like a voyeur into my own life.

I saw Andrew's desperation and felt pangs of guilt for pushing him away. Saw work colleagues avoiding me as I descended into a pattern of self-loathing and denial. Nights of loneliness. Unblinking days I barely remembered that were somehow captured by the astounding complexity of my brain in glorious Technicolor. Eleanor's demands. The staple in her hand. The effect of the stress on my body, then nothing but relaxation, endlessly stretching ahead from the trumpet player, our intense back-alley romp, the creature's visits, and its goals.

And in all the confusing array of imagery I suddenly knew the reason it chose me. What it wanted me to see. It was so clear. I gasped. Scrabbled backwards to the headboard, wiping my fingers on the sheets. Stared beyond my legs, beyond the stains of my recent activity, heartbeat spiking, rasping breaths in my throat.

It couldn't be. Waves of doubt and hope and worry consumed me. Somehow I managed to move, slow at first, then faster. Bouncing off the mattress, I raced to the bathroom and flicked on the light. With trembling hands I rummaged through the cabinet, found what I wanted, tore open the box.

The routine was familiar. The trepidation inescapable. I paced back and forth beneath the harsh bulb, time definitely not my friend, waiting for the display to change.

When it did, I wasn't sure how I felt. Excited. Scared. I threw up all the same. Wiped my mouth and stared at the white stick by the side of the basin, just in case I'd imagined it. Elevated hCG. Ninety-plus-percent accurate.

The trumpet player was the obvious candidate, but what if… what if the creature's first visit shortly after wasn't a coincidence? What if subsequent visits had just been to check on progress? Or to make sure? Or to help me see the truth I didn't want to admit?

I steadied myself against the doorframe, the fan whirring incessantly above me, mind awash with tumultuous thoughts. Now everything was going to change.