The thing is that, you see, once in a while it gets so damn lonesome you kinda wish maybe someone could actually save you. When I say save, I don’t mean one of those hypocritical phonies who like to be the savior and pass down judgment on you and stuff. Like, someone who maybe not really tries to save you but them just being there is enough. Know what I mean? Like way way way back before I became a nutcase, I used to work for this lady. I used to go to her flat every morning and wake her up, wash her and make her breakfast. I did all that because she lived alone and didn’t have any kids and the government paid her a small sum to pay for someone to take care of her. After I did my chores and tucked her real cosy in her chair, I used to stay and chat because she was pretty old and couldn’t go nowhere and that could get a little lonely. So I used to just stay for a little bit and tell her things. Most of the times I had to really yell because she had a real bad case of hearing loss. So I just yelled at her whatever happened and she just nodded and sometimes she would pause with this deep look on her face and then she would tell me about her ex-husband who was a poet and smoked a lot of pot. I was pretty damn lonely at that time too because I just came to that goddamn city and I wasn’t so good at making friends. In fact I used to walk down the grey street and the smell of hot cakes and coffee used to make my eyes water because they smelt so goddamn nice and warm and that made me feel so goddamn lonesome. But anyway, the lady is dead now and I’m not in that city anymore but now and then I do regret not visiting her more, you know what I mean? She was one of the few people I know who was too old to put up a face. She didn’t care so much for what anyone thought of her and her house was filled with half-written manuscripts and sculpture made of steel and iron. She didn’t need any body to define who she was. Some thought she was lonely and pitiful but I knew better than anybody the truth. She lived and died as she was, the unique soul. It was her who taught me how to be strong and not let age or time define my spirit. I still remember the day I quit working for her. I didn't quit because I hated the job or anything, even if I had to wake up real early in the morning and the city was still dark outside and the early morning bus was so empty it sometimes depressed the hell out of me. But I didn’t quit because of the early morning commute. I actually quit because H. told me I could do better. He said I would go nowhere being a carer like that and perhaps I should get a real job to build a nice career portfolio, if I wanted to prepare for the real world. So I told her I had to quit and she had this real sad look on her face. She said she understood and told me to drop by now and then for a chat. I promised her I would, and I meant it. But soon after I made my promise, I got caught in H’s web. I got caught in all the fights and shouting and me trying to leave and him trying to get me to stay and more yelling and hating and him cheating and lying and me trying to get the hell out of there but couldn't. But of course I couldn’t just show up at her doorstep to tell her all about it either. At that point I was too goddamn confused to even tell myself what the damn hell was going on, let alone someone else. The day I found out that she was dead I was trying to cash a cheque she had paid me a year ago. When the cheque came back with a letter from the bank telling me that its owner had passed away, I sat on the bed for a while. I couldn’t even cry. I couldn’t because I had always taken for goddamn granted that she’d be in my life forever, that her existence was as infallible as gravity. And then just like that she was gone, reality’s slap to remind me of the inevitability of the mortal. Just like that, Peggy Taub passed away. With one children story published, countless half-written manuscripts pilling inside her small flat at Trafalgar Square. No children. No family. But forever engraved in the memory of a stranger that is me. As I sat there speechless and contemplative at Peggy’s death, H just shrugged. I would have hoped for a hug or something. But he just shrugged. I should have known even before then that the bastard had no soul. But then sometimes you can get so goddamn lonesome you denied the truth even if it was right in front of you knocking on your eyeballs. I remember wishing, well imagining then that my imaginary friend would show up, perhaps climbing up the windows or something, and knock on the windows. Hey, he would say, let's get out of here. And then we would get into the car and just drive and drive and drive far away. But instead I stayed and cried some more and locked myself in the bathroom and called work to tell them they might as well fire me because I wouldn't be able to get out of bed tomorrow. A few months later I woke up to find out that H had been cheating on me with C. The world had crumbled then, and yet I still couldn't leave the damn bastard. By then Peggy had been dead for a few months and even so I still wondered what she would have said if only she knew.