Focus.

It was all about perspective.

That was what she convinced herself at least. She wasn't sick if she didn't allow herself to be. Focus outwards, fix other people - and the good that came from that would flow back to her in a rush of self-medicating bliss.

But she slipped occasionally. Became mired down in how she felt, at first to try and fix herself. She would pick apart her brain until she had an answer to why she was that way, but she only became more tangled in the problems, until she resolved to give up on the task.

Focusing inward seemed selfish. A waste of time. Nothing was wrong if she didn't give in to it. Feelings were chemical and could easily be changed given enough determination. Actions were the things she needed to keep control over. So long as she maintained who she had painted herself up to be - she was fine.

Fine. She could be fine if she tried hard. And every so often she would bounce back up, have a really great day. Be happy over small things, be organised, go to sleep excited.

But perhaps she should have focused on herself...

Green Light

The ring sat on the table between the two of them. Caught in a patch of sunlight that streamed through the café window, it cast tiny green patterns across the bleached wood.

The smell of strong coffee and old books, two scents that both of them had once agreed were the epitome of comfort, was now slightly spoiled by the tension that was brewing at their corner table, beside the window.

The passers-by couldn’t have known that when they curiously glanced in through the café’s street level windows, they were witnessing two lives caught in a crucial moment. They only saw a pretty girl with black locks masking her eyes and a clean shaven man staring nervously at the mug in his hands.

The Dead Hour

Nobody thought that an hour would make any difference. Nothing ever really happens between the hours of 7 and 8am, people wake up, have breakfast, get ready for the day and not much else.

It's a dead hour. One resigned specifically to work/school/appointment preparation, a grey slot of time where nothing significant ever really happens. And besides, these were students living in this hour, the only major event occurring in their lives between the hours of 7 and 8am were hangovers.

The night security team would leave at 6:50am, allowing enough time to lock up the office and do a final sweep of the outside facilities. The reception staff would once again bring life to the office at 8:02, allowing enough time to get their morning coffee exactly right.

Nobody could have anticipated the carnage that greeted them that morning, following the - rather aptly named - dead hour.

******

Trading in Grandma

"Hi there! How can I help you today miss?" The overly perky male attendent smiled expectantly into the defiantly flippy-fringed and overly made-up face, blatantly ignoring the slightly creased but still perfectly functional piece she was holding. 

"Uh yeah I'd like to trade in grandma." Her bored tone suggested the 'I couldn't care less' stage of her life was already in full swing, although the dark circles carefully drawn round her eyes implied the boredom was also very deliberately applied for show, she was the kind of customer that made this whole enterprise worthwhile. 

"Certainly, did you have anything in mind for the exchange?" The old lady at her side opened her mouth as if to suggest something, thought better of it, and kept quiet again, eyes averted. It was clear this kind of decision didn't involve her input and she would just be seen as a nuisance if she attempted to deliver it. 

"Well her original label was June, I was thinking some kind of variation of that?" The girl played a hard bargain, not giving all the answers, expecting the quality of service given to all of her friends before her most probably.

Home is a Box.

     Some people say that home is where the heart is.

     Talia’s home was a sturdy wooden box that sat in front of the hearth. It was warm and safe and always in the right place. After a long day of selling her goods at the market she would return to her little cottage in the woods, its blue windows shining happily in the starlight to welcome her in from the frosty air.

      Then she would slump in front of the fire and take out her heart to inspect for an hour or so, this was a bad habit she admitted, but somebody had to check for new scars, and there was nobody else she trusted enough with the task. That was rather the point. But every night she would find no new wounds, only the faded mark from years gone by where her heart had been shredded.