Many hands push and pull me to a table in the corner near a stand full of packaged chips and someone shoves my head down between my knees and people are saying: Take a deep breath! Take it easy, love. Settle down, it’ll soon pass. Can I call your mum for you? All on top of each other: so that it’s a mess of instructions, a mess of well-meaning voices. A cruelty of kindnesses. I almost dig out my phone and thrust it at them, wanting to scream: You try! You try calling my mum because I can’t seem to get through to her. But I place my head on the table instead, the surface pressing into my cheek. There are hard crumbs still on it, which are hurting my scars and mixing with the tears leaking out of my eyes. And I could just about close them tight and sleep here, shut them and never wake up, never make the call, when I hear someone say—in a voice I recognise, but sort of don’t, because it’s thick and awkward and tight, not smooth and assured—‘I’ll take care of her from here, thanks.
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