I never expected open arms or smiles. So I suppose I wasn't too surprised. I didn't really understand why being here would help. I guess it was just somewhere else, and besides I couldn't go back there, not yet. So there was my brother starring at me. Why was he starring at me? Did he not recognise me? His wife - she looked the same - took my bag and put it in the back of their Land Rover. How quickly I had come to be here, when it seemed that I had spent most of my life trying to escape.

Who needs conversation? They clearly didn't, though the silence was slowly killing me. The roads, for want of a better word, hadn't changed so the going was rough. And my brother was still starring at me in the rear mirror. What was he starring at? It's not the sort of place that changes. It looked just the same as it did when I ran off to university at 19.

Then out of nowhere there was the cottage, and a wave of memories almost drowned me. My brother opened the door on my side, but didn't wait for me to get out. She (his wife) fetched my bag from the boot. I could hear the dog barking round the back, and felt a little fearful for a minute. She took my hand and led me into the cottage.

It was small, smaller than small. She walked through the lounge to the back and I followed her. She opened a door to a small but perfectly formed room. So this is where I would be staying, how quaint. I went in and sat on the bed. I needed time to adjust. What was happening to me? What had happened that was so bad that I had to come home? And then it came to me. And as quickly as it came, I tried to shut it out. I wasn't ready, not yet.

I must have dosed on the bed, because she came back in and shook me gently. The dog wasn't barking anymore which could only mean one thing, it was teatime. I wasn't hungry, but felt I had to force tea and scones down just to fit in. There they were again, the starring eyes of my brother. Had he even said anything to me? If he had I couldn't remember. I wasn't sure if this would be a good time to broach the subject of how long I would be staying. Though, I do remember her saying, stay as long as you like, on the telephone.

After tea I made my excuses and went for a walk. Thought it was a good idea to take the dog and make myself look useful. This was a desolate wilderness, but it seemed to fit in my world right then. I couldn't stay here. The claustrophobia would drive me insane, but they would be offended if I decided to leave. Inevitably I would have to travel up to see mum and dad before I left. And that thought in itself filled me with pure horror. I knew that there were things that I just couldn't put off. Eventually, I guess, I would have to go and see his parents. I relied on the police to tell them what happened. I hope they didn't think it odd that I hadn't called.

Why hadn't I called? I should have. No I couldn't face the talk of funerals just yet. I needed time. Besides they would want to organise everything, which come to think of it would probably have been a good idea. But not yet of course, there was no saying when the funeral would be able to take place. The cold wind seemed to dance around my face, and made the scratches and cuts more painful. I hadn't looked, it didn't seem to matter. I didn't wear make-up during the day, so I didn't spend an excessive amount of time looking at my face in the mirror. But I felt the urge, just to look, just to see, though I didn't think it was a good idea, not yet. Winters were cruel here and the darkness was already coming, so I headed back to the cottage. The dog knew his own way, and trotted along at his own pace, and I found that I didn't need to think too hard about where I was going or the direction; it seemed so natural to me. I wanted to rest, just to sleep and wake to find that it had all been a terrible nightmare, a mistake. But I knew even then, that that wasn't going to happen.

I arrived back at the cottage relieved to find that my brother had gone to the pub for his evening pint. And it made me want a drink so badly. She was busy preparing dinner in the kitchen. I decided to fix myself a drink from the drinks cabernet - still in the same place that it had always been - in the lounge. The cabinet, a tall chest in dark oak, looked a thousand years old, though it had kept well. It had two heavy doors that opened outwards to reveal the alcoholic treasures of the family. Depending on what time of year it was, it could be full of all kinds of strange and rare whiskies - given as presents over Christmas. My brother did like his whisky, so you were guaranteed to find at least one variety in there. She, she liked vodkas and light rums, and didn't drink regularly so there was bound to be a bottle or two in there. Either way I wasn't fussed, it was just to help me to relax.