I was sick when I woke up this morning. I just about made it to the bathroom. I spent a few minutes beside the toilet, wondering if I’d eaten anything that had disagreed with me, or whether it was a delayed reaction to the amount of alcohol I’d drunk on Christmas Day.

It was when I was sitting there on the tiled floor, shivering, that I remembered. He was getting out today.

It was just past five, still dark outside. When I was able to get up I brushed my teeth and tried to get back into bed, but I didn’t quite make it. My feet veered towards the door to the flat.

I knew it was locked, but I had to check nevertheless. As I checked it, six times, one-two-three-four-five-six, I told myself it was locked. I locked it last night. I remember locking it. I remember checking it. I remember checking it for fucking hours. Even so, it might not be locked, I might have made a mistake. What if I’d unlocked it again, without realising? What if something went wrong with the checking, and I wasn’t paying attention.

Again. Start again from the beginning.

The feeling of him is strong today. I can smell him, feel him in the air. I remember how it felt, waiting for him to come back, knowing there was nothing at all I could do to get away, no point in running, no point in fighting. It was easier just to give up.

And now?

I finished the door, but it still felt wrong.

I’d have to start again. My feet were freezing, my skin goosebumps all over. I should have gone to get a jumper, some socks. It wasn’t right, though. The door might as well have been standing wide open, with him on the other side of it, waiting. Waiting for me to make a mistake.

I checked again, concentrating, my breathing already starting to quicken, my heart thudding in my chest. I couldn’t get beyond the image of him standing just on the other side of the door, waiting for me to stop checking, waiting for me to step away from it so he could take advantage of it.

This was bad, very bad. My phone was in the kitchen, Stuart was at work, and in any case I still hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since that text… I couldn’t leave the door, I couldn’t even get as far as the bedroom.

Just once, I told myself sternly. Once more, and it will be fine. Once more and it will be safe to leave the door. I tried deep breathing, tried to snatch more than just gasps, tried to hold it, tried to think of Stuart’s voice.

I finished one lot of checks and stopped.

I was starting to feel calmer, my breathing slowing. While I had the chance I went back to the bedroom, not looking at the curtains, crawling straight back into bed. My stomach was churning and I was shivering with the cold. My bedside clock said it was twenty past seven. Two hours, just on the door.

I got out of bed again and found some socks and my hooded fleece top, then went to the kitchen to put the heating back on.

I found my phone and rang the office. I’d not taken a day off sick since I’d started working there, but today was going to have to be the exception. There was no way I was going to be able to leave the house.

I managed to hold off the checking for half an hour, then I decided I needed to open the curtains and that started me off again. Fortunately I had to stop at eight to make the obligatory cup of tea.

I sat on the sofa with my cup of tea and picked up the book I’d been reading. It was one of the OCD books Stuart had recommended for me. One of the chapters recommended identifying all the compulsions, all the rules, and listing them in order of importance. I reached for my organiser and found a piece of paper and a pen.

It took a long time, a lot of careful thought, a lot of crossing out and starting again, but in the end my list looked like this:

The front door was to be the top one, without a doubt. It occurred to me that, since Stuart had moved in, it felt as if I’d managed to abdicate responsibility for the front door to him, somehow. I wondered if I could gradually work my way out of this pit by passing some of it onto his shoulders, and if that was somehow unfair.

I looked at the clock – half-past eight.

What time did prison releases happen? Would he be out by now? What would he look like? Would he still have money? Where would he go?

I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else.

How long would it be? How long until he found me? I tried to picture him coming out of prison, going somewhere, to a friend’s house, maybe, Lord knows he probably still had plenty of them. Maybe he would find someone else, some other girl. Maybe he had been changed by his time inside. Maybe he wouldn’t come looking for me at all.

Now I was just lying to myself.

He was going to come for me, it was only a question of time.

 I only just made it to the bathroom in time, sick again. Nothing left in there but pain.