Sitting in her room, she was trying to work out what she had done wrong. ‘Again?’, she quietly wondered, ‘How could it be happening again?

It was like being in a glass box, the water was slowly pouring in. There was no way out and the end felt inevitable.

But if you could change one thing from the past, would it work, would it help you out of the mess you’d gotten yourself into? And what would you change?

The insistent sound of a clock ticking: she knew immediately.

He’d asked her as she stood by the fountain. The water gently lapped to the sides, the sound of the gushing was a constant vibration; contained, volume, convocation.

But she gave no answer, didn’t have the power to, then. And so her silence started to wrap in on itself like a vortex, pulling inwards and strangling every vocal chord, muffling the intrinsic value of words.

Then later, the blood on her hands, it was unreal, but cinematic. The crimson clotting, binding like jam, running down her fingers; the knowledge it was done, and couldn’t be rescinded.

But perspective is in the eye of the beholder. The trick is grasping the particles, the molecules and the beams of light, bending them to your reality, keeping them upright.

She knew then, that now she could do it – she would be watertight.