Friday

I am so tired, and in Winchester the Itchen is still deep and clean, although maybe not as clean as it was. The homeless are barefoot with sores on their legs and bottles of cheap cider in their hands.

While the Bishop is away, I can play, in my hometown that he has no right to because of his horrific abuse of me.

The police patrol, and they glance at me each time they pass. Yes, you evil brutal thugs, I am the abuse victim who you destroyed and nearly killed for Fisher and the Scott-Joynts, and I will stand up to you, even if you have terminally injured me and there can be no real healing.

I get tired. The walking makes  me tired. Winchester seems tired, the sweltering heat.

Time to go.

I hope that what I am doing works, it is a bit of a rash and desparate act, but I am going to just fall apart if I sit at home, suffering, so I can't sit and suffer any more.