WARNING: This article deals with suicide and self harm, and may be triggering for some readers.
By SAMANTHA MAWDSLEY
I saw her as soon as I walked out of the front door at work. She was young, tiny and skittish. She should not have been out this late on her own. I was on my way from the closing shift at the pub and I had a friend walking me home. She swung around at the sound of our voices, but hurriedly turned away and kept walking. I fell in step behind her and she stole a look, eyes wide and fearful.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently.
“Yes, thank you.” And she turned around. Please don’t talk to me.
She crossed to the other side of the road. Please don’t follow me.
My friend suspected drugs. I suspected mental health problems. Naive? Maybe.
I watched her – tugging at the arms of her jacket – feeling suffocated by her headphones – searching wildly for a direction to walk in.
“Excuse me, can you please tell me where I am?” Not a normal question. I crossed to her side of the road.
“You’re in Harrow. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Where are you trying to get to?”
“I don’t know.”