I likened it to when I was 16 or 17 and I wrote in my diary that living in my house was like watching a frayed piece of rope being pulled tighter and tighter. I couldn't do anything to stop it breaking except wait. As I was speaking, I realised it was more like I was at the end of that frayed rope, looking up at him. Knowing my weight was pulling him down, knowing I could kill us both. Watching the rope fray a little more each second. Watching him closely to see if he'll cut it with a knife and send me spiralling down into the crevasse beneath. Lately it leaves me fumbling in my bag, searching wearily for my own knife. Sometimes that crevasse looks inviting.
