The scar runs down your neck from behind your ear. Her scars run deeper. Maiden to crone. Sex became painful, infrequent, non-existent. You found ephemeral solace in drink, long drives, a four weekly ritual banging with a short-hair whore who fucked you with a hatred for all men, pounding her body against you with a violence that left a bruise above your pubic bone.

You applied for compensation. The road was ill-maintained, the council’s incompetencies protected by layered bureaucracy. It just took time. The insurance company sued, out of your hands. Money was forthcoming. To pay for the car, the hospital bills that had raped your credit. You barely broke even, and came out barren. Everything died - it just took years.