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I've been at university for around two months now, those two months mostly comprised of classes, lectures, late-nights with friends, and lazing about.
It's now mid-November, the weather much colder than it was when we first started our courses at the beginning of September when the remains of summer were still around.
It has been quite an average start to my university life, not too difficult, not too easy either, but after Christmas, it may begin to get much harder, and I'm prepared.
Christmas.
The thought of Christmas provokes my thoughts into conjuring up some childhood memories.
The memories of numerous Christmases fill my mind.
How my parents and my brothers and I adorned the tree, decorating it with ribbons, baubles and golden glitter. I recall how we all fell silent as my father put the angel with wings of satin and a flowing white dress enriched with golden sparkles on the top of the fir tree, the angel's hands reaching up to the sky, up to heaven — where — where my — my parents are.
The Christmas memories suddenly turn too dark: the three bright red stockings hanging above the fireplace fade to a bleak grey, the ornaments on the Christmas tree seem to conceal themselves within the thick fir needles. The calendar next to our family portrait reads ''25th of December'', but the room is empty, no fire crackling in the corner, no excited brothers rushing down the stairs in a fever, and no delicately wrapped presents under the tree.
The room is desolate, alone, but I am eventually snapped out of the vision by the cold sensation of a tear rolling down my cheek. I wipe my face, looking into the mirror at my glassy green eyes. No tissues are in sight, and so I grab the rim of my t-shirt, wiping it over my eyelashes, slightly weighed down by the weight of my tears.
For a few seconds, I manage to forget the past but the nightmares all come back so quickly as soon as I feel the heat from a radiator on my back.
No matter how hard I try to concentrate on something else, I can't dispel the feeling of ash and smoke clogging my throat, the screams and shouts filling my ears, the smouldering heat surrounding me, the flames exploding out into huge infernos, feasting on the home, my mind replaying the night my parents died.
Water.
Water.
My hands clasp around my water bottle on my desk. I pour the water down my throat, and I tip the remaining water onto my hands, trying to force the painful memories from my body.
I lie down on my bed, taking deep breaths in, hearing a thud as my hand lets go of the bottle.
''I'm not there. I'm not there,'' I repeat again and again. ''I'm in my room. Not that room. My dorm room. There's no fire here. No fire here.''
