That is where it feels they are, clinging there, hanging on.
I heard music once – in the walls, or the central heating pipes –
I was on anti-psychotics at the time, and I established a theory that the reason I was hearing things was because I wasn’t psychotic and had been put on the tablets so that Cassie could tick her boxes.
It was a sort of reversal, I figured – not-psychotic plus anti-psychotics makes hearing music in the walls.
No. It was coming from next door – it had to be.
Later, when I wasn’t getting better, Cassie accused me of not trying to get better!
I’d punch her in the nose, if I saw her now – metaphorically speaking. (I wouldn’t risk the law court for that awful woman.)