by Lara Roberts

Created on: June 13, 2009

The door of the Black Pony swung open easily at Lucy's touch, and the noise was almost more than she could bear. Combined with the faces of her loved ones smiling inanely at everything and nothing and the overwhelming stench of alcohol, it was almost enough to send the fragile young woman running back outside. But despite her trepidation she stepped into the pub and let the door swing shut behind her with a loud thud. She had promised she would be here on everyone's last night together before they returned home - University had been fun, something Lucy hadn't been aware existed until she came here.

Unfortunately for her, the first voice to reach her battered ears was that of her unrequited love, and the first sight to greet her weary eyes was Mark leaning forwards to plant a kiss on the lips of some random girl.
That was the last straw.
Luckily for her, only her two best friends had even noticed her entrance and subsequent hasty exit, both men staring at the door as it swung violently in Lucy's wake. David hurriedly began to extricate himself from the death grip his fiance always seemed to hold him in nowadays, but the older, wiser Jared motioned for him to stay where he was.

"You deal with Mark." he said as he hauled himself wearily to his full six feet. "And watch what you say. If this keeps up he's gonna kill her." the solemn man threw back over his shoulder, heading towards the pub's exit with a dark scowl on his face.
"I swear, that girl's a masochist and I've had enough of it. I'm putting a stop to this."
And, shaking his head, Jared James stepped out into the solitude of the night.

Lucy had seen David's attempt to follow her as she stormed past the open window, and the terrifying fury on the faces of the two men she could call her confidants had mortified her. In a bid for escape she quickened her pace, heading up towards the so-called "object of modern art" that was the bench at the top of Ploughman's Hill. To her credit, she managed to keep her emotions inside until she reached the stone wall that she and the guys had claimed as their own, just past the thankfully empty bench that was part of the town's new piece of modern "art".

The shaking woman planted her hands on the high wall and hefted herself onto it with a great effort, scraping her palms on the rough stone with the sheer force of her push. Then, safely hidden from the dark world around her, she dissolved into tears. Tears of anger directed at herself, at Mark, David, everyone. Tears of regret,

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