Make do

The shelves of unfamiliar brands make Sheila feel queasy. She recognises nothing. Everything crackles like cheap wrapping paper. A woman looks at her. She can smell the oil in her hair, see the dirt on the hem of her coat.

The security guard walks past Sheila twice. He looks at her legs.

He picks up the cheap razors she knocks to the floor by accident. She is so clumsy here. She wonders if he speaks english.

It is 11.30 and Sheila should be at work. She thinks of carpet sweeping out like seabed, cool sunlight and the sound of telephones. She knows they are gone forever.

Since the cuts, William hasn't taken his hands off her. He wants to put her picture on the internet. 'I want to show people how proud I am to have you' he tells her, wants her smooth. She cried when he laddered her last Wolford tights. She knows these cheap razors will burn and nick. She hopes they still have condoms.

I don't know what I'm worth anymore, she thinks.

Without work she is out of her element. She clings to tins of Heinz soup like they will somehow show her a way back.