I had to leave bright and early to get a train to Swansea and then several trains after to get to Central Piazza. It was a hassle, but all worth it to see Easton again. By the time I got there it was one thirty and I was pooped. Not seeing Easton there yet, I took my time walking round the expanse of the gardens, taking in the beautiful colours of the spring flowers in full bloom against the backdrop of small lake. I take my time walking past couples smiling and laughing, and I think to myself how much I had missed not seeing Easton all these weeks. In fact if had been ninety-two days precisely since the last time I saw him—the last time we smiled together, laughed together … made love. The ache for him has never wavered. In fact it’s grown stronger. My only hope that Easton feels the same way too.

As I get to an empty bench right at the end of the garden, I choose to sit knowing I will be hard for him to miss. I check my watch. It’s nearly ten to two. I inhale on a smile and close my eyes. Luckily the weather has been good to me today, allowing the travelling to feel easier than it could have been. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and it’s welcome after all the bad weather we have been having lately. I glance down at my watch. It’s two o’clock. I take a good look around the thrum of people to see if I can spot my Nike boy biker, but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s been caught in traffic. I commence my sun worshipping, every now and then opening my eyes to see if I can see Easton and check the time.

Two-thirty comes and goes.

Three comes and goes.

Three-thirty comes and goes.

It’s only when I realise I will miss my last train back that I eventually give up and leave the beautiful piazza. I had plans to explore the area with Easton today, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

As I wait at the train station, I check my phone for any messages as to the reason why he never showed, but there’s nothing. As I had been getting harassing phone calls, it was suggested that I change my number, but I refused on the count of being able to get in touch with Easton. I bring up his number and call it in the last ditch hope that he may be on his way but all I’m met with is his voicemail. I hang up not leaving a message and make my way home, all the way on the verge of tears.

It’s when I’m near to my home that it all happens. I’m so engrossed in how miserable I feel that a voice calling my name doesn’t register as anything possibly dangerous at first. I turn, my heart soaring that it might be Easton when I see a young woman about ten years older than me run towards me with a bottle of something in her hands.

“You fucking lying bitch whore!”

She throws whatever it is and I am able to shield most of the impact with my arms, but I know the second it hits, I feel the soaring pain and burning sensation on my arms. I scream, she runs and out of nowhere a man quickly approaches.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I start to cry as the pain becomes unbearable.

“I’ll call an ambulance. Just hold on there a second. I’ll get help, okay?”

He runs with telephone in hand and by now I have developed quite an audience. Another two ladies approach me. “Come, sit here, sweetheart, an ambulance is on its way.”

I hear lots of voices and grumbling, mostly about the state that the world has come to and that the police aren’t doing enough to stop these chemical attacks. All the while my arms feel like they’ve been set on fire.

“Can someone please call number four-one-four in that block of flats for me? My mum’s in there.”

“Right on it,” a lady shouts, springing into action.

Soon, the man who first saw me approaches with wet bandages placing them over my arms. When he does, I scream out. I feel like my whole arms are on fire.

“I’m so sorry. I had hoped it would help. The ambulance will be here any moment.”

“Ray,” I hear my mum shout from afar. “Ray, oh my God, Ray, what happened?” She rushes forward taking the place of the lady who was holding me. She looks down to my arms and my shaking frame and starts crying.

“Some woman threw something at me,” I answer in a really strained voice. It’s so painful I can hardly talk.

“Oh my God, why?”

My teeth start to chatter as my whole body shakes. “I don’t know. She knew my name, so it was obviously meant for me.”

I think deep down we both know this has something to do with Liam. I don’t know in what capacity, but I hope to find out.

“What did she look like?”

I close my eyes trying to remember. I had been more focused on what she was aiming at me than I was on her face.

“She had short, blonde hair and a scar on her cheek. She wore jeans and a white t-shirt. That’s all I remember.”

As I recall everything, we hear sirens in the distance and within seconds I have an ambulance crew near me and police already talking to witnesses.

Everything from then on is a flurry of activity. I’m whisked away in an ambulance where they quickly administer some pain relief before checking the damage on my arms. I look down when they do and wince. The burns virtually cover both my lower arms. I will be scarred for life.

It’s then I start to cry. I hadn’t deserved this. What started out as a beautiful day with the promise of seeing Easton ended on such a shitty note.

At the hospital I’m treated for the burns while a police officer interviews me regarding the incident. I’m then allowed home with pain killers and instructions to come in each day for a re-dressing.

When at home, DI Lipton who had been in charge of the whole Liam Waters case visits me and emphasises the need to re-house us as soon as possible and get rid of my number. He then tells us news that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Apparently, Liam has a fan club, and in this fan club, they all hate me. This is the news that leaves my mum and I with only one choice.

DI Lipton leaves with the promise he will sort everything out ASAP. We are to pack as much as we can tonight. We will be leaving for an undisclosed location soon.

My heart sinks, but not for the reasons we have to leave. It sinks because after today, I will be whisked away, and Easton won’t be able to find me. In a last ditch attempt to speak to Easton, I call his number again, and again it goes to voicemail. This time, I leave a brief message telling him that I have to leave. Just before I hang up, however, I don’t say, “Au revoir.”

This time, I say, “Goodbye.”