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My jaw jerked open and I began gasping for air. I noticed that I was choking now as my throat seemed to be blocking up with something, my left cheek pressing heavily with the full weight of my head into a warm sticky substance on the floor. As I watched, the ground in front of me changed colour as a fast-growing circle of black centred at my chest began spreading out across the tiles. A sweet salty sensation filled the air like a fresh slab of meat being sliced open at a butcher's, as the dark liquid at first fully encompassed then quickly surpassed my entire stretched-out frame. I was transfixed by this rapidly moving pool as it raced over the smooth ceramic then touched and bounced back off the bar panels like a wave hitting a sea wall. It reminded me of hot black treacle, and I began to think rather worryingly that it looked a lot like blood. I put the facts together and with horror grasped that it was mine. It felt as though a violation had taken place upon me that I had been powerless to control or stop, and for the first time in my life I really understood the word violation and what it meant, and all the horrible connotations it holds. It was 10.30pm, Wednesday the 2nd of February 1994. Great. I wish I'd stayed in bed.

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Craig Hartwell was born in Kent in a town best known for being the birthplace of the Rolling Stones, and home to a rather large bridge. Studying as a carpenter, he got the travel bug from an early age setting off to explore the world at nineteen, and hasn't looked back since. Currently in England, where he lives, always by the water.

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