The mechanical beep of the alarm clock cuts through the somber silence of the rain filled Tuesday morning. Just for a second I forget what day it is. April 14th. Has it been a whole year already?

6am. I pull back the duvet, exposing myself to the ambient temperature of my bedroom, and swing myself upright. I’m operating on autopilot as I stumble bleary eyed into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Yes, a shower will wake me. The next 10 minutes pass as they always do; muscle memory kicking in as I contemplate the day. April 14th.

A day like today means a little mental preparation. Once upon a time it was just another day. April 14th was just a square on the calendar. Insignificant. Inconsequential. But then it happened, and I can’t take it back.

I wander downstairs and start searching for breakfast in the kitchen. I soon stop – idiot, I think, shaking my head. A day like today means no breakfast and as soon as that thought enters my head a wave of nausea hits me like a train. I always forget I won’t eat breakfast, not this morning. April 14th.

My body fills with nervous energy so starts pacing the hallway floor. Family and friends stare down at me from  the exposed brick wall; their gaze makes me feel exposed, naked, guilty. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me that it’s 5 minutes past 8 – 25 minutes to go.

Time elapses as I consider the past 364 days and I’m momentarily suspended in my day dream, unaware of the present. Living in the past. The clock is suddenly deafening as I turn my attention back to now. Tick. Tick. Tick. I’m almost tempted to run back upstairs to safety, but I remind myself to breathe. I remind myself that this is part of the ritual, this happens every year and I just need to breathe. It’ll be over in a few minutes.

Suddenly, the clock makes its defective, tinny sound signaling the arrival of half past 8. I lower myself to the floor of the hallway and sit crossed legged in front of the front door. Like clock-work, I hear the usual heavy, military footsteps walk up the garden path. The same smoke infused cough. I get the faint, familiar whiff of tobacco and spearmint as the footsteps open the letter box and slides through a familiar brown envelope. As it lands on the floor in front of me I hear the footsteps retreat the same way they approached. I hesitantly pick up the envelope, the tobacco and spearmint smell lingering in the air. Breathe.

I slide my finger across the top of the envelope, opening it with the utmost care. I unfold the Manilla coloured paper and cautiously read the words that are written there. My once furiously beating heart starts to slow, returning to a more normal speed. It’s done. The ritual is complete. I place the letter in the shoe box on the windowsill with the others. It’s exactly the same even after all these years – ‘I know what you did. Maybe I’ll tell.’