It's dark, but since it gets dark at six and her watch is buried beneath a glove, a shirt, a jacket and a winter coat, she's unable to check the time. She's spent the whole day drumming up media interest in her campaign and as she trudges into yet another motel she wonders why she thinks of it as hers; perhaps it's because it's one of the only things she can truly own - even if she still works for someone.

There's a clock on the wall and she notices that it's only just gone nine. She's surprised that it's so early because she feels so exhausted - then again lately she's been tired all the time. It's a little unusual because although she's been putting in double digit hours every day, she used to work for much longer at the White House. Back then though, there was something to always energize her when she was flagging but now she won't allow herself to remember what it was.

As she approaches the front desk of the motel there's only one staff member on duty but she doesn't recognize him. Hardly surprising since she was up and out of the motel before eight. She gives him a big toothy grin despite the fatigue and the fact her feet, having been walked on all day, are aching in her too tight shoes.

"Anything for room five one three?"

Terry, according to his name badge, reaches into a pigeon hole and hands her a few envelopes which she shuffles through with disinterest. "These are for you as well."

She looks up to see him holding a large vase filled with a rainbow assortment of flowers. "Me?"

"Delivered a few hours ago, I signed for them myself. You must have an admirer."

"They're probably from a contributor," she explains, although privately she thinks they're from another nut job determined to have his story told and hoping that the way to the VP is through her.

"Do you want me to have them delivered to your room?" Terry asks and she shakes her head.

"No, I can manage, I'm good at juggling," she grins as she squashes her mail under an arm and hitches her bag over her shoulder. "Thanks." It takes both hands to grip the vase because it's half filled with water and very heavy but she manages because she can manage most anything.

She uses an elbow to summon the elevator and closes her eyes while she waits. She can't wait to get warm and dry; she stepped into a snow drift when she got out of the car that morning and the cuffs of her pants have been damp and cold all day. In fact, she'll be glad to strip off entirely and dive into a hot bath before crawling into bed.

The tips of the flowers are tickling her nose as she steps into the elevator. They smell divine, heady, sweet and soft. All the things that flowers should smell like and she takes a deep appreciative sniff and again uses an elbow to push the button for her floor.

It's the middle of February and she's in the middle of the country. The advance scout, as it were, for the Russell campaign. She's been on the road now for a week and she has a week to go, collecting donations, spreading the word that Russell's a-coming. She's tired; it's tiring making constant small talk with multitudes of people eager to line the war chest in exchange for the promise of remembrance when Bob's the boss.

She has to set the flowers on the floor to stick her card key in the lock and as she picks them up after propping the door open she notices an envelope attached to a sprig of ivy.

Her room is dark and cool and she dumps the vase on the dresser and turns the thermostat to high before stripping off her damp clothes. She's disinclined to read the note; she normally passes such details to the assistants who comprise lists of names and send thank you notes every week. She used to do that. Years ago.

Her bed is turned down, a mint lies on the pillow - cliched of course, but she loves the creamy sweetness of the chocolate mixed with the tanginess and she pops it into her mouth before flicking on the bath taps.

Preparing for bed is automatic now. Living out of a trolley bag was a novelty on her first campaign when she was young; carefree, willing, eager to learn, eager to jump in and do what needed to be done. She never minded sleeping on the floor or in a chair. The experience was thrilling, exciting, she was surrounded by some of the cleverest and funniest people she'd ever known.

Her second campaign, while infinitely more comfortable, was charged with emotion. It was a campaign that had to overcome the issues of mistrust, lies, accusations. They balanced on a tightrope and enjoyed every second of it.

This campaign is different. She's high up the chain of command - respected, listened to, asked for advice. She's older than ninety nine percent of the staff which makes her feel world weary and she doesn't like it.

She climbs into the now full bath, sinking deep into the bubbles, letting the hot water penetrate her aching body. It's not just her body that aches though; loneliness is a way of life for her now. She's become used to feeling empty, used to the solitude of the long journeys.

Being alone with the thoughts that actually mean something opens herself up to things that hurt too much, so she closes off from her mind and works each day until she's ready to drop from exhaustion. The indifference, the apathy, the focus on doing what needs to be done allows her to get out of bed each day.

The fact that she's earning more money than before gives her the smile she needs to do her job, but deep down, how can she respect herself when she knows she isn't where she should be; who she wants to be. Deep down, in the buried recesses of her soul she knows she's not with who she wants to be with and who she wants to be with it isn't about the job.

The bath is warm and it envelops her like a cocoon; insulating and protecting her from the chill in the air, the chill in her life. The bubbles cover the paleness of her skin and under the water she runs her hands over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She wants to feel something. The touch of another's fingers, human contact that isn't work related.

She doesn't want sex; hasn't wanted it for months. She can't bear to think of undressing in front of someone and answering the questions about the scars. She doesn't want sex because she can't bear to start another relationship; she's just too tired to learn the new things one learns, the little games and the second, third, fourth dates. She hasn't the time nor the energy nor the desire.

She just wants to be held. She's so very lonely.

She won't let herself admit who she wants to be held by so she contents herself with the forlorn wish that it simply be someone she loves and who loves her. There are no names.

She runs her fingers over the back of her neck, massaging away the day, pressing her thumbs deep into the tendons until her eyes cross in pain. Pain is how she knows she's still alive and she slips down further until the water closes over her head. She breathes out slowly, feeling bubbles tickle her nose until her lungs scream for air and she pulls herself up and reaches for a towel.

Her room is still slightly cool and she belts her robe tightly around her waist and sits on the edge of the bed to comb out her hair. Water splatters onto the thin woolen blanket, soaking through to the sheets underneath and she absently brushes the dark marks with her hand. There's nothing interesting on television, but even if there was, she wouldn't have the energy to concentrate. She leaves it on as background noise while she plugs her phone in the charger and lays out her clothes for the morning.

The hotel room is warm now, and as she crosses the floor to lower the thermostat her nose catches a whiff of blossoms. Bluebells, she thinks, and orange blossom. Daffodils, their bright orange and yellow petals mixing with the turquoise forget-me-nots and the pale azure of the violets. Prickly ivy curling through the arrangement, linking each color together with dark green leaves. It's an odd combination and vaguely she recalls reading something somewhere on the symbolism of certain flowers. It arouses her curiosity and she pads over to the dresser.

The scent is spread by the heat in the room, and it surrounds her, rich and heady; she can taste the sweetness of the flowers in her mouth, the aroma penetrating the fog of sadness, lifting her spirits. She loves flowers. It's been so long since she's seen flowers like these; it's neither the season for them nor the location but she doesn't think about that as she leans down to inhale once more.

She lets the perfume fill her head as she runs a hand over the downy moistness of the buds then rubs one between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the delicate petal break and the dampness seeping over her skin.

She raises her fingers to her nose and inhales again and she feels beautiful for some reason. The white envelope, still pinned to the ivy is small and stiff and she removes it gently. It's unlabelled - the back glued down, and she levers a fingernail under the flap to open it.

The card is simple. White with an etched silver border. Elegant and understated. As she open it, the carefully concealed importance of today's date ripples through her mind. Today, eight years ago, when her life truly began.

As her fingers trace the messily inked words a smile flits across her face.

She's not so tired anymore. And just a little less lonely.