Ok, so I'm finally at a far enough distance to write about what happened.

As you know, last thing was that Steve was being lovely, being really nice to me and making me wonder if maybe he really had changed.

That Friday he bought round a 'chiminiere' - it was a rubbish bin on legs! He also dumped loads of wood on my patio to burn in it. We sat outside until after dark by the fire, it was all going really well. Then he said he wanted to come on holiday with me and Small Child - we were going the next weekend.

I said no he couldn't, because we weren't in that place any more. He ranted and raved about how he still loved me, then stormed off. I finished the bottle of wine then went to bed.

About midnight he phoned on the house phone and said he'd overdosed on his methadone, and paracetamol. Now if only I'd been sober I'd have realised he couldn't have done it as his pick up is Saturday so he'd only have one bottle anyway. Or I'd have just phoned for an ambulance. As it was, I didn't really think, and just threw on some clothes and went round to the B and B he lives in.

He let me in, then locked the door behind me and kicked me onto the bed. He ripped off my clothes and put them on top of the wardrobe. Then he grabbed my hair and banged my head on the wall time and time again, pulling my hair out by the roots into the bargain. I was trying to fight him off, and it ended up with me pushed in a corner of the bed trying to fend him off as he hit me, he was biting my arms and face as I tried to push him away or hit him back.

He said he was going to kill me and I believed him. I screamed and screamed, but no one came (he's on the second floor of an annex, but his window faces the road). In the end I gave up struggling and just protected my head.

Eventually he passed out - I think he'd taken diazepam rather than methadone. I got my clothes back, got the key and legged it. By the time I got home it was 3 am.

I still can't believe it happened. Being held hostage? It only happens in films doesn't it?