Writing Excerpts

“I haven’t been dreaming lately.”

“What do you think that means?”

I tell her I don't know, but I think I do.

************

None of this shakes me like it used to, not even the hand on my knee – it’s not even there. None of this seems like it matters anymore. What does any of this achieve? The room is dark and dusty and the sofa I sit on is of little comfort. The place is crowded and people drift past me, I don’t even hear the clunk of their shoes and their stumbling across the floorboards. They travel awkwardly and loudly but it doesn’t phase me, not as long as this hand is upon me.

I feel like I feel when there’s nothing left.

One hand holding but the other does nothing.

************

“I don’t know.” I say monotonously, dully, unanimated, lifeless. “I don’t know,” I mumble, and again; “I don’t know.”

Inside I’m screaming. Inside I’m crying. Inside I’m apologising. Begging her. Praying.

************

It doesn’t actually take an apology to keep Liz happy, but instead something much worse. When I see her next she embraces me and doesn’t let go for what feels like an age, and she cries. She grips my back and I do my best to return the favour with equal force but I feel like I’m holding onto nothing. And when I kiss her, her lips seem solid and cold and taste of nothing but skin, only more bitter. And when I wake up with her loving arms around me, I wake up alone.

“I wish we could just stay in bed forever.” She tells me and then sighs, pathetically.

What do I wish for? A shorter tomorrow.

************

I look towards Pat. He says nothing. I just want him to notice. My eyes are red and swollen, my cheeks are wet and my hands are shaking, but this is just as visible to him as the blood running down my leg underneath my jeans. He says nothing.