The first time I died I was sixteen and learning to drive. I was getting good too. I tell myself now in the middle of the night that it wasn’t my fault and it’s probably true, though I’m not sure I believe it. I don’t remember much, just dad eternally dialing at the radio presets as though they might start broadcasting new stations if he came around one more time, and mum chattering in the back with one eye in the rearview mirror and the other on the neighbours lawn. I remember waking up and knowing things were different.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.