I can hear her crying through the wall, the sound punching through like a cappella punctuation after each percussive beating. Sometimes I try to imagine she’s not real. We rode the lift together once, holding our corners like pacifist pugilists, pushed apart by the removal of space. Some diminishing quality in her made me feel increasingly large, as though I were being inflated deliberately. I worried that I might crush her if it continued. I found that I resented her for it and hated myself for that. Later, when she becomes imaginary, I worry that I couldn’t help it.
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.