I tap the dead woman’s leg with my toe tip and tell Laura, I don’t want to be here. She wrings her hands in an average Lady Macbeth and stretches her face into a little sorry about my friend look. I don’t know who it’s for, the dead take no courtesy. I shouldn’t have answered the phone tonight but I thought it might be important. Laura’s music is shuffling lethargically in the other room, Morrissey whining after Joy Division, and I tell her again, I don’t want to be here. This time it feels like I’m talking to myself.
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.