Jenny has a sphincter where her face should be. It dilates and contracts as she talks. I don’t know where the sound comes from. Behind the vaguely moist sphincteral folds is something more than blackness, a void where nothing should be. If she screams I will be swallowed by it. I am compelled to look. Disgust grows from the middle, assimilates my cells, leaves only the anguish of awareness. Jenny’s words become a howling sough, the torment of air being harvested by the gape in her face. I hope that she gets help, I know I am beyond 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.