Blood bubbles and lymph dried like sap on my skin, an amber hue patchwork of dermal scaffolding. I run a fingernail around their peripheries, testing for pain and pliancy. Janey squirms matronly and bites her tongue, tired of issuing the same chastisement. It doesn’t matter, I tell her, but stop myself anyway. Nothing is silent between us, only unspoken, the sounds of the world vying in competitive susurrus, complimentary static. We each embrace our sketchy peace, retreating into stillness with armfuls of its comfort in mind. This time when the itch grows back, I will do nothing, for her.
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.