I’m on my knees at the foot of the bed staring at a point above Shelly’s head where the window moulding’s loose. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so fucked up,’ she says. ‘You’re too smart to be so fucked.’ Her voice sounds like pressed flowers. I tell her, being able to describe a hole doesn’t mean you can climb out of it. ‘But why’d you have to tell me,’ she says, ‘we were doing great.’ Inside the crack is a darkness that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the room, I crawl towards it until there’s nothing of me left.
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.