He puts his bullshit hand on my shoulder while she smirks into my face. ‘You look tired,’ she says. You know me, I say, shrugging, but she doesn’t and his hand stays on my shoulder. ‘We’re looking forward to seeing you up there,’ he says. ‘Really seeing you,’ she says. They’ve got eyes like cocktail onions. I just wanna do my best, I tell them, and they laugh, one of those chittery things. ‘Don’t worry, dear heart,’ she says. ‘You’ll be marvellous,’ he tells me. Some part of me hopes I’m not, knows I’m not, worries I will be.
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.