Friday, March 11, 2016

129 words

Piece of paper on the sofa. Folded, folded.

It's not my writing. Suddenly stiff fingers holding it, creeping cold through my veins, nausea sweeping through, my mouth fills with saliva and there's a clamping dull pain in my chest.

I am far away, looking through a window at myself.

And then I rush back in.

It's not making sense. It must be my writing. It's the sort of thing he made me write, to start with. But it's not my writing. Plus it's crap. I'd never write that, I sneer to myself. This is half-assed and she obviously hasn't a clue what she's getting into.

Like me.

I'm heavy. It's hard to breathe. Cotton wool chest. I sit.
The baby kicks petulantly inside. Shhhh now.
I'm heavy.
I sit.

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