There are still faded splotches of my blood soaked into the beige fibres of our living-room carpet. Mum scrubbed in silence, her raw hands working as if she were trying to erase her own pain. Of course, it’s always an accident, and every time she says she believes me. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t…
Alex reclined in his chair, kneading his hands to dispel the irritation still prickling in his fingertips. It was unlike him to react so emotionally to feedback. His fiction was what his agent Daniel called ‘fast food for gourmet taste buds’. Years ago, such a description would have sparked indignation in Alex. Now, he merely shrugged, accepting the commercial reality of his work….
"Wouldn't sit on that if I were you."
"And thank fuck every day that you're not."
"Fine. If it breaks under your arse, don't come crying."…