Grief

It's a physical business. Driven mad by grief, grief struck. I pace up and down the corridor, snot running down my face, tears tracking the contortions, stopping only to bang my head against the wall. Last time I walked this way I was in labour, leaning my forehead against the cool paint, breathing, bringing new life. This is like a death.

In my right hand I hold a knife, fist on the handle. From a great height, arm raised as high as possible, I stab the blade again and again into the outstretched palm of my left hand. I have no idea why this should be. What has my left hand done to be punished in this way?

It is hot. All the windows are open. I try not to moan at the peak of each cantilevered tower of gasping breath.