Mirror


This is what I remember.

The bruising rain pocking my face, the torrent in my ears.  Opening my mouth to drink, stinging the back of my throat – the metal-sour stench of the machine – opening my eyes to wash pain from my mind.

The dark mood still snapping around me, though I had done my best to break it – and it had done its best to finish me.

Despair: most of all despair…

Listening to the mud suck and gurgle like a piglet at the teat: suck, gargle, snort; as the tractor sank lower and I sank with it.  Waiting for death or rescue; half-knowing death for a preference.

© Cherry Potts 2009 read at Liars’ League, London 2009

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