There is no trace of a bullet wound, yet her head still feels empty. Where is my brain she thinks. I cannot even feel it in there.
She is convinced it has wound down, melted into her bloodstream. Maybe that's why she feels so ill. An image of the fridge gets pulled down behind her eyes. A dirty blind. She cooked the beetroot two weeks ago, but never pickled them. They cosy up, mouldy, behind knobbly carrot fingers and wet green debris sludged down into the corners of a plastic bag. It might have been spinach.
I feel like the fridge, she thinks, lighting a cigarette, still looking in the mirror. She thinks she looks great when she smokes, but she doesn't...no body does really, not at the heart of it.
She continually tries to distort her face by bending her nose this way and that, folding what of it she can, making it smaller, not better. Her friend came in and caught her doing it once. She laughed it off, but put her head into her lap after the door had shut.
Today she is just drinking milk. Someone told her that if she just drank milk for a few days she might lose a few pounds. Her belly has expanded, so that now when she sits cross legged, as she prefers to, a cumberland sausage sized curve creases over the top of her totally tight skinny black jeans.
Milk has fat in it yeah...but fat helps you lose fat yeah?
Yeah. Well.
Lets see. She is already thinking about the rich tea biscuits in the cupboard downstairs
but he is downstairs
and he is in a mood. He ran out of coffee and his girlfriend broke up with him, and he needs a shower.
I don't want to see anyone
she says out loud.
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