Her Worst Nightmare
Drown out the noise.
Yes, drown it all out. Swallow it all and just drown .
It's better that way, she says.
She's right. And I hate her for it.
Deep in the darkness, I dreamt of her.
Maggie.
Her hair was ash-grey. Her face, once a canvas for someone who had been pretty in her youth, was like plaster dust, pale and flaking. Her body had been pushed inside the living room wall of our old council flat, until just her head and arms were still visible. She reached for me and as I watched, the print of the gaudy floral wallpaper crept along her upper arms and over her throat, until her skin was no longer skin, but dry, peeling paper. I wondered, if I picked at a loose corner and pulled, would she
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