Magpie. Sophie Draper

he would do that. Communication was never his strong point. Perhaps the shock of what happened and me leaving has jolted him out of his obsessions. Is he angry with me?

      I hold my head as if it’ll stop my thoughts from spinning. Maybe something has happened. Perhaps he’s banged his head and forgotten about his family. You hear stories like that, where amnesia means the person can’t remember the life they had before. I have to remind myself, he did send me that one text.

      But it’s torture not knowing where he is. I have to believe that he’s okay, that someone has taken him in and perhaps even now he’s crashed out on their floor, stirring only to drink another can of lager and shovel cornflakes down his throat. Someone else’s cornflakes.

      I pace the room, moving to the hall. I tear at the peeling wallpaper, even though I’m still in my pyjamas. I pull at the wall, arm over arm, fingernails filling up with bits of paper and old glue. Anyone looking in from outside would think that I’m mad, trashing my own home. Anything to block out the one thought I don’t want to voice in my head.