Figure 1: my wallet. Peeling navy pleather, scratched and scuffed by years of being handled. Inside, my cards and coins are stashed, and a single stick of spearmint gum. I still carry around the black and white photo strip we took in the city, the summer before we started our final year of school. I don’t even have to look at the photos, folded neatly between my ID and myki, to feel that moment all over again.

My therapist said I should write my mother a letter. A letter to say thank you, go fuck yourself and I love you – not necessarily in that order but that’s the gist of the assignment.

So here I am, Friday night, alone. I open a bottle of red wine. I don’t particularly care for the taste, but it will ease my irritation. I drink because my therapist told me to write my mother a letter.

Keith stood in the doorway of his old bedroom. All was quiet, except for the synthetic-blend carpet, which was loud and proud in both colour and pattern.

It was brighter in the corners where the furniture used to be, a little flattened and faded elsewhere.

The place where they brought him back to life was worse than the place where he almost died. 

At first, the hospital seemed safe and clean. Everything in it was made of rounded pastel plastic, like a kindergarten scaled up to adult size. But David’s perceptions had sharpened in the jungle, and he could smell hidden decay. Bodies.

Iris fumbles with the clasp of her handbag and rummages inside. She pauses, adjusting her bifocals to inspect the contents – coral-pink lipstick, embroidered handkerchief, keys for the Corolla and the house, bankbook and purse. Her fingers land on a shopping list, neat cursive script outlining the week's errands. There’s a quickening of her heartbeat in anticipation.