by Nick Garrard
Alba was so beautiful it made my joints ache. I smiled at her meekly as she bedded the morning needle in the soft pit of my arm. Sometimes she’d smile back. So, I pretended not to notice when she began stealing my pills. They were horrible, sour little things and they gave me the licorice like a running tap. But I drew the line at Derek’s limb. In the dark of the ward I’d watched as she lifted it loose and folded it neatly in her apron, walking out as innocent as smoke. In a way, it comforted me. Even Alba was broken on the inside.
Nick Garrard just puts the words down, sometimes in the right order.