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  • Writer's pictureLouise Worthington


Nameless Louise Worthington

Only when she is dead will it stop coming for her. Only under the earth, when air is no longer a tormenter, will she be free to rest her weary head. There is no place that she can hide. No place where she can be who and what she is – was – is without it eating neurons. No matter the distance. No matter the country. She has no memory: no family or home. No roots. Earthbound: trapped and homeless inside a shrinking head.

‘There is no one to say goodbye to, is there?...’

She thinks it’s the ancient tree moaning in the autumn breeze and to soothe it, she places a frail hand on the bark grown thick and strong with every passing year. Her skin is as thin as paper.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

What fantasy can a splintering woman have, except to lie beside the stolid tree as though nature is her friend, too?

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