'A million tiny cuts' by Lucy Brighton

I walk to the end of the earth. It’s only twelve steps. Step thirteen would take me Beyond and I can’t go there. I’ve tried. 

Before my world shrank to these three rooms, there was Upstairs. And before that, Fresh Air. That was a long time ago now. 

The shrinking was so slow that at first I didn’t’ even notice it. Just a tingling in my lips when the supermarket was busy. The occasional ‘sorry I can’t make it’ to a party invitation. The fluttering in my chest when someone knocked on the door. Millions of tiny cuts. 

People were kind. At first. But it morphed into ‘snap out of it’ and ‘you can’t carry on like this’. Like the remedy was in a vile and all I had to do was drink it. Soon the comments dried up altogether. No more cajoling, bargaining or pleading. It was like someone switched off the radio that had been playing all my life. The silence was heavy. 

I fill my glass with water from the tap and look out of the window, past the end of the earth. Beyond there is the galaxy, all the people floating around the gravitational pull of each other. Clustering together like atoms. Bonds made of laughter and shared experience. 

I drink the water. I can’t go there. I’ve tried.