By Felicity Bloomfield
Read by Donna Lynch
Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans.
She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin.
Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?”
I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?”
Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.”