The Gift

by Louise Jensen

stinging. Cheek throbbing. Rotting leaves pervade my nostrils. My stomach roils as I slowly inch forward, digging my elbows into the wet soil for traction. Left. Right. Left. Right. I’m in the undergrowth now. Thorns pierce my skin and catch on my clothes but I stay low, surrounded by trees, thinking I can’t be seen, but the clouds part and in the moonlight I catch sight of the sleeve of my hoodie, which, unbelievably, is white, despite

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therapist, nudges tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and slides a box of Kleenex towards me, as if today will be the day my guilt spews out, coming to rest, putrid and toxic, on the impossibly polished table between us. ‘So, Jenna.’ She shuffles through my file. ‘It’s approaching the six-month anniversary – how do you feel?’

drink?’ ‘If it’s OK with you I’ll nip to Tesco. Be back in a couple of hours?’ ‘No rush. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Harry?’ But he’s already wandered out the back and I can hear him chattering to Rachel, and I say goodbye to Kathy and join them. Harry is kneeling on the floor dangling a stick with a feather on the end in front of a young black cat. She has a white stripe across her nose

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