The Binding

by Bridget Collins

We hadn’t spoken since we set off before dawn, and there was still nothing to say. Words rose in my throat, but they burst like marsh bubbles, leaving nothing on my tongue but a faint taste of rot.

Which was worse? To feel nothing, or to grieve for something you no longer remembered? Surely when you forgot, you’d forget to be sad, or what was the point? And yet that numbness would take part of your self away, it would be like having pins and needles in your soul . . .