The Hiding Place

by C.J. Tudor

The truth is, none of us wants to know. Not really. Because then we might have to care, and who has the time for that?

My life

People say time is a great healer. They’re wrong. Time is simply a great eraser. It rolls on and on regardless, eroding our memories, chipping away at those great big boulders of misery until there’s nothing left but sharp little fragments, still painful but small enough to bear. Broken hearts don’t mend. Time just takes the pieces and grinds them to dust.

We can’t fight against time.

Whatever remained down there would be left, abandoned and undisturbed.

You, Stephen Hurst, Christopher Manning, Marie Gibson and Nick Fletcher.

“Stephen Hurst—sadistic, amoral but clever. A dangerous combination. Nick Fletcher—not a bright boy, an excess of anger. A pity he couldn’t have found a better way to channel it. Chris Manning—brilliant, damaged, lost. Always searching for something he could never find. And you—the dark horse. Deflecting blows with words. The closest thing Hurst had to a real friend. He needed you,

Happiness is overrated; it’s far too short-lived, for a start. If you bought it on Amazon, you’d demand a refund. Broke after a month and impossible to fix. Next time will try misery—apparently that shit lasts forever.