She crumples onto the mossy bank, arms wrapped tight around herself and knees bowed into the wet mud. There was a time before – before the smoke of absence was so thick in her lungs, she choked on it. There was a time before strangers were strange and loved ones could be trusted.
There is the soft whisper of a door closing and she wakes. There is no tree-lined lake shore, no lapping of water. She is alone.
Her bones thump with the bass, drinks slosh down what only the most generous person would call her dress, and hungry hands slither over her body. The body that thrums and grinds sloppily to the beat. He draws nearer, his solid form hard and comforting and consuming against her back. When they make love – No! When he fucks her she’s barely conscious.
There is whimper of a door closing and she wakes. There is no tree-lined lake shore, no lilting lap of water to wash it away. She is alone.
BA (Hons) Creative Writing
Louise is influenced by writers like Sarah J Maas and particularly Leigh Bardugo’s short fairytales. She wanted to be a writer because she felt that the things worth saying weren’t really being said – and who better to write what she cared about than her?