3
They aren’t ghosts, they’re hallucinations
As I dragged myself round the corner of our road, my limbs felt like china, fragile with fatigue. The only thing that kept me moving was the knowledge that I would soon be in bed. But halfway down the street I realised the lights in our flat were on. No way. I checked my watch. If Dad was waiting up, it was because he wanted to talk to me. I sighed so deeply my chest hurt and moved into the light cast by the living room window. Movement inside told me that Dad had seen my approach. I glanced at his chair-lift, considered it briefly then climbed the stairs slowly as an old woman. “Where’ve you been?” “You know where.” I kept my back to him as I peeled off my hoodie and hung it by the door. There was a small rip in the arm. I didn’t even remember doing it. His silence pricked at me. I shook my hair out