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but heard from Tom that she was going to some kind of group therapy; he thought it was helping her. When Margaret and I met it was as if the grey veil already hung between us. We would sit in a Lyons teashop with our tea and buns in front of us, talking about art and the weather. I never asked her how she felt but sometimes, just as we were leaving, she would say, “There’s no bloody point, you know. There’s no point in any of it.” I didn’t understand. We had always been such a happy family, all except Margaret; we had no words to talk about our pain. * Medical school kept me so busy that I hardly thought of her. When traces of the dream appeared I reasoned them away: I had started to find out about psychology. I grew used to the sight of death and stopped associating it with anyone I knew. After a while it became easy to regard the ‘stiffs’ we dissected as little more than three-dimensional diagrams. If I stopped to think of their humanity, the image of Margaret’s bleeding wrists did not allow me to violate the person they had once been. With the relentless work, and in the intervals the parties where we let loose all our spare emotion, I hardly ever saw the papers. It was only by chance, if anything ever is by chance, that Felicity Walsh popped out one evening to buy a Standard. I think she wanted to find out what films were on. I can’t remember what date it was; people are supposed ÉCLAT FICTION

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MAY 2012

Profile for Eclat Fiction

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

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