24 August 2004


I knock over the chair as I run. Mark grabs my shirt from behind, pulling it out of my trousers as I turn. He brings the Stanley knife up, uses hardly any force at all to slide it up with his thumb and into my belly. He stands back in those few seconds of silence, as stunned as everyone else. I scream, high and shrill, only it's not me screaming. It's Gary screaming for me. The air bucks and buckles under its weight. I always thought there was something about him. A hysterically camp film heroine trying to get out.