"She may as well carry on now."

The cancer had turned her breast

black. She kept it hidden beneath

a thick jumper, the stink of cigarette

smoke. It was one of her few pleasures.

That, and a glass. Or two. Why deny it

now? It was black because she had

swallowed a piece of coal, she said,

let it fester in her womb in lieu of

the children she would not conceive

there, suckle at the sweetly

nauseating breast. It was something

she would not try to make sense of,

or rationalise, knowing that the

things that we love are the open

wound that we carry with us, always.

"It's just the way it goes, something's

going to kill you, isn't it?" Between

drags on her fag she smiled, terribly,

through teeth stained black. Unforgiving.

Careless of forgiveness, too.