Little fingertips prod my eyelids, scouting before the assault. A hand, small and warm, seeks my softest spots. I’m the exhausted battleground. Sharp bones poke as she folds into the shadow of my sleep. A fireball bundled in down, her cough rattles against her ribs and my shaking limbs. We are fetid with decay, eucalyptus the scent of our salt-steeped fevers. My breath is heavy, my tongue listless, drying like a whale caught on sand. She stills. I don’t dare move. Her descent's too fragile a thing, a butterfly wing unfolding. “Mummy, what’s inside hair?” There'll be no sleep tonight.
Mary Rothery is a writer working on her first novel. A mum of one, Mary writes in moments between mothering and her part-time job. Find Mary at maryrothery.com and on Instagram @mrotherywrites.