A short story by Irvine Welsh published in The Dubliner for the first time
I was in a terrible state after I’d pushed her over the cliff. It was only when I took a few steps back from the edge I realised that I was shaking with fear and nausea. I looked out to the sea: it was a grey smudge, then the sky: a blue blur. Before my action they had seemed so alive and vivid. Like her, I considered fretfully. Where was she?
Gone.
One minute right here; looking out towards the horizon and pointing at a red buoy that bobbed in the waves, the next just gone. It was even so hard to envision her now in my mind’s eye. I could see the yellow oilskin jacket, her blue jeans, boots, her hair whipping out from under the ski hat in the wind. But her features, that face I’d lived with all these years, it wouldn’t appear; it was as if they’d been wiped from my consciousness. It seemed so final, so absolute!
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