The hall of mirrors of my sister’s face shows me what could have been if I’d chosen heroin over heart. I step back from her. She shrinks, becomes so small I wish she were five years old and could start again. My guilt pulls me forwards. Her face contorts and repeats at every angle around me. I wish to reach in and hold her, mould her back into what-could-have-been. My hands smash into cold glass that will not shatter and will not let me in. I close my eyes and wait for the fairground lights to fade.
Stephanie Hutton is a writer and clinical psychologist in the UK. In 2017, she was nominated for Best of the Net and shortlisted for the Brighton Prize. Find her work at stephaniehutton.com.