Posted on November 5, 2013. Filed under: dissociative identity disorder, schizophrenia |

Doc Donald subconsciously held his breath,

“You look awful,” and changed the subject.

“I’ve just escaped from hospital,” I said, then indicated my clothes, “These aren’t mine.  Pinched them off the ward.  I think I need a piece of string to keep the trousers up…”

His eyes widened, slightly horrified, trying to absorb this and, naturally, not finding it funny at all: I was a thief.  A thief who stole from the sick – or, maybe, the dying.

“She’d had her appendix out.”


“The woman I robbed.  She was only sick.”


“I mean she wasn’t dying.  I didn’t thieve clothes off a dying person…”

“That’s… good to know.”

“Doc, you know I don’t steal…”

“We don’t know the half of it, do we, about each other?”

See Reviews of Gatsby’s Smile at Amazon UK here at Amazon UK.

See Reviews of Gatsby’s Smile at GoodReads here at GoodReads.






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