You can grab your copy on Amazon: The Radvocate 15
A short excerpt from the story:
The mirror shattered. It was the sixth one this month. Sitar looked at her dozen reflections in the fragments. Her face concealed with drops of blood, she looked away. Dragging her fingers across the carpet beneath her bed, she felt the snag of another cut. Bloody hands and light-headedness aside, Sitar was in a buoyant mood. She gathered the broken pieces. Put away the hair straightener and made her way to the bathroom. Leaning on the ridged wallpaper of the corridor, she left bloody marks.
The phone rang as she rinsed and tried to remember where she might have put some plasters. On the third ring, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her knuckles. Egyptian cotton pulled tight as a ward against the throbbing. The sting of the cut and her wooziness would have to wait.
“Hello?” She answered the phone and relaxed into the sofa.
“Hi, is this Ms Wainwright? It’s about your mother.”
The ominous tone told her it wasn’t an earnest provider of legal remedies on mis-sold insurance. Or someone chasing a lapsed standing order for a charity. Sitar didn’t want to ask the follow-up. She waited, letting the pause fill the gap, staunching her blood with the towel.
“I’m afraid she’s had a bit of an accident. She’s hurt herself again.”
It was the sixth time this month. The woman on the line didn’t need to tell her. Memory, sense and coordination all lapsing.
“We need to discuss what the best course of action for your mother might be. I’m afraid, as you know, we’re not equipped for this sort of care. We’re a pastoral environment for able-bodied senior artists.”
The transition point had arrived for her mother. They had talked about it before and they would need to have the conversation again. There was no point putting it off any longer. Sitar arranged to come in later that week.