A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Archive for November, 2013

Being Hospitalised


The first time I tried to escape did not go so well. But I learned so that subsequent attempts would not be characterised by the naivety of that first effort.

Imagine yourself, trapped in a useless body, unable to walk properly, tied to an intravenous drip that was slowly poisoning you.  Did I mention an absence of clothing?

She was a black mare, cantering through the corridor, occasionally tossing her mane, surreptitiously glancing toward me – challenging – come ride me.

Later I would learn that she secretly revealed our shared secrets to others. Betrayed the trust I put in her. Never made it to the jewelled chamber I had built on the upper floor where we would consummate our passion.

Drifting in and out of consciousness I was aware that I was settled in a very strange place. The room across the corridor was the scene of some white heat ceremony ‘ People (usually women)would spend hours (sometime days) being bathed in the intense white heat of liquid oxygen or more probably liquid nitrogen. I recall some being so intoxicated or enthralled they had to be forcibly removed from the room. Its pirpose seemed t be reanimating loved ones, or at least their memories.

Then there were the South African immigrants who held some secret initiation ceremonies for the younger members of their sect. Involved a sexual element man on man, or, more accurately, man on boy. They drew shifting shapes in the same mysterious white heat that I had observed across the corridor which resembled whatever mood or emotion they were experiencing at the time. They prepared simple meals from stores they had hidden in the buildings walls, stores that wee invisible to everyone but them.

It was hard to separate my dreams from reality. I would often wake and find you by my bed and I would be laughing or tears streaming down my face. Had we shared the same experience? I was afraid to ask lest you filed it away as another reason to keep me imprisoned.

Weirdest of all were the two perfectly formed doll-like girls who swirled around in the liquid filled, transparent bin-liner, while their adoring mother spun them tales of where they were destined to end up in life. There appeared to be something worong with the smaller of the two and the white-coated man emitted a sigh of relief as he withdrew what looked like a splinter from her back. Then he intimated that something else was amiss and the mother collapsed in tears.

I lay back on my pillow and opened the book that had been prepared for me. The story of my life, or a version that they wanted me to believe. Fairy tales, parables or prophesies?

The second time I tried to escape was more successful. I remembered the clothes this time though I still had the drip and no footwear. It was the end of winter but it was still in the single figures.

I still didn’t make the street eight floors down. That may necessitate a more radical descent involving windows and flight. I had been privy to the institutional grapevine which detailed a previous attempt, accompanied by much black humour. I noted the South Africans were silent on the matter and the white ghosts across the corridor were too involved in ceremony.

They told me later that it was the perfect storm. Electrolyte imbalance, kidney failure. GI bleed, Tramadol withdrawal, my own salient psychosis. I remembered it. I had been here before. I both welcomed it as an old friend and withdrew from it as an arbitrage of my future.

“But those tissues don’t match my bathroom décor. This shower only runs cold. The room is too hot. The bed is too cold. The meals are shit. You are poisoning me. When can I go home?” A typical morning routine. Then sleep. Then dreams or am I away from there? Have I finally made it?

They now come to the door dressed in space suits. I ask them

“Why are you dressed like that?”

They look through me and then at each other and a silent message passes between them.

“We think it’s best for all” the bigger of the three says but through the hood and mouthpiece it sounds more like thunk big Al.

. Who are they talking about? Who the hell is Al?  I am even more confused.

A woman comes up behind them and sensing she is walking into trouble she backs off wildly gesturing to someone in the side room to keep away.

The third and last time I escaped it was for real and I made it although certain parties were insistent that I stay in place.

“You’re not ready yet”

“What day is it?”

“What floor are we on?”

“Where are we?”

“Look another day won’t hurt”

Don’t they know that another day, another hour, another minute will be the end of me.


I suppose you have to ask – why bother writing?