I am in my brother’s bed.
As each minute goes by I am recovering, slowly, slowly.
But I am acutely aware that
As each minute goes by I am nearing my death, slowly, slowly.
I took the dressings off my arms.
Most of the cuts reopened.
I know this will sound stupid, but I am in absolute fucking agony.
The feeling of oxygen hitting open wounds has left me writhing in pain.
I remember saying to the nurse who dealt with my arms, “I’ve got a very high pain threshold, darling, but you wiping at my cuts is excruciating.”
I forgot that the clean-up always hurts ten times more than the actual butchery.
“Right, sorry, can you stop now please, I can’t take it.”
“But it’s only water…”
“What? You’re fucking with me. It feels like alcohol. Isn’t it disinfectant? That cannot be water.”
“It is only water. Sit still.”
The cuts are weeping now. I am not.
The cuts are weeping, yellow.
I am very tired.
Walking around is hard.
I am reading The Enchantment of Lily Dahl by Siri Hustvedt.
I love her work.
Reading is very difficult.
I couldn’t do it earlier but slowly I’m getting used to it.
The words mix and mangle but that’s ok.
My brain is tired but that’s ok.
I don’t understand the bruises.
My body is covered in them.
Around my eyes, all over my arms, my legs, my chest, my back.
I am desperately hungry but there is no food here.
Water water water water water.
I am so tired.
I am scared to see my mother.
I am hungry.
I am in agony.
My heart feels like it’s struggling, or working harder than usual, to beat.
It aches for me.
I am wrapped up in the bloody bed clothes because I don’t have the strength to sort it all out.
I just need to lie down,
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head)
I like this: I think I made you up inside my head. I hope this is well-written fiction. If it’s not I hope you pull through. If it is fiction, I’d like to add a Fuck You for making it so visceral… Good work.