I’ve been in this waiting room for over two hours and I am glad that it’s not summertime.
I haven’t eaten for a few days and I’m feeling so on edge
that I need some snow
to take the edge
of the edge
off the edge.
A girl with blue hair is watching me watch the clock and I wish that she’d fucking stop it.
The radio is not tuned correctly and the fuzzy static hurts my bones. I want to throw the radio out the window but I don’t want to get arrested until I’ve been seen by the nice Irish nurse: she’s going to lecture me about safe sex, ask me a thousand uncomfortable questions, and then shove a plastic matchstick in my arm (so that I can’t create any smaller, needier versions of myself and my mistakes conquests).
I’m wondering if it is compulsory for every single window in every NHS building across the land to be fitted with a broken blind and/or the most unattractive curtains possible when the nurse calls in a girl that isn’t me and suddenly I want nothing more in the world than to shoot myself.
This is bizarre, even by my standards. I’ve never cared for guns. Guns have not featured in my life thus far. And even though I could easily get my hands on a firearm, I’ve never wanted or needed to. I don’t see the appeal.
But suddenly, I am frantic. All I want to do is to blow my brains out all over these ugly curtains and that fucking radio and the broken water dispenser and those leaflets about gonorrhoea.
I start to look for a gun. I need one. I need it.
The cold metal in my hand, that perfect weight, the faces around me, the silver pressed on the skin under my chin. Fucking glorious.
I’m rifling around in my handbag, searching desperately through all the compartments. I want someone to say, “What are you doing?” and I want to reply, “Looking for a gun.” I look around and decide it is most probable that no one here has a gun. I hate them all.
I want to taste the icy steel in my mouth, roll my tongue around the barrel, delight in that sound of metal on enamel and screams. I want to wink at the girl with blue hair and then aim for the sky. All that will be left of my face is the red lipstick print around the pistol on the floor.
But of course, I don’t have a gun in my handbag. Why would I? I’m disappointed, though. I check my bag four separate times for a gun and my hands are trembling and I think I’m going to collapse. And I am gutted when I don’t find a gun: gutted. Then I find out that I don’t have chlamydia either and that’s really great but I still wish I had a gun.
I wonder, if I shot myself in the waiting room, would the NHS immediately implement more serious measures to drastically reduce waiting times across the service? I wonder.