Not quite finished, just wondering whether I should continue and if anyone has any ideas. Thanks in advance.
Her - 12th December
I’ve often wondered if death is anything like birth. We did not fear birth of course, because we were not exactly expecting it. There was no ‘we’ to be afraid of anything. That makes my mind go numb.
I think it is quite similar to birth. There is no trace of memory in my mind of the time before I existed and I can’t remember how I felt being left in the void of the not-quite-there yet. From this I assume I won’t feel anything after death, will I? Just all that... nothingness. I’m no philosopher, as you can tell. I know what I’m trying to say, you know? It’s just the words won’t fit.
Sometimes I just get that good feeling about my ideas though. I look up at the lights in the shower. Through the glass of the cubicle they have a sort of ethereal glow about them. They make these tiny rainbows through the water and when I squint my eyes and feel the water steadily trickling down my back I almost feel safe. I don’t fear death at all. I see death as this sort of dreamless sleep. One that goes on forever so you never notice it ending. That’s what they told us children before we were old enough to know. They’re not gone, they’re just sleeping. A restful sleep. It’s comforting to imagine in a way.
I look upwards and remember this every time I shower and scrub the cut with a towel drenched in bleach. I don’t know why it happens at this precise moment, in this little tiled room. But it does.
This time the lights flicker knowingly. It’s such a familiar sense of strangeness. I am not myself again. I see this quivering mass of body below me but it does not feel like mine. I feel the chemicals sinking through the skin on my leg. The skin around the wound glows so pink and fleshy. Like a rubber mould. So human.
Then at once I am outside my mould, but simultaneously still inside it. Whatever hormones or drugs are pulsing through this mass of tissue seem to make it itch from the inside out; I have to clutch my head in my hands to remember if I’m here or not. I am here. At least I think.
I have the urge to kiss something, anything, the wall, the floor, him. Or perhaps it is to bite. Anything with teeth. I am a madwoman. That is exactly what I am.
Another rush of information seems to spring from out of the shower head. It’s hard to explain, so very hard. It dawns on me that, why, I know everything. I may have discovered the secret to existence and love and life and all that could ever exist. It just took a burst of lavender shower gel and a hot flood of water.
I’m not quite sure though. Through the fog it could just be a vision of hellfire. I find it amusing how similar these two could be. But it is still not intelligible in my mind.
I know it can be if I just get to a computer, if I can just reach a pen. And so I decide I am alive, leaping out of the bathtub, soaking wet and naked. I’m alive. I’m halfway through drying and pulling on clothes when that great monologue of life begins to slip from my mind. I can put it back together if I can only write. I have to write.
I thrust open the bathroom door and sprint to my bedroom, scarcely caring that my towel is strewn across the carpet and I have left my socks dangling in the sink. I scramble for my laptop, clicking the mouse desperately to open a word document: a spinning time turner appears, mocking me. Just a few more seconds.
But it is gone. The secret is gone. It drains from my blinking mind like the water down the plug hole. Draining away and gone. A terrible sense of grief overcomes me. I sink onto my bed, still damp and dripping: how can I have lost it? I feel like I have let down the human race again, finding the Holy Grail and dropping it on the way out of the cave. How can I have-
A flash on the tiny screen of my phone makes me lift my head inquisitively. It’s him, of course. Human number two. His name flashes blue on the caller ID screen.
I do not accept the call. I know I will be treated to a scathingly worded rant about how selfish I’m being. The ringing gets louder as if his words are bursting across the phone line. Yes Tom, I can hear you, there’s no need to shout.
I ignore it and lie down, trying to pull the secret back up from the recesses of my stomach. Up from under the half digested bile of broccoli and cheese. I hope it is a long night.
Him- 13th December
I ran back to get the last of the Amitriptyline today. Hardly any staff left after all those warning memos flying around last week. I’d estimate about 10% remained and maybe half that survived. Standard abandonment.
There was no trouble getting up to the main wards, apart from the lift. It wasn’t broken as such, I just didn’t like the scratching coming from inside the doors. Must need oiling. That’s what I told myself to stop the burning pain in my chest anyway.
After a lovely sprint up ten flights of stairs I found Mrs Zhang wandering outside the Reinder Ward. She seemed quite happy, gurgling away to herself and clawing at a curtain rail with her remaining eight fingers. I’m quite sure I trod on the rest of her digits on the way up. I would have thought they’d get rid of the elderly first. Strange.
It was just her, so I had a quick jog round the ward, but no sign of anyone. Not even a wayward cleaner. It seemed to be empty, which suited me. That was until heard a squeal coming from the little office behind me. A blonde hair of head poked out from behind curtains of the office, followed by a mop of ginger. Samuel and Kim had stayed, bless their ignorant souls; those two had always been far too sweet to the older ones for their own good. I waved at them, rolling my eyes but they shook their heads furiously and yanked me inside with two very bony hands.
And there they sat, huddled up against the filing cabinets in their white coats, which were stained a rather obnoxious red, shaking their heads whenever I opened my mouth. Kim’s lips were blistered and bleeding and Samuel’s eyes seemed to be welling more and more as time went by. The cause of their anxiety was revealed. I heard a cracking that sounded a lot like bone through the glass. CRRRRRRIIIIIIICK, it went. Blimey it was loud. A quick look through the curtains told me that Mrs Zhang had somehow dislocated her left arm and the top of her shoulder blade was sticking sickeningly out of her rubbery skin. No blood or anything. Just a little ooze of black pus. For a moment my throat tightened but I reminded myself it was nothing I hadn’t seen in the operating theatres a thousand times. Stuff like this couldn’t turn me. Interns never did have the stomach for this sort of stuff though, I thought, wiping the puke off my shoes. I thanked Kim for her gift. Lovely girl.
Anyway, I managed to sneak into the storeroom after 11. Well, not exactly snuck in. Another one of those things staggered into the place, fresh as well: a fountain of black pus wearing his own dripping guts as a scarf. By god that really riled them up. Lovely Kim leapt up out of her trance and toppled through the glass door, stapler in hand, Sam bringing up the rear with a bendy ruler. Bloody interns.
I sprinted out of the office, ran down into the storeroom, which they had thankfully forgotten to lock and held the door shut until I heard the screams stop. I think Kim ran out of staples. Or maybe that ruler wasn’t shatter resistant. You’ll be glad to know I left pretty soon after that.
When I got back, she refused to take anything I offered her. Slipped two pills it into her casserole for her own good when she nipped to the toilet. It should still get into her system eventually, I hope, which is better than nothing. Although she doesn’t hold much down these days. The broccoli cheese under the table told me that.
I’m beginning to get itchy feet about the whole pill thing, to be honest. The hospital would castrate me if they knew how much I’ve taken but I can’t do much else.
Can I?
They should be grateful I even turned up. Bloody cowards.
Her -14th December
I never did remember the secret that night. I think it’s still festering in my bathroom somewhere, there’s probably some residue of it left in the tap water. I checked all through the sticky mush of cheese and green but I couldn’t find a single bit of secret in them.
It doesn’t make any sense.
I haven’t showered since the other night though. I’ve been busy. He has been at me again. He tells me I’ve missed another day’s worth of medicine and I’m ‘messing him about’. He just doesn’t understand.
I couldn’t tell him about the secret. He thinks everything is a symptom or a disease to be neutralised. Even he knows there’s only one disease that matters these days. How he’ll change when I remember it all, when I show him the happiness I’ve found. No man can hide from happiness.
I can’t hide in the shower again tonight. He’s staying over permanently now, since the riots in Trafalgar and the Whitechapel business. But we’re miles from that, the silly silly man. He did look rather pale when he came back from the hospital though. I expect he saw them. He doesn’t understand it like me. It’s no surprise anymore and that bores me.
He thinks he can protect me. From what? Death? That is nothing to cry about. Boarding up the windows won’t work either. Death can seep in through the wood and brick itself. Silly man. Can he not see that it doesn’t matter anymore? He’s seen the news the same as me. We all have. He shouldn’t worry about what goes on in my head anymore. He has a bigger sickness to cure.
At 11:50 we watch the news on the sofa. I tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore but he says people like me have to document this. So I pretend to take strict notes on the broadcast and diagrams and everything he could want. He smiles a little and strokes my head. He’s warm. He’s quiet. I like that. It’s like the old days. We watch the broadcast for a while until the signal goes and the room is filled with the scream of static.
