Life Is Too Short

The picture is nailed to the wall, a drab English landscape secured against all odds of theft. I hardly know where to look. They've run out of space and I'm left in a women's ward. The woman opposite has lost most of her hair and passes the time flicking through magazines and taking the occasional phone call. I go for a shower and the water's brown. They give me a doctor who needs to practise his English. He terrifies me with his attempts to assure. He repeats the same speech three times, his eyes clouded with bewilderment at these new surroundings, until the silence between us becomes too much and he leaves. Down the corridor an elderly woman is in the final throws of death, groaning inhuman sounds and moaning for her dead. An alarm goes unanswered. I want to pull the wires and fluids from me, to walk out the door and into the light, my bare feet on cold concrete, but I am powerless, I have submitted, and once again the strength flows out of my arms and I drift to sleep.