L | Something Different
❦
I watch Tammie spin
round and
round
like a horse
on a carousel.
She’s improved.
Her body folds
instinctively
where the pole ends,
an extension of the pole
that knows
how it feels.
She’s like a wind-up doll,
a part of the pole.
I’m envious.
She swings her legs up—
the pole catches her.
There’s a faint smile
on her sweat-stained face.
The stench of
vomit
makes me
want to gag.
I’m envious.
She’s panting,
stretching,
pushing herself.
Becoming…
a better person.
Me?
You’re a nuisance.
There’s no meaning to your existence.
I’m watching her
by the doorway,
peeking
because I’m not
wanted here.
I watch her for a while longer,
unable
to take
my eyes
off her.
Her movements
are repetitive,
I notice.
She’s repeating the same routine.
Over and
over and
over
again.
I remember something,
A faint
impression:
She was like this back then too.
An unfamiliar feeling
blooms
in my chest.
❦
Fiona.
I only turn
because I see a flash of white
from the corner
of my eye.
The pretty nurse
doesn’t smile
as she leads me
to the doctor’s office.
The doctor wants to see you.
The doctor
only sees us
once a month.
Has it
really been
a month
since I last saw her?
The medicine room,
the room beyond the patients’ area,
is dark right now.
Empty.
The table that usually sits
brightly lit
in the middle
of the room
isn’t there.
We walk through it
to the door on the opposite side.
It’s like when
I tried to escape.
(Only now I’m walking slowly,
accompanied by a ghost.)
Her fingers
move
across the screen of her phone
but with
one eye,
she is watching me.
The lift goes up
and I think about
escaping again.
Since that
attempt,
the nurses have added a zip
to their hidden pockets.
That
doesn’t make a difference to me
because I can still grab it
then run for it
when she starts opening the door
of the doctor’s office.
By the time she reacts,
I’ll be on my way to freedom.
Freedom?
What
freedom?
She opens the door
and stands aside
for me to enter first.
She’s
still
on her phone—
tapping furiously.
Escaping
is so easy…
I walk into
the glaring fluorescent room
like a good girl
because
that last time,
I also thought
it would be easy.
❦
The woman in white—
the one who is
not an angel,
the one who brought me
into this death trap—
smiles at me.
Seated down,
she looks
even less like an angel.
(Not that I’ve seen angels before.)
Her brown curls
are bundled
into a ponytail
and she’s wearing glasses,
squinting at me
as I come in.
‘Maybe if you dim the lights,
‘you won’t have to do that,’ I tell her.
Her smile
becomes genuine.
You’re feeling better, aren’t you?
❦
