VII | Something To Ask
❦
My eyes open
and suddenly
the smell of vomit
intensifies.
‘What have you been doing all night?’
I ask her,
pinching my nose
and sitting up.
Sunlight
streams in
through the curtainless window
with a familiar intensity.
It’s Singapore after all.
The nurses
are sitting
where I last saw them.
The plain one smiles.
Good morning, Fifi.
Tammie is leaning against my bed,
her head balanced
on top of her hands.
It’s inconvenient
having the bathroom
downstairs,
having the stairs
in a winding spiral,
having to wear
disposable underwear.
I watch Tammie
wash herself up
but even after,
the stench of vomit
clings to her.
Moonlight Sonata plays again
and the ritual
from the night before
repeats over again.
The difference
this time
is that there are five pills
(instead of a dozen)
just like
it’s supposed to be.
I choose to make
a sandwich,
just so I can relish
holding a knife again,
even if it’s plastic.
It’s not because
I want to hurt others.
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m not
in the asylum
for something like that.
I think?
It’s the other way
around.
I’ve been hurt
more times
than the number of my fingers.
I show Tammie
my hand,
fingers outstretched.
My right hand
only has
four fingers.
My little finger
is just
a stump.
What happened?
I cut my sandwich
in two
and take a bite.
A man sits next to me
at the dining table.
I recognise him
as one of the few
who continued
staring into space
after medicine time
last night.
His eyes
are ringed
with bruises
and he has a long scar
from his wrist
up to
the inside of his elbow.
(I see it
when he stirs his cereal.)
His eyes
catch me staring.
❦
‘I’m Gavin,’ he says.
‘Fifi,’ I reply.
He turns back to his cereal
like i’m no longer
interesting
now that I have a name.
Milk trickles
down his chin.
He wipes it
with the scarred hand.
I try to focus
on my sandwich
and block out
everything else
but I recognise something
about Gavin.
Even though
I’m sure
I’ve never met him
before.
That’s not true.
You could have
passed him
walking down a street
or taken the same
public bus together.
‘That’s not possible,’
he says to me
in a voice remarkably soft
for a guy.
Ah,
I said that out loud.
He gives me
a weak smile.
‘I’ve been here
‘much longer than
‘you’ve been alive.’
I turn to Tammie
who’s smiling apologetically again.
‘What medicine
‘are you taking?’ I ask.
His eyes
change colour,
flicker over to the nurses behind me,
and he puts a finger
to his mouth
along with his spoon.
He shakes his head
almost imperceptibly.
If I wasn’t as
sensitive as I am,
I might have
missed it.
I turn to Tammie
to see if she’s noticed
but she’s
disappeared
to get a cup
of coffee.
I finish my sandwich.
‘Who’s the doctor?’
I ask instead.
‘I haven’t met the doctor
‘even though
‘I’m a new patient here.
‘Will I see him today?’
It could be a her.
Tammie sips her coffee.
The smell of vomit
makes the coffee’s aroma
sour.
‘Most psychiatrists are male though,’
I reply.
Gavin shrugs.
‘The doctor only sees us
‘once a month
‘so it’ll be a long time
‘before you get to meet her.’
My eyebrows
instinctively go up.
‘Mn, the psychiatrist here
‘is female.
‘You’ve already seen her.’
More than once.
‘She’s the one
‘who brought you in.’
❦
