Sat 07 Mar |
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1 Are you thinking of me? Do you hold the answers to the mystery of what happened to you? Are you aware that this is happening to you? To me? Are you aware of anything? Does your mind still function? Do you know I’m here? If I whispered, would you hear me? Can you feel me touching you? Are you asleep? Are you dreaming? Do you have a dead mind, trapped inside a pulsing body with a beating heart? Are you dead? Lucy, can you feel me? ‘Lucy, can you hear me?’ the man, who was once a seventeen-year-old boy being told he was going to rule the world, asks. The woman, who was once a seventeen-year-old girl with dreams too big for a small community, does not reply. ‘Lucy.’ The man does not pose her name as a question, more an order. We suspend these two adults as poetic statues now. The man is looking desperately towards the woman, his hand placed gently on her face, cupping a pale cheek. She does not look at him. Her eyes point to her right, whereas he is at her left side. Her head has been lolled towards him since he entered the room; it remains that way still, motionless yet warm. The man’s clothes are clean but his body is worn. He radiates vibes of grief and he stenches of loneliness. We zoom in closer now: his hair is a mop of grey and brown, his ears are alert, waiting endlessly for just one more word, just one, from the woman who used to speak and thrill the world. His mouth is tilted to a frown, an equal mix of misery and concentration. The heaviness of life weighs down his shoulders, his colour drained by mental poverty. Dark circles cage beautiful, desperate eyes and his dull skin unmasks and exploits the troubles of many years. We zoom in closer still and we see through the creased skin and chocolate brown irises. We see Anthony’s soul… 2 A great red dragon is trapped in a cage, in the dungeon of a world that was once brightly lit. Its tail and head are as free as a bird, but its body and wings are penned suffocatingly into the box of bars. Men only a fifth of its size stand on the outside staring in at it. At one point these same men used to whip at it. They used to brand it with irons and throw darts through the bars; anything to tame its writhing, freedom-deprived body. But now they only look in because the dragon is exhausted, merely a twisted heap of silence in a cage. Its eyes are shut and its tail lays limp. Several bright red scales have crisped and fallen to the floor, and some hang off the dragon’s body like loose slates on a roof. A single tear, suspended in time, has barely left its eye. Here, in the dungeon of a world that was once brightly lit, is a defeated soul. It wasn’t always that way. Once, the dragon would scour the colossal skies majestically; it would swoop and fly and kiss the clouds. It was respected and worshipped; looked upon like a rainbow, holding the world in its claws. The sun was always shining and the countryside it flew above was nourished and rich. Its eyes were a shiny midnight black speckled with flecks of summer yellow, its armour and scales a striking red, hard and glossy. It would squawk and scream with freedom and power in its lungs. It would dip into crystal waters and dive into endless fields of sunflowers. It was a beautiful world… but then the clouds came. They blanketed forests and grassland with cold darkness; the waterfalls froze and the animals died. The dragon was washed into a cave by hard rain after masses of choking, smoky fog descended and got too thick to fly through. It lay there for an eternity, getting its energy back. And, just as it had nearly repaired itself and started to recover, man discovered it and took it hostage. They tied it up and claimed it as their own. They hauled and dragged it to their lair before encasing it with steel bars and padlocks and torturing it. This is how it is still, only now it has given up the fight and is letting them win. It has lain down conquered with a solitary tear. It has folded and is now simply awaiting ruin, praying for death. We leave the dragon crying in its cage now and venture back to the women’s general ward of Penford Hospital, this time to concentrate on the lady of his affections. 3 You and I are standing on dead leaves in a forest. The air is heavy and damp, trees loom over us and trap what would be midday winter daylight, leaving us feeling isolated and cold. Crows squawk in the distance and there is a whole aspect of intimidation that strikes fear and unease into both of us. To our left is a hollow tree trunk in which a small mouse is hiding. We know it is there because we can feel its fear. Everything else in the forest is fighting; the crows, the animals, the insects, the trees… But this one little mammal does not have the strength or courage to fight; it hides like a bullied child. It hides and yearns for the terror to fade. We crouch down to the opening of the tree trunk and hear rustling from inside, as the mouse feels our presence and backs away further. Put your ear to the hole where it hides. Do it now – don’t be afraid of scaring it. It’s scared already. I place my hand on your shoulder as you lower your head to the opening, blocking the light. We hear a faint squeak and more rustling as the mouse tries to back up further still. If only we had one of those little yellow translation fish from the brilliant Hitchhiker’s Guide to convert its language into English for us. I’d imagine we’d hear something like please leave me alone, oh God leave me alone. Why can’t you all just go away and let me live my life. I let you live yours, oh God why do you all have to pick on me all the time? Please just leave me alone. But we don’t have that little yellow fish, so we only hear a squeak. You look up to me and say: ‘Why are we doing this?’ ‘Mmm,’ I sigh. ‘It’s not coming out, is it?’ You shake your head. ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘I have a feeling we’re not wanted here anyway.’ You follow my eyes to a tree only a few feet away. It is now quilted with silent crows all watching us with poisonous eyes. Just before you have chance to gasp I sweep us both back up to the hospital room and out of that intimidating, crushing atmosphere. Well, that was nice. Our nerves are shattered now. © R L Royle * ISBN 13: 9780955063107 |
