Thursday, 17 April 2014

Here Comes the Easter Bunny...


It's Easter soon.  With it comes Easter bunnies, chicks and chocolate.  I am, actually, looking forward to it.

 

Often, in here, a smidgeon of effort is thrown at holidays and the like.  If that smidgeon sticks, bonus.  If not, as is usually the case, it misses, leaving only a trace of said effort.  The trace generally tends to be a bit too gloopy and so slides off leaving a pool of wishful thinking on the floor at our feet.

 

This Easter, however, Jeremy is involved.  Much, I'm sure, to the irritation of Connors, Jezzer wants to put a smile on our faces.  The weather outside has been as dismal as the food inside - grey and bland and uninspiring - and this has affected our moods.  Now, you may think we're all happy and smiling and a-dancing all the day.  We're not.  Sorry to disappoint.  Likewise, we're not entirely miserable, staring into space (or corners), staring at each other, not staring at anything because our eyes were closed and we were shambling about the Recreation Room bumping into thing.

 

That last one was Penny Pocket, the riotous rocket.  She thought it would be funny to close her eyes and pretend she was blind.  She shuffled around, not looking or caring where she was going.  This was fine and even humorous until she happened to stand on Jersey's toes.  Jersey, a dirty oil rag of a man and one of the more unpleasant orderlies, pushed her back with an angry shout and an angrier look.

 

Penny fell back, eyes still closed, laughing.  Then she stumbled against one of the chairs.  As they're bolted to the floor, the chair didn't move, so Penny fell sideways, her body twisting.  She hit her head as the rest of her hit the floor.  Penny Rocket was no longer as riotous as she had been.  She also didn't need to pretend to be blind.  The blow to her head had sorted that one for her.  How generous.

 

Jersey thought it served her right.  We all thought Jersey should be served.  To a lion.  Or cannibal.  Or a rumbling volcano.

 

But good ol' Jeremy has come to our rescue this Easter.  He, personally, bought everyone an Easter egg.  Even when chocolate eggs can be had three for a fiver nowadays, it would still have been a substantial purchase.  He's even gone so far as to remember Chloe is dairy intolerant so has to have a dairy free one and Boris Phenaligan, ex-pentathlete and substance abuser, only likes dark chocolate.  Jeremy is like that.  He knows you.  He wants to know you.  He wants to make your stay comfortable and as happy as it can be under the circumstances (you're in an asylum, fed slop and 'care' is something you'll have to look up in the dictionary)..

 

Jeremy knows I liked Minstrels.  He's bought me an egg which comes with two bags of the sweets.  Easter Sunday, when he'll give us our eggs, seems forever away.

 

Not only that, but he has organised an Easter hunt.  I have no idea how he's managed to garner permission for such a thing, but little fluffy chicks and rabbits - not real ones, of course, are going to be hidden around the asylum.  The Recreation Room, canteen, even the toilets will host tiny balls of fluffy fun.

 

Of course, this could backfire.  I don't want to be pessimistic, simply realistic.  We're dealing with people who, in many cases, are a little unhinged.  The doorways to their psychoses are hanging wide open and anything could trigger those doors to slam shut unexpectedly.  One person finds a chick and another wants it.  One finds a bunny and another thinks the bunny is whispering to them.  As Jeremy has announced a competition where the one who finds the most wins a prize (another egg), fisticuffs could break out among even the most placid of patients.

 

On the other hand, it may well be a roaring success.  The competition could be viewed as everyone is a winner purely because we're able to do this in the first time.  The eggs might be consumed without incident - no stealing, dropping, hoarding or coveting.  It potentially could put a smile on our faces which will remain for quite some time, before Jersey, Connors or one of the others decides to do a little metaphorical dusting and wipes it off.

 

Who knows?  Ask me another.

 

Either way, I like Minstrels.  I'm happy.  I hope you enjoy yours too.

Monday, 24 February 2014

On Being Unwritten...


Do you ever wake up disorientated?  Wondering where you are?  Who you are?  Even, why you are?  Do you wake up and something just doesn't feel right, as if someone rewrote your life and forgot to tell you to turn the page?

 

I had that feeling this morning.

 

I dreamt I was a fictional character, plucked from the odd ramblings of some strange man's musings.  I dreamt I wasn't real and I only existed because he had breathed life into me through the tapping of the keys on his computer.  They were the defibrillator jolting me from nothing into being.  They were the bolt of lightning in the crazed laboratory of an aberrant mind.

 

I mean, he's have to be aberrant, wouldn't he?  Whoever thought me up?  I'm a lunatic, or so I tell people.  I'm responsible for deaths.  I'm responsible for so much despair.

 

Who'd want to create a character like that?

 

But, that was my dream.  I wasn't real.  I was made up.  I was words on a page.

 

Have you ever felt like that?

 

It's a weird feeling, and it's echoed through me as the day has passed.  Every so often, I'll look at my friends, Bender, Mucous and the others, and wonder if they're the same.  I wonder if they ever feel like this or if they are like this.

 

Could I reach out from this imaginary world and rewrite myself?  Could I backspace through all that I've done and erase it?  I could bring back Joy.  I could bring back everyone.  I'd edit my life to make it less painful.  More ordinary.  More mundane.

 

That'd be fine.  I don't want or need to be special.  I've had enough of special.  I want to wake in the morning and go to work.  I want to walk my dog and kiss my wife and play with my children.  I want to live on a river where swans float and geese occasionally get awkward and wander on to the road, just because they're feeling a little daredevil that day.

 

I don't want to feel the pain.  i don't want to hear the screams.  I don't want to cause the deaths.

 

But, it's not like that, is it.  It never is.  I suppose I wish to be fictional, because then, though it all seems so real, it wouldn't be.  Then, whatever I think has happened, it hasn't.  None of it has.  If I was a made up character in the mind of a writer, that'd be fine, because, perhaps, he might take pity.

 

Not on me, I don't deserve anyone's pity.  No.  Maybe he'd pity those that have died.  Maybe he'd feel sorry for those I've killed.  Saying that, if I've killed them, so has he.

 

Maybe I'll wake up in the shower and it will all have been a dream, thanks to him taking a cue from an 80s soap.

 

Still.  I feel... less substantial.

 

Hey, if you're out there, at least get rid of my grey, won't you?

Monday, 30 December 2013

Cannonballs Ahoy...!


"A cannonball," she said.  "It could come crashing in through that window and we could all escape.  All except Jack Sparrow, of course.  He's got to wait for his ship."

 

"Who would fire the cannon?" I asked.

 

It was an interesting method of escape and one I'd actually not thought of myself.  Cannonballs were difficult to get your hands on in an asylum and I didn't think the Black Pearl would chance by, there being a distinct lack of ocean and all.

 

"Well, maybe Captain Jack wouldn't have to wait for his ship at all!  It might be out there waiting.  It might fire the cannonball for him to escape and we could get out too!"

 

I didn't want to mention my previously mentioned lack of ocean.  It often didn't pay to put to many obstacles in the way of her thoughts.  She'd freewheel through fantasies and ideas like a gymnastic jester, all tumbling arms and careening legs.

 

I also didn't want to mention the lack of Captain Jack Sparrow and his mighty ship.  Surely they'd be cruising the Caribbean awaiting the release of the next sequel's sequel's sequel.  If she thought the good Cap'ain was here then I wasn't going to say anything to the contrary.  I'd leave that to Contrary Maurice (invariably called Mary purely for the flow), who'd swear white was black and night was day even at noon in the middle of a snowstorm in December.

 

Besides, Alexandra, who didn't really mind being called Alex but pretended she hated it (she'd always tip me a wink when she was raging at the latest victim to fall foul of accidentally abbreviating her name), came up with some mightily inventive escape plans and, one day, one of them might actually work.  It seemed she was the Recreation Room's sole escape committee.  She was Steve McQueen, Donald Pleasance and that guy from Sapphire and Steel all rolled into one, and I bet she knew how to ride a motorbike too.

 

Alex (forgive me), of the deep red hair and deeper eyes, and of the laugh that was wicked, dirty and sly in equal measure, was my light on the darkest day.  When the screams were close to deafening me and the shadows were threatening to suffocate me, Alex was there to scatter my darkness's minions like leaves on the wind.

 

I questioned her residency of the asylum.  She didn't strike me as insane or a danger to anyone.  She was, simply, imaginative.  Perhaps she did live in a world a whisper away from this one, populated by imaginary ship's captains and cannonballs that came out of nowhere, but that didn't mean she was diddly-dolally.  It only meant she was eccentric.  Plenty of people were a little left of centre and some ran the country!

 

I asked her, once, in an attempt to ignore the curves that were difficult to ignore (even in the pseudo-scrubs we were forced to wear), what she would do if she was in charge of the country.

 

"Nothing," she answered.

 

"Nothing?"

 

"We're in a mess anyway," she said, smiling her smile.  "Each party inherits the mistakes of the one before.  How can you do anything with a pile of doggy-do-do that's been dumped by a hound the size of a country?"

 

I frowned, unable to answer.

 

"I'd let the people decide.  Pumps or heels."

 

"Pumps or heels?"

 

"Yes, I'd let the people decide which was best when the Enterprise came down to beam us out!"

 

She said this in a tone that implied the word 'Silly' was silently added to the end.

 

Alex for PM, I say.  Let her sail around the coast in the Black Pearl firing cannonballs at anyone who wasn't carrying a pooper-scooper.

 

Works for me.

 

Monday, 16 December 2013

Ghost of Christmas Past...


“I am the ghost of Christmas past,” she said.

 

Her head was on my shoulder at the time.  She was resting it there after telling me, if she didn’t, it would fall off.  Who was I to argue?  Who was I to risk the potential decapitation of someone such as she?  Besides, there are plenty here who seem to run around as if headless...

 

I asked her what she meant, and she didn’t answer for a long moment.

 

I could smell her hair.  The scent of coconut drifted up to make me think of chocolate and paradise islands.  I could imagine her laying there on the sand, counting the grains that ran through her fingers.  She be gazing at the sky, waiting for the stars to come out when the sun was setting.  She’d imagine seeing the birth of each one, rather than them being burning balls of fire, millions of light years away.

 

She was like that.  Whimsical.  A wisp of a woman.  Slight and slender.

 

Gabrielle.  She believed herself to be ‘not from around here’.  By that, she didn’t mean she’d arrived on the train from Kings Cross or flown in on the early plane from Schipol Airport.  She meant she was not... of this plane.  This existence.  This reality.  No one called her Gabby or Gabs or any other too informal abbreviation.  She seemed to deserve her full name.  Gabrielle.  It suited her.

 

“I mean, I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” she said.

 

Of course she did.

 

“OK,” I said.  I left it at that.  What could I say?  How’s Scrooge doing?  What the Dickens do you mean?

 

Besides, when she rested her head on me like that, something which happened at least a couple of times a week (she seemed to have a wobbly head), it was somehow comforting.  Perhaps it was the simple closeness of another person – a woman, indeed.  Perhaps I craved contact with someone who wasn’t on the verge of having a schizophrenic episode or who might take the opportunity to urinate on my feet.  Perhaps I just wanted to sit and not even talk.

 

“Christmas is coming, isn’t it,” she said.  It was a statement rather than a question.

 

“It is,” I answered.  I used to love Christmas.  I watched Christmas films, enjoyed giving (and receiving) presents, stuffed myself silly with the meal.  That was a long time ago.  I didn’t really enjoy anything anymore.  Well, apart from a head on my shoulder.

 

Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing untoward in my enjoyment of her proximity.  No mischievous thoughts (or anything else) were aroused.  It was purely platonic.  It felt nice to be just there.

 

“They’ll haunt you, you know.”

 

My breath stopped as it entered my mouth, deciding whether it wanted to hear what else she had to say before it chose to exit the way it had come or to continue down to my lungs.

 

“Who will?”

 

“Those who have died.”

 

I made a great effort to ensure no one knew of my particular problem.  I was a sufferer of extreme paranoia.  The asylum was the best place to be because those who were out to get me couldn’t in here.  Deaths?  I knew nothing of such things.

 

“I don’t...”

 

“You do,” she said quietly, interrupting me.  I did.  “And I know they haunt you.  I am the ghost...”

 

“Of Christmas past,” I interrupted in turn.

 

“Yes,” she said.  Her voice was little more than a whisper - a murmur carried to my ears more by vibration than by sound.

 

“They already do,” I told her.  I heard their screams every night and could feel their anger and despair every day.

 

“I know,” she said, briefly touching my leg.  “But you won’t stop it.”

 

I didn’t expect to.  I put myself in here to try and prevent any more deaths, but I figured I’d be forever haunted by the ghosts of those that have already died.  It was only right.  I’d snatched them from their lives.  I’d ripped their souls out and cast them aside like flotsam on the shore.  I was their Reaper.  I should be permanently reminded of that.


Still, to be told that.  To be slapped in the face with the fact.  Whatever I did wouldn’t be enough.  No amount of self-deprecation would suffice.  Leaving myself to the whims of Connors and his staff would, in no way, make up for what I’d done.  And, fair enough.  My torment was also my friend.  I gained solace in the knowledge I’d always be surrounded by the shades of my crimes.  That may not have been right – why should I benefit from such things?  But no.  There was no benefit, not really.  It was simply that I deserved my fate.

 

“You don’t,” Gabrielle whispered.  I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud.  “But they have nothing else to do except haunt the one who stole their lives.  Whether you were at fault or not, you were the flame that started the fire and they are like spectral moths, with their screams the beat of their wings.”

 

Erm...  Right...

 

She lifted her head and looked at me.  I found myself unable to look away from her pale grey eyes.

 

“They will haunt you, always.  Don’t haunt yourself.”

 

Don’t...?  At first I didn’t understand.  Haunt myself?  I wasn’t dead.  Maybe dead inside, but...  Unless that’s what she meant?  Don’t haunt myself.  Be alive?  Don’t dwell on the past but look to the future?

 

I asked her.  She nodded.


“What future?” I asked.  “I don’t have one, not anymore.”

 

“We all have a future,” she assured me.  “Even thirty seconds from now is the future.”

 

Somehow this wasn’t comforting.  It didn’t exactly imply longevity.

 

A thought occurred to me.

 

“What does this have to do with Christmas past?”

 

Gabrielle didn’t answer.  Her head was back on my shoulder and her eyes were closed.

She didn’t open them again for a long time.

Tuesday, 20 August 2013

Talking Tango...


You know, so we're told, when you've been Tangoed!

 

To my knowledge, I haven't - as yet.  Not the dance, all passion and power, but the drink, fizz, fun and flatulance.  No wobbly-bellied man, painted orange, has run up to me in the street - or the asylum - and slapped my cheek.  Neither have I ever gone a little too far with the fake tan, making me look as if I've been living on a diet of Satsumas for the past ten years or so.

 

Of course, with the slop we're served in here, it may well be Satsumas.  It's hard to say.  It could well be chicken or caviar.  Hey, it could actually just be tinned Slop!  Do Tesco sell that?  Is it next to the baked beans and spaghetti hoops?  Do Heinz do four packs of Slop, with a new, improved recipe?

 

No.  I don't believe they do.

 

Anywho.  I haven't, to be honest, any idea why I started waffling on about being Tangoed.  For an advert that hasn't been seen on television, probably, this century, it's still a well-known catchphrase.  A bit like "Do or die, spit in your eye" may well never be.  It's just, sometimes...

 

Do you ever feel as if you just need to talk?  Not about anything in particular, just to express words like a new mother expresses milk, the resultant flow easing pressure whilst providing sustenance?  Granted, I'm not a three month old baby, but sometimes simply chatting can be nourishing.  It can challenge the mind and entertain the senses.

 

In here, with a population largely consisting of misguided individuals (I hesitate to use the term 'delusional'), conversation can be somewhat lacking.  Four walls and a stream of MTV can only hold one's attention for a limited amount of time.  Well, in my case at least.  Many of my inmate friends are consistently captivated by the enclosed space and repetitive thumping base from the box on the wall.

 

A box within a box.  Like our mind within our body, except our minds are Tardises within the confines of our skin and bone, able to go anywhere and anywhen with seemingly infinite capacity.

 

So.  Conversation.  Occasionally, when Mickey is all Mucousy and Benny is Bending, I just need to talk.  Talk about normal.  Talk about mundane.

 

If I didn't, I think I'd go insane.  You'd assume I'd be in the right place for that.

 

Have you met Dr. Connors?

 

Thursday, 4 July 2013

I had a dream...

I had a dream last night, and you were there.

 

And you.

 

And you.

 

But, not you.  Unless you were the night.  Unless you were the darkness that crept around me like a skulking fox, waiting for the moment to leap and catch its prey.  Killing not just for sustenance, but for the taste of blood.  For the crunch of bone.

 

For the pleasure.

 

I had a dream last night, and you were there.

 

I felt your pain.  Felt the impact of the bullet and the slicing, burning flesh.  Saw the look of fear on your face.  Saw the blame.  Felt the guilt.

 

Not your guilt.  Mine.

 

And in my dream, I saw myself.  I stood.  Watched.  My face bore no sign of pleasure.  There was no indication, either, of horror or sorrow.  Merely acceptance.

 

But I am sorry.  I awoke to find my pillow wet from tears.  I still hear your scream and I can still feel the fading warmth of your hand in mine.  I held it as you went.  Tightly.  Hoping the pressure would keep some part of you alive, trapped.

 

It didn't.  You were fast cold.  The chill is in my own hand - it lingers to remind me of what I did.  What I do.

 

Often, when a dream that is a nightmare stays with you once you wake, the brightness of the morning washes the dark stain clean.  The sun uses its rays as a spear to impale the tainted heart of your mind's subconscious horrors.

 

Not this morning.  Not this day.

 

Not ever, really.

 

I feel the cold hands and hear the cries.  Yours and my own.  Except, yours are, most likely, my own anyway.  And vice versa.  Crying out together, in sweet, sadistic harmony.

 

You weren't the fox.  You weren't the night.  That was me.  As much as I watched, I also participated.  I can pray forgiveness and beseech that it wasn't my intention or fault.

 

It doesn't matter.  It was still me, the blame wrapping itself about me so I am unable to shrug it off.  I put myself in here, in this asylum, so I may prevent, or at least avoid, such things.  So that darkest part of me can remain caged.  So that, when I dream of you - whichever 'you' you may be - you do not die.  You smile.  Breathe.  Dance, perhaps.  Be alive.

 

But, I am the night, in my dreams.  I am Sin when awake.

 

Forgive me, for I am Death.

 

Monday, 13 May 2013

Under the Spotlight...

I hate interviews.
 
Well, I dislike them, at least.  I always feel as if I'm under the spotlight and picture myself restrained, with someone pulling a cover off a row of gleaming torture instruments.
 
Why are torture instruments - scalpels and clamps and the like - always so clean in films?  Are they not wanting you to get a nasty infection whilst pulling your fingernails off or removing your thumb from the knuckle down?
 
Ain't that sweet of them?
 
Bless.
 
Anywho-be-do.
 
Interviews.  I don't like them.  I remember one I had.  I forget what the job was actually for, but there were three people facing me.  It was early days in my jobbing career.  Probably only my second or third interview.  There was a window behind them, with horizontal blinds left open.  The sun was shining in the window and the blinds, as I moved my head, kept causing me to be temporarily blinded and left in darkness as my eyes struggled to keep up with the sun dipping in and out.  I could have kept my head perfectly still, but didn't want to appear stiff and uncomfortable.
 
Instead I appeared, probably, as if I wasn't in control of my eyes or I had a weird nervous tic.  Needless to say I didn't get the job.
 
When Connors interviewed me prior to entry into the asylum, it was more informal.  He acted as a friend.  He smiled and offered me tea and biscuits.  His voice was soothing.
 
So, rather than an out and out predator, lunching on my discomfort, Connors was prowling.  Circling.  Choosing the best time to pounce.
 
Letting me walk into his trap.
 
Only right, therefore, that I choose to give others some of this medicine.  OK, so it's not Risperdal or even Paracetomol, and it may well not (read 'won't') make you feel better, but hey, I'll enjoy it, and that's what matters.
 
Of course, here in the asylum, it's difficult to interview anyone other than the other residents.  Granted, in a good few cases, that'd be quite fun, and I may well do that, methinks, but how about others?  How about you?
 
Well.
 
I can't do that in here.  I can't even do that on this blog.  As much as I feel I'm sneaking about writing this diary, I wouldn't be surprised if they (or 'THEY') knew about it - although talking about it now sort of negates any secrecy, doesn't it?  Hey, I'm in an asylum.  I'm meant to be crazy, though we - you and I - know the truth about that, don't we?
 
Anywho.  I've managed to do one.  An interview.  Shhh, don't tell anyone, OK?  I managed to ask the lovely Jan Ruth a few questions, just off the top of my head.  Of course, as I'm unable to put anything like that on here for fear of reprisal or victimisation (not just of me), I had to find somewhere else.  It was easier than I thought.  I simply hijacked another blog.
 
Yup.  A man's gotta do and all that.  The owner of the blog, some guy called Shaun Allan, hasn't seemed to have noticed, so, if you want to check it out before he does notice and takes it down, drop by http://flipandcatch.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/jan-ruth-flew-over-cuckoos-nest.html and take a peek.
 
If you fancy a few words with a (supposed!) lunatic yourself, chuck me an email at sin@shaunallan.co.uk and I'll try and let you sneak in too.  Don't blame me if, once you're in here, you can't get out, however.  Them's the risks.
 
It feels a bit dangerous, you know.  I can feel the adrenaline prickling through my veins.  I'm being naughty!
 
Cool!