The addict

I lie in the hospital bed, hooked up to all the equipment, listening
to the music of the ward. The nurses dance their ritualistic dance
around the beds, often interrupted, but always returning to the
pattern. I have my headphones on, the ones that go into the wall at the
back of the bed. They provide the music to which the ward performs its
ballet. In a little while they'll be playing 'Brothers In Arms' by Dire
Straits for me. It's the most up to date song they have. I hate Dire
Straits but the woman from the radio was so pleased that somebody was
actually interested that it would have been impolite not to choose
something.

I take out the headphones and listen to the heart monitor that sits on
a trolley by the side of my bed. Steady, intermittent beeps tell me
that I'm still alive but not for how much longer. I hold my breath and
the beeps become steadily faster. It's a stupid game but it keeps me
occupied. A nurse sticks her head round the curtain at the side of my
bed and tells me to stop it, so I smile at her and let out the breath
I'd been holding in a long exhale. She smiles back and wags her finger
at me in a humorous way. I like the nurses; they don't judge.

My doctor told me that the only way to keep me alive was for me to be
here. My doctor's one of the good guys, one of the few people who cares
if I live or die. When I tell him this he tries to distance himself
from me by telling me that he's only doing his job. I know different;
he's my only visitor. Sometimes I do get friendly with other patients
but they either get well or die. Either way, they leave and rarely come
back. When they do come back they usually ignore me.

Somebody spat at me once, which wasn't very pleasant but I can
understand it; they probably had their reasons. There are so many
people who need my hospital bed and here am I, a comparative picture of
health. They don't know the half of it.

Dinner will be arriving soon. Every day I fill in a little card to say
what I want for the next day. I may have ordered a salad for today. My
dad used to call it rabbit food, usually as he was tucking in to a big
fried breakfast or a huge rump steak. We had a rabbit; it was still
alive when dad died.

The doctor is visiting me this afternoon so I should take a shower,
wouldn't want to be all dirty if he needs to examine me. I press the
little button that calls the nurse to let her know that I'm unplugging
myself. She arrives pretty quickly and, as usual, she lets me take off
all the paraphernalia myself.

In the bathroom I undress. My naked body is covered in a myriad of
scars. My wrists, my throat and my abdomen contain the largest most
visible scar tissue, but they are all over me. Each one painful and
pleasurable in equal measure. Each one remembered by date. I look over
my shoulder into the mirror at a wide, but not long scar just under my
shoulder blade. August 26th. That was a tricky one. I had to wedge the
knife in a draw and throw myself backwards on to it. There was a lot of
blood but it wasn't really life threatening. The Police never found my
attacker, hah.

I still remember the first one, July 12th. It took me so long to pluck
up the courage to do it, I almost didn't go through with it. My parents
found me soaking in a bath full of water so red that it looked like I
had been drained. Dad went into a panic and ranted on about how I could
tell him anything and how he didn't mind if I was homosexual. But he
spat out the word homosexual as if it was causing a dirty taste in his
mouth. And, anyway, I'm not gay.

I turn around and look in the mirror at my lopsided head. January 18th.
A bit pointless that one. I thought I would get involved in regular
visits for re-constructive surgery or something but they where on to me
by then. I was only in overnight, a complete waste of an ear.

As I shower I think about the one lesson that my parents taught me that
I actually listened to. Persistence. If you don't give up then you will
succeed. That one turned out to be true. Look at me now. My only
recurring failure is the court appearances, four times I've been
declared sane despite doing my best to influence the outcome. They may
try and release me back into the community again in a few weeks if I
continue to appear well balanced.

I dry myself, get dressed and get back to my bed. On with the heart
monitor and the other bits and pieces and I'm content again. The nurse
appears again and asks me if I'm OK, I tell her that I'm fine and give
her a thumbs up. My thumb looks a little odd, what with it missing the
top quarter.

They tell me I'm getting better but I've already found the perfect
place for the next addition to the gallery. They'll not get rid of me
that easily. Persistence, that's the key. After all, this is where I
belong.