… He gently gestured the ice-cube towards my mouth and I longed to ravish it whole. My face, however, had forgotten how to move or respond to my brain’s instruction. I tried to part my lips to make way for the icy comfort but the pain was all encompassing. My jaw would not move. My sentiment ached at my body’s betrayal and I mustered a whimper of help. He broke the ice-cube into tiny pieces and I fell in love with this coloured shirt man. A sliver glided past my cactus lips and my mouth came alive. I choked on the tiniest piece of ice sending the machines around me into a beeping frenzy of coloured lights and running nurses. My consolation prize was revoked and I was once again wanting for something that appeared to be to my detriment. How can I be denied water?
My nose twitched in fury as my verbal prowess failed me. I tried to lift my right hand up to quell the itch and no surprise here, my hands would not move. They were sheathed under a white sheet and he came closer to reveal them. It could not be a more whiter shade of pale. My skin was stretched and swollen. These aren’t my hands… Several needles were in and around my wrist to elbow area on the right side. Drips. My arm was bruised blueish black from the very many blood tests I had to endure. This is not my body… This can’t be my body. I started to realise my surroundings and felt a pipe in my left nostril. I wanted to rip it out. Some sort of ooze was flowing from it down into the back of my mouth. It tasted of helplessness and defeat. The man in the colourful shirt told me that I have pipes in my neck, nose, arms, left shoulder, tummy and intimate lady-bits. I felt none of them. The room collapsed on me and I saw three black spots. Closer. They were approaching me. Their shape had changed. They were now obtuse. Distorted blobs of contempt and ridicule. The ceiling was mere centimeters from my face and my body started to shake. My tongue started to slide down my throat. My eyes saw sparks of feverish light and the stench of detergent was soaking into my parched skin. Three black spots. An ugly nurse. A needle. Confused faces. Sleep.
Thank you for reading part 2. Words imitate action and I feel each and every one of these pain-invoking pipes as I type this. Alas, it is a feeling I shan’t soon forget. While I try to maintain a constant level of articulation in my prose, it is of course easier said than done when emotion from memory takes flight into the great mental abyss. Am trying to convey the erratic state of my mind as well. These pipes are my fortitude. This distorted reality MY reality. This body still for rent.