MicroHorror

The corner of my eye, the edge of my reason I guess. Ahh, gone again. I long for sleep, for peace and most of all, for quiet.

Three more months they tell me, wrapped and immobile, legs shattered, pelvis cracked, my arms held together by pins, head, bruised and chipped, my one eye milky white, a sliver of metal still embedded. They left enough of a gap in the bandages. I can still see with the other at least.

And I can see them, like shadows, the evening light slinks away through the high window, my companions on this ward in comas or close enough. The shadows move unlike a shadow should, quick dash, sparse, furtive, they pass me by. I keep my eye open and search them, guess who they are.

Nobody comes to visit me, at least not yet. I’m not sure who would anyway, or could. They keep telling me I’m lucky to be alive, I guess so. The short pretty nurse smiles at me, I like her, dark hair, peaceful eyes. The big Irish nurse says nothing, she seems unhappy. She never stays for long, fast click heels as she leaves the ward.

Nobody can tell me who I am either. It’s become quite the thing, newspapers, local TV, my anonymity, a rush, an excitement but actual anonymity scares me. Surely I was, or still am, more than just a nobody out there.

I check the time, a clock placed just for me. I asked the nurse to hang it high above the entrance. Seven o’clock. Shadows soon.

As the lights go out they really put on a show for me, dancing and whirling, they seem stronger with more form. I feel afraid and try to cower. They almost seem like children, so much energy. Morning will be a comfort

I wake up. Routine tests today. The Irish nurse comes in, looks at me and backs away, nervous eyes, bumps through the door. The doctor enters.

“How are you today, sir?”

I mumble through the bandages.

“Well, it appears we, umm, know who you are after all, sir.”

I look past his face and see the policeman.

“For your protection, sir.”

And then he leaves.

“We’ll be back to see you again later. These men will stay with you, umm, protection.”

He almost runs down the corridor.

The policeman steps forward, notebook in hand.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you, sir.”

“You know who I am? Do you? Please tell me.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, I felt nervous, my heart pounding.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Umm, well, sir, I have some questions I need to ask you before I, umm, before we can…”

“Who am I?” I know my mumbles are becoming more difficult to understand the louder and more agitated I get. I really need to know now.

“Well, your name is Brendan Hartley, you’re from Wyoming originally, not married, no kids, no family we could find.”

He pauses. I urge him to carry on. I can see with my one good eye that he is very unhappy, this is not a job he particularly wants to do.

“It also seems that we need to arrest you, sir. We believe that you are responsible for the deaths of twenty-three people, suspected of many more all over the country…”

I stop listening, recoiling in horror. I can’t understand what he’s saying. I don’t want this, it can’t be true. There absolutely has to be a mistake. I shut my eye and think of the shadows, they will be coming soon. I try to scream, I try to make them understand what will happen. They sedate me and the policeman walks away, shaking his head.

My eye begins to shut and I can see them, dim and blurred, but faces now, faces I can see…

• Copyright: © 2008 David Rees-Thomas