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Last night, the wind would not stop.
It made a devilish sound.
I was trying to sleep. But I could not. Because of its noise.
The clatter. The hubbub. The raucousness.
I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. And the dreadful cry of the seagulls.
Caw! Caw!
Yes, I could hear them.
Clearly.
Maybe they were drowning, I thought. Giving themselves up for the dead.
They could do no worse.
I lay there on my back and strained to listen longer.
But then there were no more sounds. Just a quite blackness. I lay there, in the absolute dark for a while. But I must have fallen asleep. Because when I opened my eyes it was morning again.
Just like that.
The storm must have passed in the night.
Of course.
There was still no sight of anyone though I was sure I heard voices outside my door.
Yes, I thought.
It is a large building I must be in. With other rooms and other beds. And other people like myself.
This I was assured.
Why?
Because of the little patter of steps I heard.
Coming and going outside my door.
But could they not have been rats? Scurrying back and forth outside my door.
More than likely.
I laboured this type of thinking for a while.
Here is how it went.
Could one not say that I was not in a building or even a complex of sorts and that I was rather presently located in a wood perhaps, sleeping in the single and last outpost of civilization?
Yes.
One could say that. Or have said that.
But thinking now, about then, I am sure they were not rats.
They made too much noise. Humans are a different breed in the audible sense. They fidget more. They piss less. There squeaks are less hopeful.
Rats are our apex.
More lights.
From the land window. Surely they must be cars.
I think so.
But why do they have their lights on? Is it not the day?
In case of accident.
Coming and going from this vast complex, dropping off more and more men and women like myself, to suffer the same fate.
Men and women without fa. Men and women who suffer.
But am I suffering?
Not quite.
The pains in my legs have subsided and I really feel that tomorrow I will walk again.
They will surely be in then. Pens and pencils to the ready. Poised to jot down every sensation that I have experience in the past 48 hours.
Everything is for something.
My father said that.
—But what about the useless things?
—There are no useless things. Only things that people have no use for.
Was this not the same thing?
—Are they not useless?
—The people or the things?
I could not recall.
I drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange dreams. A woman offered me her hand. I held it. Then she evaporated.
