i
I must have dozed off. Fell asleep. For when I awoke the pages were all gone.
All of them.
From start to finish.
Every single page.
I cannot remember a single thing I wrote.
Over the last few days I have been scribbling at a ferocious speed; as if my life depended on this very act of silent articulation.
But now I can neither recall one iota I wrote nor can I visualize how my own handwriting looked as it spread itself out over the page.
All black and grey hovering over white, no doubt.
We forget our beginnings. All of us. We have no recollection of being born. Of coming here.
Of staying.
Day after day they wipe it out.
Perhaps they did it to me to deny me the satisfaction of re-writes, of cleaning it up.
Polishing it.
For how can I do that now? Unless, that is, if they bring them back. Maybe they will. All blackened and red from the matron’s corrections.
She is a fierce lady.
Built like a fucking tractor.
Here huge hands a good match for Mister Licky’s.
I have seen them square off. Time and time again. Bottles of vinegar from the canteen in hand, each one ready to glass the other.
What fun!
Strange.
Mister Licky has not been in today. Unless it was he who took the pages. But who else would have? The matron herself.
Possibly.
It is not beyond the realms of reasonable thought.
But in all fairness, would she send herself down to this den of iniquity? This cesspit of vice and degradation.
No doubt.
For I would imagine that she was once were I am now and that I too will be someday where she sits now.
Such is the horrible circle of life. Get used to it. It will not stop rolling anytime soon. And even when it does, it won’t.
Believe me.
I can assure you.
Speech and writing are not as different as you would imagine them to be. But make now mistake, they are not the same either.
The fallacy of self-identification (I am me) is one of our greatest fallacies.
I abhor it.
I
What of my pages?
Undoubtedly my fate will be revealed when she finishes reading my miserable saga of the last few days.
What have I been writing about, until now?
My father.
My wife.
My daughter.
Myself.
The usual poles.
What else could we possibly speak of? I know no other issues, expect life and death. These are the only worthwhile accompanies for a good story.
—Isn’t that right, daddy?
If only I could remember some of your stories now.
—Sit down and I will tell you one.
What was the one you told me about the two travellers? Lost on their way home. In a forest. With one light between them. One died—yes. And the other—lived.
What beautiful balance.
Whatever.
If she comes back she comes back.
I could do with a sausage. Or a rasher, even. Something with a bit of salt in it.
That would be nice.
Imagine that. Savouring into it with some ketchup and a soft white roll.
Fuck me.
I should try and get up.
Let’s see.
I’m back.
I managed to crawl around the room, dragging myself over the purple carpet with my elbows.
I have a fine pair of elbows.
Mister Licky told me that.
If only we could be friends. Maybe we could escape together. Kill the Matron and render her down until nothing is left except a flavoured jar of animal fat.
It may make a good spread. On Scandinavian rye bread.
So I am told.
My mother was a good cook. But she was a better baker. Her chocolate crispy buns were her speciality. Suitable for all occasions. They could even raise my father from the furrows of his ingratiating sadness.
Get him out of bed and get writing again. Or even laughing.
God forbid.
Who am I kidding?
I have to stop this nonsense.
There is only one woman reading this: Heir Matron. The green eyed monster for mars. The devil in disguise. The whole fucking hen. Sores and all. If only someone would eviscerate her. That would be a sight.
My eyes are sore.
It must be the light.
It is so grey in here. A constant greyness.
I grew up in Galway.
No.
I can’t.
I should. But I can’t. Of course you can. Do I want to? Do I have a choice?
—Get out of bed, she says.
Get. Out.
The day they put my picture in the paper was the beginning of the end. It was on the front. I wore a suit.
There.
I said it.
One step closer to the door. One step closer to its opening. The door with no handle.
Towards. My truth.
Towards
—Yes. Of course. I will.
She slams the door.
Of course.
I will.
