[28/08/11]
I wish they’d listened when I told them the first time about Grandma. But I think it’s too late to make them listen now. So here I am. A dining hall. A lounge with a T.V. in a cage. An education room, a recreation room. And a cell. They call it bedroom but the door’s locked. Bathroom door just don't shut. Locked open. Recessed in the wall…. And… at night… I lie awake wondering why, why, why… they bothered…at all…to make… a door that won’t shut- that as doors go, is a dead loss… not a pun, I promise….need more than dark humour to save me now. The fundamental flaw- even if it did shut- is that it’s fuckin’ pointless- ha! ‘cause there’s a camera in the shower anyhow. They watch me ‘cause I’m dang-er-ous. All night long…they… flick the light on/off… drives me mad. I wish they’d listened when I told them, the next time, about Grandma. But I think it’s too late to make them listen now. Pathological liar. That’s me. The prosecution said so. And in my defence the solicitor agreed. Nothing I can say will be believed. It’s not so bad. They feed me. And I’m never cold. They only make my nose bleed when I lose control. And I don’t do sex… not really… anymore. Now when I tell them…. about … her big-as-saucer-eyes… when I tell them that I miss her but hate her toothy smile… when I tell them that her long, acrylic nails... creep... me out… and thoughts of her foundation-smothered-whiskers make me heave…and that… sometimes... I… see… her… smell… her… in my room… they arrange for an injection. And up my medication. Send me to do painting. Or they let me write shit down.
Little Red.