Divine Intervention

There’s an overwhelming sense that I’ve been here before, dozens of times if not more, I’ve thought the same things, answered the same questions, ignored the same phone calls and written the same words, again and again and again.

With the same certainty as the seasons changing or the phases of the moon; hopeless, veins full of paralysing indifference and a stomach weighed down with nightmarish despair to at least being able to pretend it’s OK, to smile and laugh and fool myself into thinking that it won’t return. Refusing to see the footprints, the whispers of unease, the moments that can’t be shrugged off as just feeling tired or hormonal.

And bam.

It’s back.

The next episode, bigger and better than ever before with Dolby surround sound and special FX. I watch it unfold in third person, unable to control what happens next and what’s said. I know the script from memory, but I’m not delivering the lines. Something else is, it’s running away from them, it’s ad-libbing with reckless abandon and all I can do is watch from the back on the cinema and scream for it to stop.

Frozen by thoughts of where I’d stab myself in the wrist. Would it even matter where? And what would I use? I know it won’t happen, I know we’ll cut to another scene before it gets that far, I’ll be sat in another waiting room, somewhere, desperately trying to remember how to behave in public and whether I’ve been taking those fat chalky pills. But I’m stuck, somewhere between here and there and all I can do is gaze at the three blue veins visible beneath the skin, two darker and one a shade of turquoise I’m sure would be called Summer Skies or some such bollocks on a Dulux paint chart.

Maybe I should Google it.

Where to do it, not the colour, obvs.

My mind wanders to the kitchen cupboard, full of pills, of his pain medication and I find myself curiously thinking how many I’d have to swallow before this pain goes away.

All the while the phone rings, another voicemail flashes on the screen and I wait. I wait for something to happen, for someone to step in and take me somewhere I’ve not been before because I don’t know how many more times I can watch the same episode and hear the same words delivered with the same tone of urgency and pity and “It’ll be OK, I promise.”

And while I wait, the screen fades to black.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *