Nobody’s paying me any heed as I stroll round the grounds. If they could see the thoughts in my head, they’d think I’m mad. I smile. Oh, wait a minute, they already do – that’s why I’m here. I laugh out loud and one of the nurses, Bernie, saunters over. He’s smiling – just checking me out, making sure I’m not losing it. I like Bernie. He’s all right, likes a bit of a laugh. Likes to pass the time chatting to those of us who can. I stop laughing and straighten my face. No way am I letting them get into my head. If they did, they’d work out the truth and God only knows what would happen. It’s best they all think I’m mad. But inside my head a voice is asking me, Is it? Is it really best that they don’t know the truth? I squash it and focus on reassuring Bernie. After all, if you can’t be loyal to your own, what’s left?
‘You all right there?’ Bernie always takes care not to make direct eye contact. Gives me space and I appreciate that. Some of them don’t get that I need space. They crowd me, but not Bernie. He’s one of the good guys.
‘Just having a wee walk, Bernie.’
Bernie nods and I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away. I have to be careful now that I’ve attracted his attention. I keep walking, stopping every so often to do the stretches I’ve adopted as ‘my looney signature’. Keep things normal, do what they expect, and maybe things won’t be as bad as I think. But that’s not right. I know deep down that things are going to be a lot worse than I think. They’re bound to be. It’s been weeks – three, at least. The temptation inside me grows. I glance round. Bernie’s talking to a nurse. I take my chance whilst he’s distracted and pummel my fists into my face. Thump, thump thump!
He hasn’t noticed, so I move on, forcing my fists to uncurl. Instead I worry at my bottom lip with my teeth. I’ve got regrets – I smile, but make sure not to let it become an out-loud laugh – too few to mention – I want to laugh and share the joke – but nobody would get it – not sure any of them are capable of it – every highway. Shit now it’s in my head. A damn ear worm and just when I’m trying to work out what to do. How to make things right? My regrets are real – all too real and they sicken me to the core of my stomach – the thing is, I wonder how many more regrets I’m going to have before this all ends. Before I know it my fists, as if of their own volition, are clenched. Thump, thump, thump!
Still Bernie doesn’t see and I hunch my shoulders and force my hands into my pockets. I need to stop this. Can’t get caught doing this or they’ll dope me up again and I need to stay alert. I focus on my regrets. I was always a maudlin drunk. Should never have let them see me like that drooling over that photo of her like a lovesick calf. They hated her without even knowing her. I tried to convince them she would never have left me – not on my own. Tried to tell them how good she was. That she’d always protected me – none of what happened was her fault – no matter what that bitch told me at the time. It was all so long ago. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I’ve got blood on my hands – so much blood. So many wrong decisions, mistakes that can’t be rectified.
Later, I finally found her. I was pleased she was happy. I devoured every piece of information I could find about her. Where she’s been for all these years. I was desperate to share my good news with her. I was going to be a daddy. She’d have been so happy for me. I know she would. Why didn’t I speak to her?
I punch my head with my closed fist, then glance round. Can’t let anyone see me doing that. Can’t let them give me the medication – not now, not when I need to think things through. I need to work out what to do.
I wish I still had that photo of us. She had her arms round me, tight. She smiled, and I smiled. We would look after each other. She promised me that and I thought we’d always be together. But she was taken away. The urge to punch myself is so strong, it’s all I can do to stop myself. I thrust my fists into my pockets. Got to look normal – well as normal as anybody in this shit-hole ever looks.
The day I found the photo, her eyes stabbed through, her smile scraped off, I was so sad. I knew which one of them had done it, and I knew why. Still, I was sad. It was the last thing I had of her. It was all my fault though, rambling on, whisky after whisky, drink after drink. Telling them everything, forcing every detail on their impressionable little minds. I should never have done that – that’s why everything – all the payback, all the hatred, everything that was happening – it’s all my fault. My stupid, drunken thoughtless fault. And, there is nothing I can
