Events contract and merge. They expand to fill a lifetime, then summarily divest themselves of my influence. Time becomes fluid; it drips and it flows; it pools about my feet and then evaporates to leave a patch of sticky, putrescent mud.
* * *
...So after the rape, I was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit. Constant supervision. Closed circuit cameras. Big foam blocks instead of mattresses. No blankets. I don't remember much more. It blurs with the High Dependency Unit at the first place.
He was left on the ward. When I was released from the ICU, a day; a week; a month later, he was gone. Apparently he was well enough to leave.
In the meantime, the population had shifted. There was a new batch of adolescents who had listened too closely to the voices in their heads and been locked away for it.
My roommate was gone. Traumatised by having interrupted barely long enough before fleeing, she was flown back home to a kinder, gentler place for further treatment. Rendered delicate and insipid by vampiric delusions and a related leap from the balcony of her family home, she too had ignored my protestations; my request that she merely, “Stay, please,” and by her very presence, offer the assurance of escape. She is thus forever painted in my mind as a rather pathetic fucking vampire and an even more pathetic woman.
The witch at the end of the hall was far more likable than the child of blood. New to the hospital and at the very peak of her psychosis, she was utterly mad, but so assured was she in her delusion that it seemed impossible for me not to become a minor character in its unfolding. Who could disappoint such a disarming creature with the crass intrusion of a baser reality? She was all about the magic and the love. Nevertheless, I don't doubt she'd have gone all Hermione Granger on his nasty little ass had she stood in the quavering vampire's fluffy pink slippers.
“Avada kedavra, Shithead.”