Anyway:
Locked Out
The filament sparks to
life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains
being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock
start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against
the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days
that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down
for an extra half hour. Not anymore.
“Morning Jack,” they say
as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate,
I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed,
hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the
older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls
make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that
they gossip secretly about my package, or wrinkle their noses at my nightly
bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance
at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone
now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.
Before I got really bad
I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless
as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they
put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining
rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastator’, now
reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care. I
sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.
We go through the
routine: pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is
always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I
used to leave a designer stubble, but that appears to have fallen by the
way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they take my nice clothes and dress me like
a twat, and my socks never match).
Breakfast is usually
chosen, although not by me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix,
mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look
at a Weetabix ever again, I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed,
pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of
course, against my better judgement it’s easy to swallow, and it really is
simpler to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my
thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that
it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to
really grate me.
It usually involves them
driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so, laying out
my ineptitude for all the public to see. A big flashing sign over my head;
‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’,
or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this
morning’,
or the old favourite ‘He
may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’.
On one particular day, I
was parked in the corner of the cafe, that one which we always go to. They like
it because it looks out over the lake, plus there’s a nice covered outside area
where they can take it in turns to chain smoke.
They bring the stink back in with them, clinging to their Primark polyester.
I can smell it on their breath as they lean in close to bring the straw to my
lips or wipe the dribble off my chin. It turns my stomach.
They were discussing one
of the other carers, who they suspected to be shagging one of the bosses.
“Jenna seen ‘em in town
holding hands”, one said.
“She’s a right slapper
anyway, she is. I heard that one time she were caught on a Fanta crate round
the back of the Legion. Letting three guys take turns on her, she was.” said
the other.
“And now she’s strutting
around like she owns the place. Slag.”
I had zoned out and was
letting my eyes wander, when in walked Benny Marlon, the Marlonator, Slimy
Marlon, Benny Benny ‘got a blowjob from his sister’ Marlon. I recognised him
instantly, he looked exactly like he did in school. He even dressed the same, as if he just
rolled around in the bargain bucket at Sports Direct.
Benny fucking Marlon.
A guy who, in year 9,
was caught peeking in round the back of the girls changing rooms with a hole in
his pocket. Who, when 16 years of age, was almost (he wasn’t, but should’ve
been) convicted of raping an unconscious 13 year old down the park after plying
her with Mad Dog 20/20, and who, rumour has it, did indeed have more than a
good time with his younger sister. He’d dropped out of school when he was 15
and started peddling sketchy batch drugs to kids, earned the delightful monikers
Benny ‘K and MDMA’ Marlon and Benny Brain Mangler.
Yet there he was,
standing gloriously upright, walking and talking and skiing and roller-skating
and whatever else took his fancy. Hell, he could even turn his life around and
become a Ballroom champion if he wanted to. And furthermore he had little
Marlonites, a veritable herd of them. How delightful for him, his own
ready-made target market.
I prayed he wouldn’t
come my way, but of course he did. I averted my eyes as he shuffled past, all
Lambert and Butler and Lynx Africa. I stared at a passing swan with such intent
that you’d think it was about to turn inside out. My body still pointed his way
though, it was ludicrously obvious. I could feel his eyes locked onto me, laser
pointing the side of my face as he passed. Oh yes, he’d recognised me all
right, he’d probably sent some texts about it; ‘Guess who I jst seen. Jack
Smith! Luks like a right spazz. Lol’, or some other retarded, text speak wank.
I could hear him hissing about me as they unceremoniously snapped off my breaks
and wheeled me out the door.
Twat.
No comments:
Post a Comment