I’ve been here three days. They say a nurse was tasked … a nurse’s job was to check up on me every thirty minutes. For my own safety. To peek through a little spyhole in the door. They think you don’t know. I was sprawled out on the floor. So they say.
They’re doing tests. They never tell you a thing. For all I know it was a heart attack. Stroke? I feel wonderful. Look at me Ma! I’m on top of the world!!! That’ll be the drugs probably.
The doctor looks about fourteen: should still be at school. He’s a P___. You’re not supposed to call them that these days. A person from Pakistan? No, it’s South Asia now.
Beautiful brown eyes. Whirlpools. You could scoop them out with a spoon. Delightful smile. Lovely teeth. They would have cost his parents a pretty penny. He speaks wonderful English.
I see images all the time. In my head. Blurred. Lots of darkness. Noises. Sounds I’ve never heard before. Shrill. Shrieks. Inhuman. Insane.
Police – detectives they called themselves – came to interrogate me. Two of them. One young; one old. The youth glistening with perspiration. Belly hanging over his trousers. Small, beady eyes; like a parrot. Suet pudding where his face should be. Local boy. Uncouth accent. Couldn’t put three words together to make a sentence.
They asked questions. Nothing but damn fool questions. They wanted me to have answers. As if I had the least idea why I blew them up.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 