Realms Of Possibility

Entry by: jaguar

20th December 2018
Not you’re not here what has become possible? Admitting I can’t do love and will be alone - not because I want to be but there isn’t enough appeal within me to stop it happening. If not you - no one. Nobody visits me here but I don’t seem to mind that.

You might return but that would feel like trying to reattach the skin to a wound. That lost thing putting itself back where it broke my flesh with its escape. I shouldn’t let that happen but I don’t seem to be someone with choices. They tell me you won’t come, you have promised not to and I know it's because you don’t care.

Then here I am on day three and the realms of possibility have opened slightly. They made a horrible creaking sound in the night and I imagined they were closing but look, when I shut my eyes I sense that kind of light you get behind clouds. Today I have done some childish painting while fantasizing I have a naïve talent that will make me famous. Famous, and rich, because with those you can solve anything. You can have panic rooms installed.

All my bleepers went off in the night and, for the longest time, nobody came. When they ran in, three of them, they tried to make up for lost time. I realised my bizarre sense of humour still functioned because they were funny, falling over each other funny. I thought they said it was my spleen that had ruptured and that was too ironic not to smile. It was within the realms of possibility that I might die. There and then just as I finally felt safe.

How long are your arms really? You always said they’d find my throat across decades, countries.

Day five they’re tender with me, sorry they overlooked my spleen. I don’t blame them, on the scale of things it wasn’t much. It’s just I have a necklace of bruises around my neck and I don’t remember them doing that. I asked but the nurse said she was sorry it was just they had to apply pressure when they opened me up. So I can be opened up and survive.

The plastic surgeon says it will only be three or four operations over a couple of years. He pats my shoulder, tells me I still have excellent bone structure and I will probably be pretty. After he leaves I can’t stop crying. I might be pretty. I have never been anything other than an ugly cow. Nobody noticed my excellent bones. Did you when you were breaking them?

You came. I saw you outside my room or was it a dream? I watched as the security guards pinned you to the floor and one of them kicked you. I laughed because it was exactly the same place you liked to kick me. They hauled you up, crumpled, bleeding and I looked you in the eyes. I felt something cringy, new, pricking my soul. I felt powerful.

Here’s the worst possibility of all, the damage you did to me wasn’t just physical. I will get out of this place. I will look different but I might now be sub-human too.