The sleep that arrived was grudging, it didn’t want to cede ground or pave the way into a satisfying respite from the happenings that swirled around me. The memory of pain and the absolute exhaustion was mixed with the apprehension of my dark-hour journeys to come. And then there was the fear of waking, of being pushed back into a painful reminder that my bladder that would not allow me to forget. I would be in search of an easy way out, reaching for the place where I had hoped my piss-pot would be, but finding it gone. And then there would be that insane search, checking and rechecking, attempting, seeking and then failing before an eventual collapse into the knowledge that I was lost without the chance of rescue and beyond the reach of basic dignity. That would be followed by the scramble for the assistance button, the remote alert which loved to wander abroad so as to maintain the calm of the night. On nights like this screams would go unheard and unattended.
I was a prisoner. I was a prisoner who could not even enjoy a midnight piss without the stigma of begging the midnight hags to please pass me the midnight piss-pot. Fairy tales were never meant to be easy. The paths into them were all too obvious whilst the paths leading out were often indecipherable.
“So, what next?”
The floating guru was only just visible, floating at the end of the metal bed whilst being encased in the Fly-Trap. He had that look of apologetic helplessness about him. I was expecting something wise, something that would at least make me think that he had even the slightest of clues about anything that was now taking place in his kingdom.
“Sorry, mate, but I just supply the drugs. Think of me as a petrol station. When you’re low on juice and you want to get somewhere, where do you go?”
“No. You go to my petrol station, as I said.”
And then he was gone, swallowed up in his own illusion. One minute floating and the next gone. Hey presto!