Stylistic clown eyes track you from the frames on the faded wall. You lay dormant, stagnating on your mattress prison. The sweet and acrid smell of the plastic waste bag hanging from you fills the room. The carpet is dusty, more flecks of dirt gather each day and you realise you have counted, your head lolling atop the cushioned domain. In the blurry corners of your senses the Television babbles, the faded movies of your youth that “they just don’t make like that anymore,” as William says, or maybe used to say.
Your tongue is swollen and clumsy as you try to reach out, try to tell them that you must get back to the house and collect the children. That woman is treating them all wrong, and there are only so many times one can eat chicken soup with stale bread. You would give them anything just then, open wide the sweet jar from the shelf only you could reach, never mind it being bedtime. To hell with beds, to hell with the linen sheets that clasp the cold sweat of your flesh, and the Venus flytrap depths of the sinking duvet dragging you deeper with each struggle.
But you are forty years too late, and it is “time for your medication, Evelyn.”
I don’t share much of my creative writing, I get worried that it will reveal too much, or that some fool will steal parts of it for whatever reason. So please don’t.