A Conversation

Some prose for those of you who think my poetry sucks like a Dyson:


Aurora was what was known among the nursing staff and patients alike as a revolving door patient. She spent her life going in and out of hospital. ‘I’m treatment resistant,’ she boasted. Each admission was a badge of honour. ‘I black out,’ she told Gemma. ‘Especially after sex. It was with my downstairs neighbour this time. We spent the day drinking. Before he … you know, did what he did he told me he loved me and then afterwards he just abandoned me. Another neighbour – this elderly guy – found me standing in the middle of the road. He put me in a taxi and sent me here. Not all men are total gits.’

Why are you telling me this? Asked the voice inside Gemma’s head. Do you expect me to be impressed?

‘I was really high that night,’ Aurora went on. ‘Higher than I’ve ever been. I thought someone or something was spying on me. You know, like MI5 or something. I wouldn’t settle down. I walked through the ward, searching for bugs or secret cameras. Then the doctor came and gave me enough meds to fell an elephant…although I suppose to someone like you I am an elephant.’

Well, you said it, thought Gemma.

‘They call us failed anorectics,’ Aurora said.

‘Who? ‘ Gemma asked. ‘Who do they call ‘failed’ anorectics? And who’s ‘they’.’

‘Bulimics. That’s what people call bulimics. And ‘they’ are the medical profession.’

‘I’ve been bulimic too, you know,’ said Gemma defensively.

‘Oh, that wasn’t an attack on you. After all it’s not your fault that the medical profession chooses to play favourites.’

Gemma knew that was exactly what it was.