But what does it tap into, I wonder? What about that?
You see, a lot of strange things have happened in my life,
what with the moving shadows on the walls and floors, the footsteps on the
stairs, the objects which move unaccountably, my own wraith being seen by a
reliable witness walking the floor of the dorm while my body slept at the far
end, doors which open and close by themselves when there’s nothing to explain
it… And then there was the black dog which leapt out of the wall of my bedroom with
fangs barred back in the winter. That was the best of them all; that one had
even me – familiar as I am with strangenesses – shaking slightly and
questioning the wisdom of turning the light back off. The dark presence which
enfolded me in ice and said it had come to kill me a few weeks later was
relatively minor fare compared with the black dog.
‘You must be seriously psychotic,’ I hear you scoff. Actually,
I’m not. That's the point. So when I finally ring down the curtain on this latest episode of
physical existence I intend to ask those in the know a question:
‘Where was Hermione when I was young and fit and free? Why
did you hold her back all those years?’
But I already know what their reply will be:
You weren’t mature
enough then.
And so I wasn’t.
* * *
I probably shouldn’t be making this stuff public, but who
cares? Maybe I should mention in passing, though, that I had a good practice
with the hedge trimmer today to see how my post-operative body would react. It
wasn’t too bad, but I don’t think I’m ready for the tall stuff yet. The experts
say I should be back to normal some time between the end of September and the
end of next March. That's if I'm not asking the question by then.
No comments:
Post a Comment