Fallow by David Streader

Morphine and IV drips. Catheters and hospital food. Dark grey skies, cold wind. Nicotine and Xanax. Heartbreak and restrained tears. A headache that comes after work, throbbing, until the tablets take their course. Self medication and disassociation techniques. Glazed eyes and plastic plants. A life under fluorescence, subconscious green, tinting the skin of the patients. Subtle insults, patronising compliments. A constant electrical buzz. Anxiety, anti-anxiety, anxiety. Vague sense of filth and bacteria, the overwhelming stench of bleach and chlorine. Cheap coffee, rushed cigarettes. Time races and stands still simultaneously. Mild heart palpitation, traffic fumes. Junk food and sadness. Morning coughing, yellowing teeth. Someone smiles a sweet pitying smile. Brief conversations in the break room; an uncle who had a stroke, a grandparent’s recent death. Valium and caffeine pills. Memories of a suicide, a mother of four hanging in the family bathroom, no note left - a commentary on the rest of us. The pills they say, the doctors gave her the wrong ones. Rubbing eyes, the sun sets again. The sad cold day turns to a sadder colder night. The veins in her temple, they pound. Then TV, then a fitful broken sleep, sweating, shaking. Dreams of death and forgotten friendships. And work. Dreams of work. Until the 5pm alarm goes off. Snooze for nine minutes, snooze for nine minutes more. Coffee and cigarette, peak hour traffic once more. The morning radio, play advertisements and insincere odes to love. Traffic accident, everyone slows down to look. To see if maybe they can catch a glimpse of a corpse, of their own mortality. She won’t look, she’s seen enough death already. She takes the offer of overtime. Mopping up the fluids, watching the clock. The trip to is as exhausting as the trip from. Mild paranoia. Nausea and tremors. Someone’s fucked up. You don’t seem very happy these days, someone says. She stoops over to pick up a discarded magazine, its cover of upset celebrities reminds her of her own divorce. Bring the kids back on time or they can’t see daddy next weekend. Make a phone call. A lingering feeling that she is standing on the edge, about to fall in. It’s the people they say. The people around you will pull you back. She wonders if the doctors have given her the right pills, runs in the family they say. God this place hasn’t changed in thirty years. She sighs, and tries to imagine a time when it wasn’t this bad…