Bedroom 8

There was a 1960’s Olivetti typewriter on the dressing table, with a half finished letter cock-eyed in the carriage and three keys locked together in one metallic embrace – the consequence of a large yellow index finger striking them simultaneously. In the wardrobe lay three large sacks of letters (dating back to 1971) which had never seen a stamp. There was no need for the mail, when a man was corresponding with his past.
Cassette tapes, toiletries, cups and matches lay confused on every horizontal surface, while the man’s clothes modelled Mount Blanc on the floor, and his ‘patient’s charter’ fluttered in the breeze – countersigned by a key worker who emigrated to New Zealand in 1999.
On the bed, lay the man himself, trousers and underpants down to his ankles, waiting for his regular intra-muscular injection, fast asleep.


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