The Devil

November 14th 1996.

Late morning in Walsall. Rain in the wind. Mid-November. Black clouds. A pale sun that goes in, and then out, and then just stays away.

In the out-patients department, there is a log-jam of geriatric bodies trying to shuffle to desks and stations. Some have got to the other side and wait for hospital transport, sipping weak tea, moaning; always moaning, about doctor A,B or C, or their bowel motions or the death of Mr X,Y and Z. There's no young people to be seen, just me in my early thirties. I tell myself amid all the bodily decay that there is  nothing wrong with me. I yawn, feel sick  and wait for a door to open.

12:05 pm

The door opens and she looks up at me from behind her desk. My consultant's name is 'Sandra.' She is a scrawny, sallow-faced woman on the cusp of fifty. She is shabby and poorly dressed. She does not give off any air of solidity or trust. I am immediately worried by her silence.
She breaks her face and says, 'I am sorry to tell you Mr. Moseley that your MRI scan shows that you have a Brain Tumour.' Everything goes strange. Everything is still but moving. Everyone is silent but talking. Everyone is looking but not seeing. Everything is. Everything is. Everything is...
I stand and question what I've just heard. My ex-wife is crying hard in funeral sobs. 'Sandra's' talking and harping on, and on, in a strange tongues. I look into her eyes and then she starts spitting, her head is spinning around and around, her nails are scratching the wooden table, her feet are stamping one, two, three, four and then she starts laughing. Laughing.

12:20 pm

Back down the corridor walking on air. Sitting in the car. Then back on the road where every black and evil thing crawls out from its dirty hole. The rats are shifting beneath the pavements, the crows split the rubbish bags for new carrion, a hearse stops at the traffic lights, babies in push-chairs are screaming and bawling. I look out of the window, waiting for 'war, famine, pestilence and death' to ride by. I bury my head in my hands and see nothing but black.

1:30 pm

On the bed sobbing, the pillow's soaked. Cotton and lachrymose. Have to remember to collect the kids from school. Have to tell the kids the truth. Need to sleep and find a better place...