Hatred Justifiable (Third Visit)

Textbook horror story; perfectly routine. When they are unfurled like that before your eyes it’s like some kinda cruel trick or joke that you need to endure to the end, before the flimsy put-on is conceded. The lady clinging to her husband in the corridor, holding tight and hurting him, he said. Just a week and I’ll come back to take you home. From her room across the way Mira wandered in jabbering something in Serbo-Croat, drawn by the voices it seemed. (Silence reigned ordinarily and the doors to the rooms carried colourful stickers of names of occupants.) Man with a Chinese name in the next room in his chair was slobbering food from his bowl. Attendants encountered were alert and cautious; complaints came from visitors of your kind. (You wrote friend in the paperwork at the desk, but those on the ground beyond hadn’t immediately gotten that. On subsequent visits it would dawn no friends ever paid visits here.) Even after almost a fortnight since the last visit, thankfully on entry the recognition was instantaneous. Again like last time at the hospital, the plums and grapes were consumed quickly, greedily, almost half of what had been brought. Somehow the newspaper and ciggies had been forgotten. Al punched the air in that old time way of the theatre, swinging his fist laterally close to his chest with some force, at news of the latter omission. One fine, lighthearted moment came at Al’s disgust voiced at the Hearld Sun, which had been fetched from the common room. I hate that paper. HATE it. Again, force and passion. You know I never bought it at the supermarket when they didn’t have The Age. The man was still present, still in attendance. It was great to see. The African attendant with the Mobility Captain insignia on his back got a serve for his rough, inconsiderate handling, very likely audible out in the corridor where he paced. A recent negligent shave had left one of Al’s sideburns an inch and a half longer than the other.