Chapter Eight - 'Blewbs

Michael sits in the therapy garden, dimly lit by the city lights in the background, a green canvas bag packed to the brim beside him.

“Whatcha got there?” I ask curiously.

“Blueberries! I’ve gone a bit mad on blueberries. I bought 10 punnets. Do you want a punnet? Have a punnet!”

Stubbing out my cigarette on the bottom of my Docs and examining the produce, which, to be fair, look like mushy hell, I graciously accept as to not be rude.

I’m so tired. I spent today gagging into a plastic bag (that was then abruptly taken away by the “environmental checkers” to ensure I would not try to, quite literally, ‘plastic bag’ myself) and crying, feeling all forms of cooked, feeling the fear of forgetting what it felt like to have to start again.

I muster all the thanks I can.

“Fuckin’ blewbs”.

Michael mutters about antioxidants as I trudge back upstairs to find Lisa sitting up in bed, lights on, with photos of her children tacked to the wall. I smile in secret, knowing that she will get her light back surely as the sun shall shine.

“Want a blueberry? Michael just gave me some, but I only took them to be polite. He also kissed me very near on the mouth” I tell her, and her eyes widen.

“Ruby, you have to report things like that. That’s sexual assault”.

Is it? I always thought sexual assault was more along the lines of, well…rape.

I’ve never wanted to get anybody in trouble, but the men in here have attempted to be quite the opposite of PG with me in here since I arrived.

Truthfully, some of the things I’ve heard have been fucking disgusting. Like I said, prison talk. Speaking about the nurses as if they were literal pieces of meat with a few holes pulverised in, and exactly what they would do with those holes given the chance. I ark up at one point, telling them that they are putrid – but when an obvious (and soon to be verified) meth dealer looks at you with murderous eyes, one has to pick and choose their battles. I’d prefer to stay alive, despite my admission form.

On the first floor, President Cheeto’s face fills the small, dusty TV screen. I shouldn’t have judged everybody so quickly – everyone immediately rolls their eyes, makes a gagging noise or simply yells “eat a dick, you orange fuck”.

We begin discussing humanity and what it means. We decide that it all comes down to a simple but incredibly underused trait—empathy.

“Fucking Americans” Alistair spits.

Fucking Americans indeed.

I return upstairs to find a new patient sitting with Graeme, another Scot-And-Pepper nurse in his early 50’s. Reeking of cigarettes and not particularly up for a chat, I avoid them at all costs.

“You shouldn’t smoke, lady!” The woman calls out. I roll my eyes and mouth “fuck off” to…well, no one and everyone simultaneously.

“Darlin’, after the things this wee lassie has been through, she fockin’ needs it, loov.”

I smile before erupting into a giggle. Faith in humanity — and medical professionals — restored. The sound of a Scottish accent isn’t so bad anymore.