The night-screaming pirate had quieted down, although I didn’t hear the sound of any punches for encouragement. Maybe they used drugs and he quietly went off with fairies. I could have sworn I saw gossamer wings. Maybe that was my drugs.
I opened my eyes to close off the now quiet hospital drama and turn on the night time channel – the only channel available.
a youngish man with a moustache like the 118 men sport, dark,
with matching full eyebrows. A bouffant of wavy,
Methusala-like snake-ends hair.
There no visible wounds, such my surgical throat slashing.
His eyes were closed, but he was talking constantly in a conversational tone, as if answering questions with one word: am.
But no one was asking him anything.
I looked at the whiteboard trying to get his name – it was Mothy.
Well, that put him in a different light. He became Eastern European in appearance, Albanian probably.
He agreed: am.
Wait a minute. I shift myself so I can get a better look as doctors and nurses appear around the bed. (I am such a nosy reporter) They ask him questions and he responds with an additional vocabulary: yeah.
Do feel that? Yeah.
Are you comfortable with that? Am.
Let us know when it hurts: yeah.
In my new vantage point I can see that his name isn’t Mothy. It’s Timothy. That blows the Albanian theory then, and believing in stereotypes.
So, there’s a plot twist in the never-ending drama of the night time channel (no television licence required). And there was to be a surprise ending to my hospital stay yet to play on the daytime channel.