It was hopefully the final night of being in hospital, it was hot in there and between the temperature of the room, the sickness and the runs, there was little room for sleep.
Laying next to me was a patient whose wife had seen him admitted, but had to go back to the country to keep everything running, neither he nor I had seen a family member or friend for days, and we were both slipping into a kind of madness.
Nothing works unless you ask for it days in advance, there’s no TV and there’s no Phone, if you bring in a Radio it might work.
This Man wanted to phone his wife and tried to ring her, only to discover it wouldn’t let him, so he beat the crap out of it with the handset. Now I’m not one for vandalism, but I understand why he did it.
Behind the wall, someone who worked at the hospital was reciting a story they’d written, and now and then they would ask one of the nurses to play one of the characters, none of them were actors, that was plain, they all sounded like they were reading words from a page.
But the strangest thing about it was the story was about Wolfie the Werewolf.
I remember hearing bits and pieces of the story, and the accompanying score, for there was music to go with it, in between random hospital noises.
I would have got out of bed and tapped him on the shoulder, and shown him my t-shirt with my avatar on it, if I wasn’t so sick.
There he was, telling the tale aloud, while the real Wolfie was having a hard night, only meters away.
PS – His Wolfie died, I lived and went home to Katie.