by Jay Bray
“What do you mean?” I said, “I’ve been no help at all. I giggled at the very suggestion.
“Yes you did,” she was laughing too now.
“I bloody didn’t.” I howled back.
She slapped the table and almost collapsed in hysterics.
“Course you did, you got the stuffing,” she screamed as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever said. Suddenly, the colour drained from me.
“What are you talking about?”
“That organic Sage you got me, Alan, you poncy git!” she waved over to the kitchen area. I stood up and looked over at what was clearly my now completely empty weed bag. The room started spinning and my legs buckled beneath me. I was having a whiteout. I had to lay on my back and try to keep my eyes closed as she cackled away above me.
I have no idea if it was seconds or hours that passed or how conscious I was. I just laid there ridged in a cold sweat. Every time I opened my eyes she was walking like an Egyptian to bloody ‘Run, Run, Runaway’ or playing shadow puppets on the wall. I know I heard at least two hours of ‘Run, Run, Runaway’, (she’d left the arm off on the record player). Finally she picked me up and placed me in the hammock. I felt like I had that locked in syndrome, she started stroking my eyebrows. I couldn’t move a muscle and I couldn’t say, “stop bloody stroking my eyebrows” either.
“Oh, look at you, fast asleep with your eyeballs open, Alan.”
I’m not asleep.
“You’re so delicate, you don’t even snore.”
I’m not asleep.
“You’re so precious to me...”
Oh God, here she goes.
“… That I just had to protect you.”
Yes, yes.
“That’s why I had to make you claustrophobic and all that.”
Hang on, what’s all this?
“I couldn’t have you leaving me.”
And with that she turned out the light, climbed in beside me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Son.”
If I could of spoke I’d have told her that I’m no longer speaking to her.
DAY AFTER BOXING DAY
There was a bit of turkey left and a single pig in blanket this morning. I do not believe I have dreaded a meal as much as lunchtime today. We really are down here with nothing to eat but sprouts. My poor guts are in agony and both of us have been back and forth to the bathroom all afternoon. We’ve sat around trying to ignore the sounds and smells emitting from us.
Mother tried to get me to play another game of Cluedo. The state of play down below – I’m scared to move or speak. I sneezed this afternoon and that was another pair of underwear completely ruined. I’ve just sat here holding my stomach, gas mask on leaving her to her word-searches and chain smoking.
We’re both pumping out so much nitrogen into the air that I’m waiting for her to blow us up every time she clicks her lighter. Not a good day
DAY AFTER THAT
Mother showed me some stomach exercises today that she said would help with the pain. They helped her rebuild her pelvic wall, apparently. Fair play though, it does push all the wind out in one go so at least it’s been safe to sneeze or cough today. They tire you out though and I keep dozing, which is fine by me as it’s getting really boring now. I had a dream about Mickey. We were both French and we were both cycling through some woods. I don’t know why or what it means as the dream was spoken in French and was all “Bla, bla de fer, deux la croissant.”.
PENULITMATE ENTRY
I only have these last pages left. I’m sorry diary, but I’ve run out of sponges and I’m ashamed to say I’ve been ripping your pages out to… well, I’m sure you can work it out. I’ve not got the stomach cramps anymore but we’ve eaten nothing but brussel sprouts for days, so there’s nothing solid in my movements. Mother keeps saying how much weight I’ve lost and how my complexion is clearing up. Even my asthma has improved, but I’m wondering whether that is more down to the gas mask I’ve been slipping on every time she sparks up another cigarette.
I’m wasting away, that’s what is going on. We should have stayed up top and got it over with. I leave this little bit spare in case I have the strength to record my final words.
LAST ENTRY
You won’t believe this but she’s gone out there. She ran out of cigarettes and was up the ladder and out of the hatch.
I’ll leave you here as a record of our final days as I’ve got to follow that mad bat out to our deaths. I’ve got to go, tell everyone I was a good boy.
Alan and his mother’s journey will continue…
