A Day of Denial – Dead Deer

A Day of Denial

Wake up. Let it in. It comes in whether requested or not. Chew it over. Rolling around the head as a piece of grit may roll around an oyster shell. This is not a piece of grit, however, it is a large heavy uneven stone clanking about hurting as it bangs its way around, and around and around.

Nor will it produce a beautiful small bean, with that subtle lustre. No, all it produces is blackness, ever growing; in size as well as hue; ever darker, blacker than black.

Stop it. Stop the weighty ball of uncomfortable thought. Is it too late? It is there, it is too big, it doesn’t even fit in the head any longer. How to stop it? Think other thoughts, better yet; think no thoughts. Is that possible? Push it out, slowly slowly, close the boxes. The tentacles thrash out of the lids, try harder. The lids are closed, the wriggling appendages are captured for now, pull the duvet up over the haunted head.

Now. How to get out of bed?

Days such as these, every day, are days without end. Willing the time to pass quicker; yet willing the days to not still come. On days like this shut out the reality, ignore the world around you, build moment by moment a bubble around you, a bubble of now. It is not happening. On days like this the only hope is to maintain a full day of denial.

Today I wrote from 08:30 to 08:40

November Writing Prompts – Read more from the Dead Deer and follow it.

The Haunting of Harold Hemmings

He wouldn’t let it lie. He could have let it lie, but he wouldn’t let it lie.

He should have let it lie. He might have let it lie, but he didn’t let it lie.

A scab. A scab that was spread over the inflamed, red, angry, soft flesh of skin knitting to skin, the magic of invisible antibodies and plasma and reconstructing cells building walls and carrying on their pre-programmed business, beavering away. The temperature of the area of flesh was heightened, betraying the furious action going on underneath, the itch another symptom as the nerves transferred to the brain the knowledge of furious action, repairing and fixing and mending. Things were being made better, beneath the surface. But on the surface, it was a scab. An ugly scab, yellow and brown and dry blood black and even, around the edge, a hint of pustulous green. Its surface was uneven, misshapen and irregular. It sat over the healing, a mockery of the fine and natural processes going on underneath. And it was strangely stiff, unyielding like a carapace, but this was unnatural. The very fact that the scab was hard and nasty meant that it could not flex with the skin beneath, and this mismatch was what made it irresistable to the touch.

Time and again his hand went back to the scab, picking it, rubbing it, moving it from side to side and feeling the unpleasant hot itch-pain of the tug on the damage that was hidden.

He wouldn’t let it lie.