Flux

absorbed. On his bed in the white room, with his knees tucked up and the book resting on them, the world outside ceased to exist.
    At lunchtime he paused for a sandwich and a cup of juice, mumbling a thank-you to the lady who bought it to him. As soon as he’d finished, he started to read again. Pills were bought to him and he swallowed them without question; hardly raising his eyes from the page. The bell sounded for dinner and he sat up, rubbing bleary eyes before placing his book on the pillow and standing. One of his legs had gone to sleep and he almost fell over. Shaking it, he limped to the dining room. Looking around he saw Anne, who waved. Adrian and Geoff were there too but Iain didn’t make eye contact for fear of triggering another assault. The girl in the pink pyjamas was also there, as were a handful of others. The punk with a face full of metal, the rocking, slobbering old woman; the quiet bearded man who never spoke and a couple of normal looking middle aged ladies. Iain couldn’t stand the thought of company, even Anne’s, so he found an unoccupied table in the corner and tucked into his spaghetti bolognaise; it was tasteless and dry.
    All the time he looked at his plate, not in the mood to engage anyone in conversation. When he’d finished, he asked one of the nurses to accompany him to the small enclosed garden for a cigarette. The nurse had to light it for him as patients weren’t allowed lighters.
    Iain liked the garden; a small paved area with some kind of ornate palm trees in large, square wooden containers. It was surrounded by the red brick of the hospital walls rising up on all four sides. Despite its enclosed position, the garden still managed to catch some sunlight at certain times of the day. It was not one of those times, but the sky was overcast anyway and the air had a slight chill about it.
    With his cigarette finished, Iain threw the butt into one of the pots at the base of a tree where still smoking, it joined many others before he made his way back inside. Going to his room, he once again assumed his reading position on the bed and continued to study the bible. What he expected to learn from the book he didn’t know, but at least intense reading provided a distraction and alleviated the boredom of staring at the same four white walls.

    He didn’t know what the time was when the alarm went. Reading until well into the night, Iain woke with his face pressed to the open page, the paper dampened by his spittle. Thinking there must be a fire, he went to the door, opening it a little at first and poking his head out only to see doctors and nurses racing about; heading directly for Anne’s room. One of the nurses was going to the doors of the other patients, such as himself, telling them to go back to bed and that there was nothing to worry about. Screams and sobs from the other patients were intermingled with the high pitched siren which fortunately went quiet after a minute or two. Iain could still hear it ringing in his ears long after it fell silent. He wondered what had happened but was ushered back into his room and the door locked behind him. Before it fully closed he caught a glimpse of Anne, wheeled on her bed and dripping blood onto the tiled floor as medical staff worked frantically on her.
    Now fully awake, he returned to his bible, sure he’d find out what had happened to Anne in the morning.

    “You mustn’t blame yourself you know?” Doctor Jenkins was saying.
    “For what?” The doctor had woken him from his sleep and Iain still didn’t know the full details about what had happened.
    The doctor bit his lip and a look crossed his face, a look that gave away the fact he’d said too much too soon. “Ah, Anne committed suicide last night.”
    “What? How?” Iain was puzzled and feeling a little panicked.
    “She stole some cutlery from the dining room and opened up her scars. I know you two were close.”
    “Were we?” and then, “What has it got to do with me?” thinking back to the doctor’s opening words of the conversation. “Why would I blame myself?”
    “It’s really not your fault,” he said. “She had some very deep-seated issues.”
    “Why would I think it my fault?” frustrated now and a little angry at the lack of answers.
    “”She mentioned you a lot you know, thought you had a bond.”
    “I hardly knew her. We played a game once.”
    “Well,” he continued in his characteristically soft voice, “she thought a little