Olivia's Diary VI

Read Part 1 here.

Part 2 here.

Part 3 here.

Part 4 here.

Part 5 here.

Riding back into London on the train.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Train cramped like rats, “planned engineering works”, engineering death traps, soon to blow.

Nonononono.

Don’t fucking sit next to me.

Palestine windowpanes, paranoia kicking in, serial killer fetishism everywhere, come and murder the overlords please because it can’t get worse.

It can get worse.

Imperial debris, death around the corner, abandon ship.

Blood Sappho seeks slaveland auction everywhere, burn my eyes and begging the blind for forgiveness.

Called Dad, told him I’m here. “Get the fuck up here immediately”.

Is she alive, is she dead?
Am I?

City like a graveyard, no trust, postcard blues, rich pickings for the birds.

****

Lying in the hospital, lying in the train, lying in my heart.

Olivia Fox, photographer extraordinaire. Get lost girl.

Fair pastures flying me by, like a lark soaring over the fields and nosediving into Great British fog.

Oceans pounding the shores, cut off from the island by the air.

One day I am going to sail to India and find out for myself what we’re made of.

Gina standing on the rocks watching me go. Andromeda shattered, Perseus with better places to be.

I’d turn to stone just to see her again.

Fuck.

What am I doing here?

Italy my heart, England a backwash of bones.

****

She locks eyes with me by the hospital bed. Sweet pretty thing, can’t be older than twenty four. Those hospital overalls aren’t exactly flattering, but they have a certain sway.

And there’s something else to her, mind.

Stick poke tattoos on the knuckles read goth-girl sharp edged bite.

And the dusky voice, the light on her face, her throat.

Professionally entwined but I sense we have a certain spark.

So help me God.

Momma Fox comatose and I’m cruising. Well mum, you always did say do what makes you young.

The others hardly speak to me so its just her and Nurse Cassie.

Not that I mind.

“I guess you had a long journey?” she asks. “I’m sorry.”

What for, Cassie, you beautiful flytrap sweetheart?

“I was in Italy. Not the best reason to come home.”

“No”.

“It could be worse. The others could be talking to me.”

Machine beeps.

“I did notice”, Cassie begins, trailing off.

“It’s ok. It’s not like they’re being subtle about it.”

“No.”

“Fuck them. I’m here. She’s here. We can figure the rest after.”

“Yes”. Forcing a smile.

I notice her hands as she’s adjusting mum’s tubes.

I see.

Fascinating.

2 freaks of 21st century medical science, both of them dancing on the tightrope with God.

Mum is cold and still.

Cassie is warm.

****

She sits with us often, talking about Mum, to Mum, about the hospital routines and the porters she’s friends with. I plan my visits to avoid Dad. We both silently consent.

I plan to overlap with Cassie’s shifts too.

Sometimes she’s called away to other wards and I sit with Mum for the day, watching her breathe and feeling numb, studying the body that bore me and fed me. I look at her in mild disgust, imagining the wilted flesh, the sap that once made Dad weak.

I’ve spent my whole life photographing bodies. Watching them. Worshiping them.

I picture Cassie, standing in the shower at the end of a hard day, shrouded in steam, proportions all wrong.

I want to slip my arms around her, hold her, whisper in her ear.