Black & White
It’s 1.45am. Up late, Anita shouting from her downstairs bed. She often wakes up in the night not making sense. She wishes to be sat up for some reason I can’t understand. I think she is only half awake. I notice blood on the pillow and check absurdly that it’s not coming from her brain. It’s just another accidental scratch to add to her bruised and battered body. In the hospital it was all I saw, a line always ran through my head (those broken bones in times of stones�). Like the bruises on her elbows life’s all black & white right now and has been for a while. All fight and toil. I lie awake and think of a photo downstairs, a close up of Anita on the ferry to Patmos, sun low in the sky warming her perfect skin. A settled smile on her lips that I’ll never see again. It doesn’t matter, it’s not something the soul needs, yet why do I still yearn then for a dash of colour.