Black Linen 1 & Black Linen 2
“How? What’s the possibility?”
The technician questioned the video frame in front of him.
He was taught in school that videos represent moving visual images. And of course, these images have to be real and physical.
So how was it that the things that happened in reality did not correspond with the frame? He questioned further.
He turned around to face the person beside him.
Her face was in awe; she was mute.
The care workers had found Mrs. Sanders knee bent at the corner of her ward.
Her palms were bruised and bleeding.
It was crimson red everywhere; blood was gushing from her ears. And this was made more obvious because what was once white was now covered in red.
“She’s not saying anything that makes sense.”
“But at least she’s speaking words.”
“Why would you ask me that?’
“I can’t make sense of it. Maybe it’s another language.”
“Take me to her.”
Mrs. Sanders’ atmosphere wasn’t filled with anything – or anyone – anymore.
They had cleaned her up and gave her medicine to keep her nerves calm.
A doctor and a care worker stepped into her ward.
She was seated at the edge of the bed.
“Good day Mrs. Sanders”
The doctor introduced himself.
“This is a new care worker personally assigned to you.”
He introduced her.
He drew out a pen torch from his left breast pocket. Then pulled her chin up and asked her to open up her eyes.
Moving from eye to eye, he shone the torch in her eye. It was routine.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
She looked at him and then at the other lady in their midst. Noticing the lady’s stockings had a tear in the knee, she chuckled.
Her eyes now laid on the doctor’s.
The doctor began with his questionnaire.
“Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”
She took her eyes away from his to the floor. Nodding swiftly. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. Her nods came in segments.
“Mrs. Sanders please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
1 2 3. 1 2 3.
The doctor let out a sigh and glanced briefly at the other lady.
“Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”
1 2 3. 1 2 3. She kept nodding.
Noticing her hands between her knees, he made a gesture towards the care worker; she removed Mrs. Sanders hands from knees and placed them on her lap.
She was fidgeting.
A notepad was drawn out from his left breast pocket of his white coat. He drew out a stool from underneath the table to his left, positioned it in front of her and placed on it; the notepad with the pen torch.
He asked her to pick it up.
She did, fidgeting still.
“Mrs. Sanders please write your answer down. Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”
Her fingers cramped as she tried to scribble down, her wrist twisted as she tried to aid her grip with her left hand.
“Mmhm.” She uttered sounds of distress.
She was finding it hard to write.
Frustration. The doctors as well the care workers had become well acquainted with distress. But no one was brave enough to utter any phrase suggestive of such; rather throw mints into their mouths than let out a metaphorical version of same.
The medical examiner had now become a forensic examiner. He placed the piece of paper into the light, attempting to claim lucidity.
The world had denied him of lucidity.
“Okay, I’m beginning to feel my IQ reduce. There’s so much stress from the Sanders family.” He became the first to plead insanity.
The examiner looked the doctor in the eye for a brief moment, “Well asides from the fact that she was able to write backwards with such perfection, the letters keep scrambling every time I take a look. And I’m not dyslexic.”
The doctor let out a mean chuckle with a hook to compliment it.
They both turned in an angle of 90 degrees, facing the computer screen, bidding to decipher who Mrs. Sanders was speaking to in her ward.
“Every day your hunger for attention eats off the hair on your head.”
“I believe that her understanding of what you say to her is ‘you are not doing enough.’”
The voices filled Mrs. Sanders atmosphere again, with renewed voice boxes and vocal cords their oratory skills were impressive.
“There was a time when bells were only decorative, learning about the possibility of an alarming ring a thrill.”
“Futures are the least quality versions of what could have been and that which was anticipated.”
“What did you mean? What did you mean by I killed him? He’s my son!” she questioned.
“Woman you’re ringing a bell for no cause, this future I definitely anticipated could not have been in a much worse version as this? Does she think someone else killed her male child?”
“It cannot be; you say these accusations to get my mind affixed to the circular motions of a wash machine. What was it I said before? There is now no condemnation in Him.” Her reply was quick.
“You see; of all the lies you tell the greatest is the one you have come to believe to be true; you are a sheep amongst his flock. You are lost! And your shepherd is not coming to find you. Call to death, let him kiss you.”
Mrs. Sanders was in tears and her weeping had a voice of its own. Wearier than she was, her eyes let out tears of blood.
“Maybe I should call on death.” She said in her heart and to herself.
“Woman! we can hear you!” the voices spat out, matter-of-factly.
“You should not have,” she rose from the bed and ran to the foot of the bunk, pulling it toward the door “this ends now, I’m going to meet my maker, I might even have an outrageous burst of madness because I will dare to question God.”
“Ah,” they laughed at her in ridicule “woman dare not to call on us in blaming and finger pointing! Dare not be an Eve.”
She began to speak under her breath, “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”
“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!” she was now sobbing in mourn of Kenneth.
“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!” She reached for the base of her mattress and lifted the edge up, retrieving the pen she had stolen from the examiner. “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”
Her eyes were affixed to the ceiling above her as she stood in the centre of the ward, “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”
She stretched her left hand in a fidgeting manner, with her right she sharply dashed the tip of the pen to her mid forearm and tore open letting the blood that gave her life flow out. There was a spin, her disabled arm spun in a rotation, leaving a circle of blood around her. At this moment she began to hear noises at the door.
After an attempt was made to open the door, the person behind the closed door had come to a rather slow realisation that force was required to easily open the door, buying Mrs. Sanders more time.
In screaming utterance, she said, “Spirits of air, sand and sea! Converge to set the angel free. In the wind, send this rhyme. Bring death before me before my time!”
At the same time, the door was forced open; the ground tore open letting out an unmistakably disturbing dark wind which rose up to the ceiling in a swirl. The sound waves that accompanied the blemished wind took an odd form, hitting hard blows into the atmosphere. It was an injurious brawl, and the ear drums of those close by became victimised.
Even with bloody eyes, one could make out the eyes of a woman longing to be taken away, and with a kiss. Reverse sleeping Beau.
“It is time.” she said under her breath.
“I envy you, even in another life…”