Night Harvesters
by Frances Tate
The last vestiges of my humanity escaped on
lengthening shadows. But whether that was this night or
the night before, I could not say. Time is not marked as it
once was. There are no recitals to prepare for, no
invitations for afternoon tea or shopping trips. I cannot
remember the last such event. What remains of my
consciousness is an accidental gap in a morphine regime.
These infrequent gaps are longest during the night. Heavy
meals and excellent port leave the doctors soporific. Cheap
brandy crafts somnambulists out of orderlies.
The Harvester makes sure to keep all ‘secret’
supplies well-stocked.
Since I stopped screaming and scratching, my
sweat-stained near corpse has been left comparatively
unmedicated. Medication. Irony pushes my face into a
grimace of a smile. Medicine should suggest knowledge or at
least benevolence. After being unwillingly admitted to this
place for my own good I harbour serious doubts about the
presence of either. And the casualties of my lost belief do
not end there. The twelve-inch-long hardwood figure
above my head surveys me knowingly. He is a mirror of
my immediate past; betrayed, outcast, stripped and bled,
and a silent testament to what happens next.
Embracing immortality hurts. Thorns and nails for
Him, rough leather cuffs and straps for me. He was not
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