Friday 15:00
I watch him walk away, then dry my face and press the red button by the side of my bed. A middle-aged nurse comes in to see me within a couple of minutes, and I’m glad; I don’t have any time to waste. She has a pixie haircut and big green eyes, accentuated with lashings of liquid liner that has smudged a little. I notice that she looks at least ten years older than the photo on her badge.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asks.
‘I need to leave the hospital.’
Her face pauses while her mind plays catch-up, processing what I’ve just said.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
Her patronising tone makes me like her less than I did a moment ago.
‘Probably not, but it’s what I’m going to do. Thank you, for everything, but I really need to go now. Are there some forms you need me to sign to say I’m discharging myself?’
It isn’t the first time I’ve done this; I know the drill. I can’t stand being in hospitals – the stench of death and despair – and there are things I need to do that can’t wait.
‘Let me go and get the doctor,’ the nurse says.
I lie back on the bed while I wait. The doctor will try to persuade me to stay no doubt, but it’s pointless. Once my mind is made up about something, there really isn’t anyone who can change it. Including myself.
Plus, I could really do with a drink.
As soon as the nurse is out of sight, I reach for the locker next to my bed and take out my bag. I know there isn’t any alcohol left inside, but that isn’t what I’m looking for.
I’m pleased to see that the knife that killed them all is still there.