The Morning After (Observations)

We were greeted at Emergency by the sight of a person laying limp and unmoving on the ground, one arm bent behind their back like a cord of reeds. A large bare patch marked their scalp, edged by pale tape. They were surrounded by armed statues with bold white letters adorning their chests like scrollwork. He was so still I wondered if I was seeing my first dead body.

 

I went outside to breathe. I always remain calm for these moments, then crumble like wet paper once alone. I sat on the cement of the alley and cried. I was cold, pulling my clothes over me in unnatural places to keep warm and all I could think about was how history repeats itself - a trip to Melbourne, the hospital, waiting somewhere cool for too long, wrapping myself over myself over and over until I was unrecognizable.

 

A man arrived with two cups of warm something and a brown paper bag. He held the cups up high, like proof of his innocence. "My brother John," he said, "has been brought in for an involuntary psychiatric assessment." The words came from him in a familiar tone - with calm, crisp and rehearsed concern. I watched him carefully carry those two cups and the brown bag, which contained two treats for two brothers.