Once were warriors

David B. stands over me sternly: "I don't want to feel like I'm in the toilet with you Jennifer."

I cower obligingly. But I have decided to chronicle my madness. How do I do that without being personal? He likes Anne Sexton, so maybe. But I'm not her. I just have these feelings, this madness, which I can feel taking over again.

Sort of like someone just stripped off a skin and everything hurts. Again. I long for the escape of red wine. But this is Malaysia. And the wine is overpriced or awful. And if I opened a bottle, it couldn't rest on my desk while I went through it. No, the moment I opened it I would have to finish it. Or watch it turn sour. Like my stomach.

And then there is the churning. I feel my body curl up, foetal. And I throw a blanket over myself and tell the world, stay out, at least for today, I need to disappear.

But there is that gentle tug. Wake up, Jennifer, wake up. You cannot escape. Not this time. You are here. Plant your feet. Home.

Home? I choke indignantly. This is supposed to be home?

I lost the key, now they're all strangers, I tell the voice. And I strain to listen, to catch the tones. Male? Female? Kind? Austere? Who is it talking to me through these folds?

It sounds like, it sounds like, but it can't be. Not...

"Stop it Jennifer, get a grip. I told you, I don't want to feel like I'm in the toilet with you." David again, interrupting.

Shut the fuck up! I rant. You can bloody leave if you don't want to be here. You're no longer my tutor. You can't tell me what to do. Disappear!

He does.

And there are birds. With strident voices. A tormented cacophony. Phony. Yes.

Once there was sweetness. Once, we were warriors.

Once were warriors...