Posts Tagged ‘waking’


Truly this phone camera is a wondrous thing. This is taken from Cockle Bay pedestrian bridge looking back towards the city. Posting this photo, however, reminded me of a chore I needed to complete today; thus it was that I went out to purchase a new mirror for my bedroom wall.

There’s a place that sells them on Parramatta Rd, reasonably close to where I live. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been to a bona fide mirror store before, but it was really quite interesting. I discovered one towards the back of the store that seemed to have one of those strange optical illusions, where it catches an obscure reflection and casts it back at you. I kept catching a reflection out of the corner of my eye that looked like a face – just you know, sort of floating there – but every time I looked back it was gone. Strange the way the mind tricks you. I really considered buying it for a while, for novelty value, but it looked quite heavy with such an ornate frame, and I don’t think my walls are really durable enough to support it. Something did seem to be telling me to buy it though.

In the end I opted for a full-length mirror with a plain wooden frame. It’ll do the job it’s made for, which is all that really matters.

I did go and see the Girl yesterday. She was awake when I got there, and looking a good deal better than the last time I’d seen her, though still very pale and wan, and the cuts over her eyes healing into scars. When I asked her name, she told me to call her Eva. I suspect it may not be her real name. I explained how I’d found her – she didn’t remember it, unsurprisingly – and asked whether she had any family or people the hospital had contacted. She looked at me intently for a few moments, then shook her head.

“None that would come,” she said.

I was starting to feel rather strange, standing in a hospital ward talking to this girl I didn’t know. I wondered whether I’d been an idiot to come. And decided in the affirmative.

But Eva seemed to take my pause as an expectation of elaboration. “I have a couple of sisters, but one’s high as a kite most of the time and the other doesn’t speak to us any more. She married some rich guy, yeah? She’s a bitch anyway.” Pause. “My Mum always used to say she was no better than she should be. Slut.”

This last sentence was uttered with such venom that I was unsure if she was referring to her mother or her sister. I decided I had probably stayed too long in an case, and half-heartedly offered her my phone number, which she took. I told her I hoped she’d be better soon, and she said she did too. With a definite tinge of bitterness.

As I turned to go, she spoke again.

“Hey, um… thank you. Y’know.” She appeared to be addressing the hospital blanket draped over her lap. Her injured foot formed a bandaged bulge at the end of the bed.

“Any time,” I replied.


Read Full Post »