January 1st
I've 'been a good little boy' and Santa brought me a diary! Seems Mr Claus neglected to check his list twice, cos if he knew how I got here, I doubt he'd have been so quick to pop a gift in my stocking.
But, the opportunity has presented it in so dear diary, you can look forward to my ramblings over the weeks to come. Coherence is not guaranteed – it's the painkillers, honest.
January 2nd
So, where to begin.
Almost two months after my escape from Larkhill, I'm still trapped. Trapped in a body that refuses to work properly. Trapped in a bed that I can't get out of. Trapped in a jigsaw of a brain that's missing several important pieces. But I'm finally starting to feel that there may be a light at the end of this seemingly unending tunnel. I can stretch my fingers enough to grasp a pen without wincing. Last week I managed to rest a book upon my chest without the pain sucking the air from my lungs. I believe the worst of the physical pain may at last be over and it's an odd feeling, I don't remember ever doing anything except hurting, but somehow I always knew that there had to be an alternative.
January 3rd
On my wristband it says 'Unknown White Male'. The nurses call me John. For all I know, that may be my real name, but I don't think so. In here, you're more identified by your ailments and your treatments than by a name or a face. It doesn't bother me – it's what I've always been used to.
My memory loss is being attributed to 'stress'. Physical wounds take precedence over the mental ones, as there's no point trying to heal the mind if the body gives up the ghost. The doctors have mainly focused on mending the body – it's far easier. Besides, the last time I talked to a psychiatrist I got the distinct impression that he thought I was lying. I'm scared that they know who I am, that they're just biding their time before sending me back. I think about running away, but deep down I know that this broken body wouldn't carry me very far. No, I'll cross that bridge if I come to it.
Damn it, I've spent too much time thinking about Larkhill and my mind's running away with itself again. They think I'm dead, surely they must think I'm dead. If they thought I was alive they'd have been here by now.
I wonder if the fire was on the news? I've no idea if it was a relatively public facility or somewhere top secret. Maybe I've got lucky, maybe no-one's supposed to know it exists, maybe that's why nobody's come looking for me.
January 4th
When Bill stumbled across me, half-dead in that river and still within staggering distance of Larkhill, he thought I was done for. Said so himself. All he wanted to do for me was end my pain, just as he would for a wounded animal he had no hope of saving. And right at that moment, I'd have been happy for him to do so. Yes, I was finally free, but the price I had paid was severe.
"We need to get you to hospital, lad"
Quandry. The last place I wanted to be was anywhere near another doctor. Ever. But, I wasn't going to be able to enjoy this hard-won freedom if I was dead. Valerie would not have approved, would not have accepted me giving up, so I complied. So many times during my time here, I wished I'd chosen the grave. To stop existing, to feel nothing, to feel no pain. But it was too late for that – on that November night I did as I was told and allowed Bill to take me to hospital. My only input was to request that he take me to London rather than Salisbury as he originally intended. I didn't want to be anywhere close to Larkhill. Deep down, I may have been hoping that the longer journey would give me time to succumb to my injuries, but it was not to be.
He agreed, thank god. I remember him soaking his coat in the river before wrapping me in it and helping me slowly up the hill to his Land Rover. I was so tired, I've never felt so tired. I assume I must have passed out when we got to the car as I remember virtually nothing of the journey. Only when we got to the hospital – I remember lots of people fussing around me, being lifted out of the car and put on a stretcher. Bright lights in my eyes, a breathing mask clamped over my face, glimpses of masked people wielding syringes and bags of fluid. I kept trying to fight them off and god knows what obscenities I was screaming.
January 5th
The staff thought I'd be lucky to last twenty four hours. They cleaned me, wrapped me in cooling sheets, filled me with fluids and did everything they could to make me comfortable, but I had the distinct impression that they were just trying to make my passing as easy as possible. It warmed my heart to see real compassion. Something in their manner soothed me so I calmed and willingly submitted to their treatments. I had to be intubated not long after I arrived, my throat was swelling up so much from the burns, so I couldn't speak. A pretty young nurse sat with me for hours that day, just talking to me about nothing in particular. Giving me a voice to focus on. Wiping away my tears when the salt water touched the burnt flesh of my face and made me wince.