Dear Diary, your weekly escape from reality.
Sunday 14th September
David wasn't stupid enough to sleep at night. Every time he shut his heavy black eyelids he was bombarded with horrible images
of her, of Sarah, of his bride, all dressed in white, spattered with red, saying her vows in a puddle of thick stinking blood, in
health and in sickness, horrible sickness. He let out a moan and her arm slid around him from somewhere in the bed, he rolled
away from it.
As much as he tried to escape it, sleep came soon, the inevitable, drifted over his tortured sweat-streaked carcass. He dreamed
of him and his wife seated at the abortion clinic. For some reason it was an exact replica of the local animal hospital. There
people sat clutching cages and cat-boxes, staring at him. An old woman with an german shepherd flashed an ugly grin in his
direction, and he looked down at the pamphlet in his hands, flicked from page to page admiring jolly little pictures of smiling men
in white coats holding suction tubes.
"Sarah Dixon" called a nurse. Sarah pulled her bag onto her shoulder and to David's horror she just upped and left, no goodbye,
no you-can-come-too, no ah-what-the-hell-maybe-i-won't-kill-your-baby-after-all-feller, no nothing.
Let me introduce you to David and Sarah Dixon. They married young and left it a little too late to have kids. Selling second-hand
cars must give you an amazing sperm count or something because one night fifty year old David managed to send one flying
through his lovely wife's inner workings slap bang into the center of her last crumbling egg, the sound of biological clocks ticking
filled the room. Having passed the point in her life where having kids is anything but a hideous nightmare, Sarah did the
honourable thing and had the little freak blood-hoovered out of her. End of story, or so she thought. Months of non-stop
arguments later and David still hated her for it.
This night, Sarah couldn't sleep. She just lay there listening to David's moanings. "No, no, no, no, please, don't, no" was all she
heard from his side of the bed and she knew what he was dreaming about. She slid out of bed and trotted off to the bathroom to
take a p*ss. Her womb felt so empty. "No!" he bellowed, how the hell did he sleep through that?
In David's head he burst into the operating theatre, a pure white room, sterile, meat hooks dangling from the ceiling, dripping
blood onto Sarah, naked on the floor, her back to him, taking an ungodly range of things from a silver tray and
poking them in and out of her, sitting in a puddle of blood, a knitting needle, a hairdryer, a wire coathanger, car keys, a
hairbrush, scissors, a baby rattle, a pinecone, a vibrator, a teddy bear, wooden clothes pegs and an electric toothbrush, crouched over herself, ringlets dangling into
the huge red puddle, a bloody mutilated mess, in health and in sickness, hideous sickness.
Sarah watched David moan and pull the covers tighter from her safe position on the toilet.
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