This reminds me of the time that I was a child. All those years ago before my transformation into a man I was definately a child. I lived with my mother and father and brother in a house in the country side on the slope of one of the sides of a valley. The air was sweet when I was a child. Everything is melancholic.
I had kites and a ball and I used to be an out doors kind of child. My brother and I used to roam in the garden. We would, from time to time cross the road in front of our house and lie in the field. At some times of the year the grass in the field was taller than my brother and I. I used to get scared that I would lose my brother. My brother is smaller and younger than me. If he gets lost in the grass it is definately my fault.
One day I thought I had lost my brother. I thought that someone had taken him away. I thought that a witch from the Roald Dahl book The Witches had tempted him away. I imagined my small brother in his grey jumper with his hand in the hand of a supernatural monster with burning eyes and ink for spit. This is my nightmare. A cold faced women ready to take my brother away. I am scared writing these innermost thoughts on to this website. I can definately feel a chill.
I hadn't lost my brother. He was nearer than I thought. That evening I had a nightmare. In my nightmare I was running from a monster. The monster was my brother - he was chasing me down the stairs. It was in black and white and slow motion. It was a terrifying dream. It recurs from time to time. At the end of it, my father appears. He has no eyes and covets mine. I cannot easily reconcile these feelings of terror with my contrasting feelings of affection.
This is what I am thinking of on my sofa. I look sometimes through an album of photographs. Memories are unreal. You can't identify with the photos in the book. They are private things; delicate. My television is talking to me. It is spewing on me. It offers me a release from my introspection. I seem to have a choice between pain and numbness. This is growing to be far too much. There is only one way for me to go.
I take a knife from the drawer. I sharpen the knife for thirty seconds. I place my hand on a chopping board. I slice my left hand's small finger off. There is an eruption of blood from My hand. I am screaming. I feel guilty, I feel tired, I think of my brother and family. I call an ambulance.
The ambulance men reattach my finger. I didn't know they could do that.