Some years ago I attempted to kill my wife – twice. I was deranged, and much has happened to me since. My crime, and all that followed after was so shocking and life-changing that I thought I should write it all down, from beginning to end.
You see, I lost my mind: well for a bit, and couldn’t remember my wife or my failed attempts to murder her, or anything about my life before my car crash until I …
No. I shouldn’t tell you anymore. It’ll spoil the story.
I can remember I lay on my back on a metal bed with clean, white sheets in a grey room. Wires and plastic tubes appeared everywhere. Close by, monitors with nothing but strange, wiggly lines running across them bleeped loudly at me. The room smelt strongly antiseptic. I guessed I was in a hospital.
Through the hazy blur of my vision I could make out the silhouette of a woman closing in on me. As she drew near, I could see her more clearly. She was beautiful with long hair down to just below her shoulders and piercing blue eyes. She took hold of my hand and said something I couldn’t understand. She repeated it. I think it sounded like Guy. Another woman, who wore a white coat, came closer and took hold of my wrist. The small breast pocket of her jacket was stuffed untidily with an array of objects. A couple of pens, a flat, wooden, spatula-like object, a pair of shiny, metal scissors and a rolled-up stethoscope all competed for space. Her glasses hung on the outside of the pocket, precariously attached by one of the foldaway arms.