‘Onwards, Upwards’ by Stephen Whitaker

This is all a little absurd. An ending which was inevitable but is not conclusive. Three years where life exploded into being elsewhere, yet we witnessed the detritus of this visitation in silence, a silence save for cacophonous birdsong, the arrhythmia of croquet, occasional prolonged screams.
I shed my vestments with the terrible solemnity of a Hecuba, but know the secret relief. The carbolic, the scrubs, the sensory deprivations of singular exposure to medicine, and to its septic nemesis, blossom in the web of cooling wind. The sun is a brilliant disc swimming in an empty sky.
It wasn’t for me, in the end. I will grow a new skin. We will all grow new skin. We will have no choice, I think.

Stephen Whitaker