I have just returned from the doctor's and am sitting here reading the information insert from the pack of amitryptalin I've been prescribed. Though I'm lucky I have anything at all. I'm lucky I even saw the doctor.
When I arrived just shy of 2pm and announced my name, the secretary's jaw dropped. “Is this some kind of a joke?” she asked, looking at me as if I were a ghost.
“These?” I asked pulling up at the paisley pyjama bottoms I was wearing.
“No, err... hang on a minute, Mr. Spe....” And with that she jumped up and was gone. A moment later she retuned with a half running Dr Dennis. Peering in at me with a squinted bushy eyebrow, he exclaimed: “Mr Spencer? Good grief, you're alive!”
It turned out that my brother had phoned the surgery this very morning and had told the secretary I had passed away during the night. Understandably my appointment had been scratched. “Asphyxiated. Naked, with a bag over your head...” muttered the secretary turning her eyes to the ground. “But why on earth would your brother make up such a thing. It's pretty bizarre isn't it?”
Pretty bizarre indeed. Especially as don't I have a brother. What could have been one was miscarried 2 months into the pregnancy. Mother farting his prawn-like foetus out into a steel Mcdonald's toilet. Along with the wrapper from a cheese burger he was flushed into history in 1976. So, it's quite unlikely to have been him.
No, my reported death was the work of someone much more formed than that. Someone with a grudge, a heart of vengeance and a twisted desire to unsettle me. Someone deranged, confined and hateful. Someone I used to know as John.