JOHN-J ANDERSON

ORGAN Chapter Five It was not long after Oscars failed escape attempt, foiled by the omniscient Doctor Boothe, that he was informed on his pending relocation to a new room in a more “practical” ward of the hospital in Greenwood Heart. No doubt in his agitated fracturing mind that this was a precaution to keep him under more eyes now, that he had been inevitably labelled as a flight risk, even worse was the idea that Boothe could spin this as confirmation of Oscars depleting mental cognition. He was told to gather up his things, minus his backpack which still remained in the possession of Boothe along with his phone, or so Oscar assumed, and wait for someone to come later this evening to collect him. Right on time, the hospital staff seemed regimented with military authority since his escape, a nurse came plodding into the room and instructed Oscar that it was time to move to his new room across the facility. Oscar had a momentary thought of arguing but after his episode before that led...

Where is my fucking fun? Thirty is to young to retire, but apparently too old for filth. His weed that made my skin buzz now only makes me tired. Did computer games become dull, or the dullness took the desire. Playing games is a habit that has seemingly expired. The booze makes me numb, conversations with myself in the dark. Bottle caps like pebbles kicked under foot. The novelty has worn off and the tonic is now a medicine alone. My desk still sticky to the touch from the spilled lager of the night that went. So, while I seek the next fix to mend what I think is broken. I still ask in vain the question. Where is my fucking fun.