I hope to wake up

The hostel door was last painted 12 years ago by a man called Simon. He’d used an undercoat but then left it for three weeks before finishing the job. The brush strokes were large and frustrated. He hadn’t liked painting then, he liked it even less now. Simon was about to paint the second coat. Then his world changed. The door once belonged to a crack den, or was it a heroin house? Chances are we’ll never know. As he walked down the hall towards the door, arms laden with paint there was a smack on the primer. “Police” came the call. “Open up, now!”. It all happened so quickly. Simon jumped and dropped the paint. As he bent down to collect the cascade the door directly in front of him was sprung open by a track marked arm. In the hand on the end of this arm was a needle. A needle that had just be taken from a vein. The vein lay still as it circulated it’s hit. The needle danced as it stuck in Simon eye. “Fuck” came the cry. That was the end of the eye. The other one followed as the infection spread. Then came paralysis and a lifetime without painting. The needle was in my hand. That’s where the hopelessness took me and now it had brought me back. This time to rest. All that anger long gone. A change of use soon after the raid had washed away the heroin stain but hadn’t painted the door. Beds, showers and a housekeeper called Elaine. Room 5. Never been in here before. Eyes fixed on one thing. A bed. Must rest and close my eyes but the coffee. Start to remember what I’m lying here for and drift away. I hope I wake up.