In a low, broken voice he chanted over and over:
“You won’t hurt me no more, you won’t hurt me no more”.
The gentle waves lapped a few feet short of the wheels of his chair where he sat, staring outwards to where the golden, August sun was poised to plunge into the sea. His fists clenched his blanket tightly and moved up and down minutely in rhythm with his words.
I sighed deeply, opened my mouth and closed it again.
“I love to see a sunset on the beach, don’t you”, I said and gave him a smile, but he gave no sign of having heard me.
“Are you alright, mate”?
No response, his chant continued. The old feller looked grey and gaunt, just like my father near the end. Dad could never keep warm either.
“Are you OK”? I leaned over him, and reached out a hand to touch his arm.
His chant grew louder, and the vertical motion of his hands increased. His knuckles were white from their fierce grip and he was smacking his hands into his thighs. A single tear rolled down his left cheek.
“You’ll hurt yourself if you carry on like that”!
The chant become a shout. His hands pounded forcefully and his face was bright red . I couldn’t move and the pulse throbbed in my temple.
He paused momentarily and glared downwards, drew a huge breath and gave one last monstrous bellow of his chant, each word distinct and accompanied by terrific blows upon both legs as he glowered at them:
“YOU. WON’T. HURT. ME. NO. MORE”!
He fell silent and slumped back into his chair, eyes closed. His fingers uncurled and as they did so, a pill bottle fell onto the sand. It was empty.
)
