In the hospital's emergency room, doctors and nurses bow over me. I smile right through my pain and say as lightly as possible that it's not that bad and that I don't think I need to be admitted.
“Put an ankle bandage around it and I'm happy, so I can go home.'
“I'm afraid that's not going to be quite him, ma'am, we are under our quota, we will have to manipulate the photos so that a break becomes visible.'
Did I hear that correctly? Is a dirty game being played on the patients' backs in our hospital? When I want to protest strongly, I get an injection. Five seconds later, it feels like I had too many snaps last night. A triangular apple pie and a square of onion bread dance before my eyes; a milk frother marches in between. I blink, it helps, they dissolve into thin air. But now a spoonbill and a toilet duck appear, they are fighting fiercely with each other.
Closing my eyes quickly, with my eyes tightly closed, I sink into a comatose state.
When I wake up, there is a flower curtain over me, the white sheets were certainly up or I'm no longer in the hospital? My leg feels heavy, I slide the velvet aside and see a mega gypsum bone. The time has come, there is no turning back, there is nothing to change, I have become a victim of the patch quota.


Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay