the end of the fairytale, the prince awakes in a cold sweat, his face aged and haggard. dark rings encircle his eyes and his skin suit is crumpled and worn. he's in a dark room, engulfed by sheets, blankets and a thin quilt, a strange form of daylight filters through closed shutters and still flat upon his back his hands feel around the edges of the bed, finding nothing, and as long fingers adjust themselves deep under the layers of blankets they wrap around the mobile phone. it's dead. 

the shower feels very good, it's hot and vital. for what must seem like over a week the spectral figure is upright. his stomach stable, none of those tremors, his legs weakened but able to manoeuvre his body from room to room, the cold air penetrates and outside the deluge of hot water it waits like an old enemy.

for the first time in many days, fully dressed his body evaluates itself. he was hospitalised, in and out twice. tests, blood, urine, cameras, swabs, strange isolation rooms, nurses, doctors, specialists, charts. his head pounds with information. the wretched feeling, the nausea, the uncontrollable requirements to purge, all long in absentia now. the toothpaste tastes awful, he looks into his eyes. pupils darkened and hollowed out. is there something to recognise, whatever it is is unfamiliar. 

wandering through mission control he hovers over a few books, he stops and flicks through some paperwork. he scans some documentation. he makes himself a cracker, it tastes good but he can only drink water. his mouth bites and chews slowly. he opens a few doors and a cold breeze blows through the house. it's ice cold and fresh. light dances through the building now, angels sing under the surface of things. was it real? was any of it real? is it real?

the answer is digestible, no. it's all a lie. she was a lie. she always was and always will be, there is no love there, no truth, no substance. a mirage, temptations come in many forms but mostly female. i always fail that test, or does the test fail me. it makes no difference now. pottering around the kitchen, my hands discover a half smoked joint. i spark up and sit down, my head emptying of thought until insight enters.

child trauma is love corrupted. i never wanted to survive with her, only to live with her. but she had given herself to monsters of the past. her history dominates her present, as does her ideology, it corrupts her future and therefore mine. she only knows how to hate me and that's okay, my journey is to be hated by those i love. it is foretold, it is experienced and it is understood. weak people ignorant people always fear what they cannot understand.

i think tonight i will bang the drum under the stars, i will dance with the fire twirlers, shake with the hula hoop girls and howl with the beasts. i'm far from dead, more alive than ever.