Heads Will Roll continued...


As always, though, I adjusted. Life on the ward wasn't too bad. I had talk therapy, art therapy, hydrotherapy and occupational therapy to learn ways of controlling stress, and lessons in 'how to live like a normal person'. The ward motto was, in fact, 'A Stitch in Time Saves Mine', sewn by a wavering hand into what looked like blackened flesh, and exhibited above the entrance to the toilets.  The ward was made up of men and women with mental illness, and those who suffered from clichés. Many of the patients were, like myself, waiting for a prosthetic or reconstructive surgery. There was one man, for instance, who kept splitting his sides whenever he became manic and was waiting for a new, wipe-clean plastic torso; then there was Mary who'd gutted her husband's mistress and refused to remove the section of gut she'd worn for many months as a garter. That is until the restricted circulation meant her leg had to be amputated. She was waiting for a new, tattooed limb, complete with stiletto-heeled foot. There was an ex-soldier who'd jumped the gun and shot himself through the foot. He was receiving therapy for post-traumatic shock, whilst also learning to walk on shattered bones. And another who'd bitten the bullet. He'd had his entire face reconstructed. Then there was Henry, who kicked the bucket and put his back out. His regular suicide attempts meant he was a regular on the ward.

My head served its purpose. It allowed me to eat messily, hum tunefully, listen curiously to the hisses and gripes of the other patients, and smell retchingly the shit and piss whiffs that wafted through the ward. I bided my time. The paper bag over my football head became patchy with grease from ointments and sweat and the woollen hair was soon plucked out by the other patients with their fiddly fingers and nervous energy.

I 'got better'.

And then came the day of my release. My new head, I'd been told, would be a feat in precision engineering, the first in a new phase of prosthetic surgery. I would be packed off to a new home, my very own little flat, with my new head, and a little money in my pocket. Ready for a new life. They kept me waiting till 2 in the afternoon, post-siesta. Not that I slept. I was too excited. I had slipped into my old coat and shoes at six that morning and sat on the bed all day, waiting.

At last they came. Two men and a box between them. They removed the head which had been my temporary skull, brain and four working senses for the last 18 months. I became blind once more and the bile rose in my throat with the fear that I might remain like this forever. Blind, deaf, mute. What if it had all been a lie? But then I felt warm, gentle hands prodding, placing, screwing, hammering around me and upon me. It was like a sexual act in reverse. I was becoming whole again, being refilled.

And now I could hear the constant hissing of steam, smell the heat of hydraulics and see, in the mirror, my new head.

Upon my neck sat the most amazing piece of machinery I could have imagined. The ball-bearing eyes blinked and rolled; the lids could become seductively heavy or enthusiastically wide-eyed, just like any real oculus. My lips could stretch open into a smile or squeeze together into a pout. My nostrils could flare as well as any mare's and I could even wriggle my ears, raise one eyebrow and curl my tongue - tricks I'd not been able to do before. The head was set onto a thick metal pillar where my neck used to be, with criss-crossings of staples and nails to ensure my head wasn't going anywhere.

The head was made of a single piece of titanium, with pulleys and cranks, gears and levers to produce every possible facial expression. I learned that when I was comatose the surgeon had placed electrodes deep in to my gut (the small brain). These were now connected by a number of wires to my new head, and were able, through instinct and reaction, to control the expressions on my face. These were tested immediately by my having to watch a series of films - films that repulsed me, saddened me, made me laugh, yell with surprise, feel a deep-seated guilt, and films that made me afraid. The tests were recorded. My results showed an 80% success rate in terms of perception and production of the 'correct' facial response to visual stimuli, although it seemed as though the doctors were merely testing my levels of compassion. Once again, everything comes down to being 'normal'.

I was discharged from the hospital under one condition. This prosthetic (and the term was used very loosely, considering the many functions of the head) was brand new. I was, in fact, the first patient to use it. Also, it was incredibly expensive and much data had to be collected before funding could be acquired to make another one. The condition, therefore, was that every now and then, something would occur that would have once made me lose my head. Perhaps I would witness something horrific, they said, or be told some tragic news that was not necessarily true. My movements would be recorded, and I would have  to keep a note of anything and everything to do with reaction, … In short, I might be monitored for the rest of my life.

But this head, this was so much better than I could have hoped for. This was everything to me. I looked good, I felt good, I was going to get my life back… I signed the consent form, grabbed my bag containing  a bottle of sertraline, a blister pack of  mycophenolate, a macaroni necklace, an ID-Card and a small wad of cash. And then I stepped out the door.

It took almost five minutes for a nurse to come dashing out. I hadn't actually left the entrance to the building. I was standing watching the automatic doors open and shut as I swung slowly from one leg to the other. Watching, waiting. I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't remember what my plan of action was, if I ever had one. I'd been so excited about the new head I hadn't thought about what would happen next.

"Oh, you're still here, good," panted the nurse who'd run the length of the hospital to find me. "You need to come back inside please."

"Is there a problem?" I asked, my new mouth becoming dry.

"Please just come inside."

I followed the young woman back into that horrible, smelly, noisy ward where a small huddle of patients watched me through barely opened eyes.

"I'm sorry to break this to you," a doctor had appeared behind me. "But we're not quite ready to send you on your way. We've discovered a problem with your prosthetic and we need to make some readjustments. I'm afraid it may take some months."

 I backed away from him slowly. I tried to speak, to yell, to scream, No, no, no you can't do this to me, but the terror had left me momentarily mute.

My head strained. It hurt like a thousand hammer blows to my small metal eyes. I began to back up, back up, and back up until I touched something soft. I turned around quickly and found I had backed into the surgeon. He took my hand in his. "Well done," he said. "You've passed the first test." I didn't speak. I stared, I gawped at him. "That was the first test of your reaction," he said. "You did very well. You didn't lose your head. Well done. You're free to leave."

I saw red. Then I saw black. I shouted, "you fucker. You motherfucking bastard!" However, what came out of my mouth was actually, "you little tinker, you naughty man, you, you horrible person."

I gasped.

"Oh yes, one other thing I forgot to mention. We've removed your ability to curse. Your potty-mouth earned you little respect on the ward so we decided to decode the swear function. There's so much more we can do as well, if necessary." He leaned close to me as he said this, threateningly.

"Now," he said, "off you pop. And remember, we're watching your every move."

END