Every night he wakes me from my sleep and takes me to the cemetery. Intently focused, he drives his black hearse through the rust-twined gates, down the coiled dirt track, towards the earth's core. I can't get out, can’t escape, there are no handles on the doors.
We bump past a mortuary located between the unmarked graves and baroque tombstones. He becomes distracted by a fluorescent stream of light coming from the window and pauses for a moment. Inside the window we see a luminous Nicole Kidman, in a lab coat, playing a starring role. She nonchalantly pulls rotting flesh from corpses and uses a bandsaw to extract marrow from bones.
He refocuses and gains control. We move down the one-way track which deepens and narrows as it goes. He stops at an ashen-marble and coal mausoleum, marked with a crucifix, embossed with Mortality and makes me get out.
Burdened, with stooped shoulders and a cowered head, he pushes open the heavy door, convoys me along a passage, points to sit and wait at the head of an embalmed cadaver, while he carries in one hessian bag after another, filled with dust, and dumps them at my feet. He labours and complains but there is never enough decay he can off-load. There is never enough that he can do to show what is wrong with me.
After several hours of his contempt, just before daylight breaks, I feel that I can stand and make my way out, and as I do, I see the space reserved for me.