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Last Take

LAST TAKE - BOOK ONE
By M. S. White.
Chapter 1.
“The purpose of human endeavour is the pursuit of personal self
improvement.”…Author Unknown.
……..and as I absorbed myself in the moment, I recalled the evening when this new
journey first began.
It was on the second anniversary of my great loss when I slipped into the hospital grounds
unseen by any but the waning moon and entered the underground tunnel way that had
been originally built to link the Operating Theatres with the outside surgical wards. It
wouldn‟t really have mattered if a dozen people had seen me in the area because as an
employee of the hospital I had every right to be on the grounds and as such was well
acquainted with most of the staff and therefore familiar with the layout of the premises.
Since the construction of the new Operating Theatre Block several years ago the tunnel
way had been locked and placed off limits to all and sundry and virtually forgotten about.
By means more foul than fair I had secured a copy of the key that enabled me entry at my
leisure. After a few previous exploratory trips into the tunnelled corridor I decided it suited
my macabre purposes perfectly. On the evening in question I used torchlight to guide me to
where I had secreted a thick cushion, a blanket and a small kerosene candle lamp which I
quickly fired up and instantly weird shadows caused by my movements came to life on the
cream white walls. After adjusting to the tomb like atmosphere and silence of my concrete
burrow I reached for the bottle of Teacher‟s Whiskey from my small backpack and
quaffed a cheery mouthful and savoured the liquid warmth of its welcome.
With relish I studied the extensive graffiti on the facing wall and had to suppress the urge
to laugh uproariously as I reread some of my own work from a week earlier when I had
entered the tunnel, smoked a joint and worked furiously with cans of black and red spray
paint and set to writing abuse and accusation directed at certain working staff in particular
and the Bureaucratic system in general upon the flat enamelled canvas of the wall. In three
hours of emotional venting I had written a great deal of poetic vilification against those I
considered deserving of attack. I had scribbled in felt pen the personal secrets that I knew
about certain people who had slighted me in the past, leaked private Union and
bureaucratic business that needed to be exposed and basically did a great job of character
assassination on those whom I perceived to be my transgressors and enemies. The affair
proved to be quite a therapeutic exercise in neurotic emotional venting and now all that
remained was for me to put my signature to it, which I got up and did with relish before
seating myself down again to the task at hand.
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