The disease was the colors of the night on my skin. It didn’t leave an inch, throbbing as it waxed and waned – a life that wasn’t my own.
I was its canvas and on me it revealed its visions – patterns, textures, smells and sounds; a language they could not comprehend.
They were the Red Coats, the White Coats and the Black Coats.
The Red Coats came with their incense, ash and incantations.
“The darkness and its afflictions have its roots in the mind…”, they said.
“…We come as allies to do battle in that realm.”
The White Coats came with their cold instruments, cautious wonder and ambiguous optimism.
” We are complex machines; prone to corruption from external agents…”, they said.
“…any machine can be repaired with a combination of proper knowledge and the right tools.”
The Black Coats did not utter a sound, nor did they move from where they stood – in full view of my bed.
“The are here waiting for Death”, Chagal told me.