Act 1: Childhood
Princess Pollyanna slides on her ruby slippers, the light dancing across the sequins. Maybe they will transport her home if she wishes hard enough. No, not home. To a castle, in an enchanted forest. With pet unicorns and glittery rainbows and trees that bear sweets. And parents who are kind and doting.
“Pollyanna, come on! What are you wearing, you idiot? Get your wellies on!”
Ugh. Why do her parents always have to interrupt her daydreams? Still, at least this time they’re not screaming at each other. Not yet, anyway. Until they start drinking later.
And why do they have to come camping all the time? If only they could afford exotic holidays like the other children at school.
Second-hand silk ribbons trail behind her in the mud. Maybe next year, Paris? A girl can dream!
Act 2: Adulthood
That’s a crimson rose nestling in a blanket of snow, not a bloodstain on her bedsheet. This is a ballgown, not a hospital gown, and any moment now, she’ll be whisked off on a romantic date. He’ll be tall, dark and handsome, and most importantly, he’ll never raise his hand to her, unless in a passionate embrace.
“Ready for theatre?” comes a voice.
Theatre. Oh, she can picture it now. Red velvet seats and gold balustrades. The hush of the crowd as the curtains open. The warmth of his hand as it envelops hers. His touch petal-tender.
The carriage sets off. Romeo and Juliet awaits.
Act 3: Old age
She wakes up in paradise, a gentle breeze rippling the curtains of her four-poster bed. The smell of coffee and bacon fills the air as she watches the waves lapping on the shore outside the window.
She stretches her still-lithe legs beneath the silk sheets, and in walks her Adonis husband, carrying a tray. He plants a kiss on her forehead.
“Morning, gorgeous. Want some coffee? Breakfast’s almost ready. Breakfast’s almost ready. Breakfaaaaaast…”
She takes off her headset. “Nurse! It’s glitching again!”
How annoying. She was looking forward to the next segment in the simulation, where her children and grandchildren visit and shower her with love and laughter.
Harsh, artificial light stabs her eyes. She clamps them shut, blocking out reality. But it bleeds into her consciousness against her will. The smells that thicken the air and curdle inside her nostrils: over-boiled vegetables, cleaning fluids, and the cloying scent of ailing bodies. The sound of fellow residents in the hospice groaning and turning over in bed. The clatter of the medicine trolley. The absence of feeling in her legs. And when she opens her eyes, the wheelchair beside the bed. The empty bedside table, devoid of any family photos. Her mottled hand, pierced with wires.
At last, the nurse smiles and hands her back the headset.
“All fixed!” she says. “Are you hungry?”
Pollyanna pictures the pureed mush, and her stomach retches. She shakes her head and plugs herself back into her happily ever after.
