A Soft Fruit in a Tin Can

Davy

Davy is a London-based academic, actor and writer living with fibromyalgia and Addison’s disease. Their creative work centres disabled, working class, and trans identities. Their academic work looks at ways of improving the fraught doctor-patient relationship for those with contested illnesses, and challenging the view of contested illness as illnesses of cis white women only.

A Soft Fruit in a Tin Can

We’re going out for dinner. One good thing, I suppose, is I don’t have to think about what to wear. I’ve been sleeping to conserve energy. Well, sleep is a strong word for it. Dozing. Drifting perhaps. Mired in treacle. Treacled in mire. The full plate armour I’m trapped in isn’t as heavy lying down, but it’s hard. The pauldrons dig into my shoulder blades. The back plate of the cuirass pushes into my ribs. For something meant to protect it sure does bruise a lot. I can’t remember if I have under-garments under here. Is there a gambeson or a padded jacket? There must be, but then why does the metal pinch and press into me so? Why do I feel like a marble in tin can? No, not a marble, something softer. A legume, a bean, soft and mushy now. Maybe I absorbed whatever padded cloth is under here. Maybe it rotted away. Maybe I absorbed it and maybe I’ll absorb the metal someday. It would be easier to wear this hard exoskeleton if there wasn’t so much easily bruised soft-fruit flesh under here. But then how much of it would be me, and what would I be? …See what I mean? Not sleeping. Just letting thoughts bounce around inside an iron helmet. 

I like the great helm, actually. There’s a slit to see though and air holes around the mouth. Big enough to poke a straw through when I’m feeling weak. When I’m feeling particularly strong, I can force the bottom of the helmet up just enough to poke solid food into my mouth. That’s why I’ve been resting, really. So I can eat a normal meal at dinner with my friends and not stand out too much. Well, not stand out more. The helmet bruises, too. I’m sure the back of my skull is black and blue from lying here, but I can’t see it. Lie here long enough and I can sort of dissociate from the ever-present headache. And the restricted vision is nice, sometimes. Lights were always too bright, I found. Sunny days are nice and all, but I was always wearing sunglasses even then. It also means no one can see my eyes. The bags, the winces – that always seem to offend. The way they glaze over sometimes when carrying the weight of everything is too much. This way is better, almost. I just focus on keeping my voice light. Airy. The opposite of how I feel. 

Getting up is the hardest part. I psyche myself up to it. It’s a: one, two, three – now! The clenching of muscles, that singularly straining effort of a moment, the extreme elastic tension before a snap and then – yes. I manage to sit. Perhaps there was some undignified scrabbling with my vambraced arms, but I think it’s still something of a miracle. A job well done. Plates of metal creak and slide over each other as the weight settles on my shoulders. Next step is to swing leaden legs over the side of the bed. The ache really starts up now. If you thought lying down was bad, wait ‘til you try this! Blood flows sluggishly, limbs and extremities tingle. I am a knight and I have a dragon to slay, I tell myself. A knight. Finally, I heave myself up onto sabaton encrusted feet and if I sway, it is only because I am rocked by my own triumph (I tell myself). Oh, but it’s heavy. It’s so heavy. But I have a dragon to…

I stand in front of a mirror, briefly. Yes, I confirm. That’s me. That’s metal. I make the effort to sling some necklaces round my neck, ignoring how lifting my arms makes the muscles shake. I dig even deeper – I have a dragon – to shove up the helmet long enough to swipe some lipstick over my mouth. Just in case anyone sees at dinner. There, I think. I have made an effort. A knight. 

When I make it to the restaurant – and yes, I’d love to spin a yarn about a quest and a noble steed, but I capitulate and take an Uber – my friends look up, with shock and, I hope, some delight. That’s right, I made it out. I said I would, didn’t I? (A knight). They say, winkingly:

“I see you’ve gone with the full plate armour again” 

“Well, you know,” I say, (I- ) “it’s timeless.”