Since psychiatrists became extinct, the country’s gone mad and makes do with problem pages and online yes/no questionnaires. We self-diagnose psychoses and form ad hoc self-help circles to shout down the voices in our heads and refute the existence of avenging angels. It’s the same with dentists: after all these years of queues and eye-watering bills, it seems there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a tube of strong household adhesive and a sturdy pair of pliers. And now the hospitals are closing, repurposing as storage facilities for online luxuries no one can afford, or rebranding themselves as random museums of the End Days; and everyone’s rifling sheds and boot sales for saws and hand drills, streaming body horror and downloading clips of Amanda Fielding. Sure, people are dying, and its often impossible to sleep for the screams in the night, but the voices in our heads remind us that, for all the pain, we’ve never felt so alive, and our toothless mouths grin like ripped flags as we tear into our red-white-and-blueing flesh.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor