Hyacinth was virtually straitjacketed, jerking spasms as life fought to remain in her body. Deep bowelled gurgling arose from her, as if from hell, stewing and spewing forth phlegm, each gasp of air gradually being constricted by the cumulative effects of the massive dose of drugs. A she-devil, a cauldron boiling with anger. Stewed frogs ears, bats wings, rodent intestines, all simmered slowly in an unseasoned broth; well, might as well mix the lot. Bloody well sounded and looked obscene as she gradually sunk out of consciousness into the black whirlpool beckoning her. Quite miraculously managing to pull herself back to the living bodies around her bed peering blankly at her. All falsely comforting her with “It’s for you own good Hyacinth.” Growing more sickly and thinner, pain etched into her face, eyes passing rapidly into unconsciousness: “But not yet,” she kept telling herself, even though her mind was gradually unhinging. Saliva dribbling uncontrollably from her mouth, down her chin, more gurgling from her chest as she fell out her makeshift bed and attempted to crawl along the carpeted floor.