M: Can she hear me, Doctor? (to self) Oh God help me, that sounds clichéd, my daughter, help me, my daughter–(breaks off)

D:We don't know. She might be able to, might not. I'm so, so terribly sorry.

M:Why? You tried your best with your medicines and machines. You made no mistakes, did you?

D:No, but I–

M:Just leave, Doctor. I want some time with my daughter, has your training not taught you that much?

L:I could hear them – it wasn't right. They were talking about me – discussing my life, and I couldn't respond. My eyes were glued open, my mouth glued shut around the tube – I couldn't move my arms. A machine breathed for me, a monitor checked my pulse, but there was no outward sign that I understood, knew what was going on. Was it a real life?

D:(uncomfortably) I don't like to mention it, but you might like to consider whether . . . whether you want to keep Lucy like this . . .

M:(shocked) What?

D:Of course, the father would have to be informed and–

M:What father? He's no father, but that doesn't matter, it's not an option.

D:But you see–"

M:Not an option.

D:No – I understand. But you realise I had to–

M:Yes. Now go."

L:I had my mother, of course. If she was here, everything would be alright. Her presence could breathe more life into me than any respirator. If only I could tell her. (pause) The room was clinically white, and filled with a sickly hospital smell, but out of the corner of my immobile eye I could see through the window to the outside. And outside was a blaze of colour as the sun sank down below the horizon, like a sailor drowning, but drowning in such glory. (pause)I had always loved the sunset, with its symphony of colours. And if I was allowed to lie here forever, I could see it again and again, for as long as I liked. (Mother can be heard to recite Wordsworth's "Lucy" in the following dialogueand occassionally Lucy will pause to listen, mid-sentence and express delight) My mother was saying something, but I couldn't quite make it out. Poetry? Was it . . . yes! My poem. She knew how I felt for those words, the poems about me – my name, Lucy. She used to red them to me when I was a defenceless child, and now she read them to me when I was defenceless again. (Mother's voice tails off) No! Don't stop! I wanted to scream, shout, but my body wouldn't let me. She rose, and began to leave, and I couldn't stop her, couldn't make her stay, couldn't dry her flooding tears, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. (beeping gets louder) Stay! my mind cried, but there was no point.

Alone, and not even able to weep for it.

I could not see them, but I could hear the hushed voices talking outside my room. (we hear faint talking and sound is as Lucy describes) My mother's tears, the doctor's comfort, the shushing and there-theres. She gradually calmed, and I felt my mind tense at the thought of her return, the comfort of her soft voice.

But instead all I heard were the gradual fading of footsteps down the corridor, taking her even further from me. I couldn't understand it, what had I done wrong?

I longed for the old times back in Ireland, when I had a mother and a father, and a proper home. Before the break-up, before the move to that grotty flat in London. London with its horrible smells and noise and traffic.

Of course, it was the traffic that was the problem. It never occurs to you, when there is a street you cross every day, that there's still a danger to it.

I could still see it now, the oncoming car, engine roaring like a lion, headlights for eyes, and the perfect still moment before it hit, when I could see every detail of the driver's face, her horror. Mine too.

I lay there remembering that moment for what seemed like hours. And that's a silly cliché, because for all I knew it was hours, because I had no watch or clock to measure the time by.

The voices outside faded back into focus as they travelled up the corridor, on the edge of audibility, but still there.

D:Are you sure?

M:No. But that's not the point, is it?

D:I think I know what you mean. I can set the procedures in motion now. As I said, Lucy's father must be contacted and–

M:Yes, I understand that."

L:No. No, no, no! That wasn't my mother talking, not my mum saying those words, it couldn't be. I knew exactly what they were talking about, knew what it meant. I felt rising panic, and again the urge to shout, they couldn't do this – I am Lucy, and I am here, and I–