Mental Cases by Wilfred Owen
Letter to a friend
September 13th 1918
George,
It’s been a rainy week; I can’t stand getting wet anymore so I have been putting this visit off. I have a wheelchair nowadays; I try not to get it wet. Sorry for the late visit, I find it very hard to sleep these days. My bed feels sickly comfortable, like there’s a clinical cleanliness everywhere.
It’s strange how much I craved to come home, lie down, and sip a cup of tea. Now it’s too hard to lift my legs into bed, and my hands are barely steady enough for tea anyhow. Did you have a crick in your neck? I can no longer relax without my head on its side, just like in France.
Sometimes the panic attacks and insomnia catch me up and I think of joining you there in the ground. Perhaps then I would get some rest.
That wasn't how I should have seen France for the first time, George. It haunts me, the look on Charlie’s face when he lost his arm, and the look of his face when he lost that too. I shouldn't have turned him over, I cant rest. When reading the evening paper I hear gunshots and crying. The screech of cannons and the sight of loose flesh pierce even my most pleasant sleeps. Is it quiet down there in the dirt?
After the letter was flawlessly written, it was dipped in tea (Irish breakfast of course). In contrast to the wooden table it still appears white. the top and bottom edges were ripped in order to enhance its aged look and tether it closely to the WWI theme.
The letter and skull go hand in hand, as an insight into the mind of a 'mental case' and a depiction of their horrific disposition. ('George' is written on the envelope)