by Amy Cross
Now I'm in the car-park Everyone's ignoring me. I can see people talking to one another, but the whine won't stop and I realize after a moment that I'm not breathing.
And then everything switches off and goes black, and I'm gone too.
***
Suddenly light fills my eyes and I let out an agonized gasp.
“She's back!” a voice yells nearby. “We need to stabilize her! She's back!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“And how did that make you feel, Paula?” Doctor Michaelson says as he sits calmly at the desk in the hospital's interview room. “Did it make you feel happy? Did it make you feel safe?”
On the other side of the table, Paula sits in a hospital-issue gown. Her hands are handcuffed to railings on either side of the chair, and two guards are standing a little further back as if they're waiting for her to cause trouble.
“Did it make you feel as if you weren't alone?” Doctor Michaelson continues. “Did it feel good to have a friend, Paula?”
She stares at him for a moment, before glancing briefly at me and then turning to him again.
“I wanted to talk to her,” she says finally, her voice sounding dry and croaked. It's the first time she's spoken properly in the two weeks since she arrived at the hospital after falling from the supermarket's roof. “I wanted so bad to talk to her for years and years, and then finally I got so close but I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I...”
Her voice trails off.
She glances at me again, before looking back at him.
“So you invented an idealized version of your friend from the internet,” Doctor Michaelson says after a moment. “You arrived in Croftby and you finally tracked down the woman you've been searching for, who you'd known online as Mayfly90330. Can you tell me that woman's real name?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don't want to.”
“Do you think you're in love with her?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you sure?”
“I used to think I...”
Her voice trails off for a moment.
“I think I fell in love with her,” she admits finally, “yes. Online. I know it sounds dumb, but love is just a thing that... Sometimes new things just get created out of nowhere. No-one knows where they come from, but one minute they're not real, and then the next... Bam! There they are. And suddenly I fell in love with someone I was only talking to on the internet.”
“And you finally tracked her down.”
She nods.
“But instead of talking to her and telling her who you were,” he continues, “you stalked her for a while. You watched her from afar, mainly at night when she was going and sitting alone in rental houses. And at some point during all of that, you invented an idealized imaginary friend who was a version of her. And I believe you called her... May, was it?”
She pauses, before nodding.
“And you know now that May was never real, don't you?”
She briefly looks at me, before turning to him again.
“I invented her,” she says cautiously. “Half the time, I was watching myself through her. I imagined us having conversation, and going around together. I imagined her getting attacked. I imagined... other stuff. I imagined her so much, it's like she's real. I think she thinks she's real.”
“But she can't be real,” he replies. “You understand that, don't you? May is a figment of your imagination.”
She glances at me again and smiles. “My little Mayfly,” she whispers.
“Do you see her now?” he asks, and then he turns and looks this way.
In fact, he looks right at me – or rather, right through me – as he turns and checks this empty side of the room. Finally he turns back to Paula and falls silent for a moment.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“Yes, you see her now?”
“Yes, I see her now.”
She looks at me again.
“Where is she, Paula?”
She hesitates, before slowly raising her hand and pointing at me.
Doctor Michaelson looks this way, almost but not quite staring straight at me, and then after a moment he turns back to her.
Paula, meanwhile, keeps her gaze fixed on me firmly, even as she lowers her hand.
“The reason I've been asking you these questions,” Doctor Michaelson continues after a moment, as he makes some notes, “is that your injuries from the fall have healed to the extent that we're ready to transfer you from the hospital. That'll most likely happen some time next week, and you'll be taken to the prison. Do you understand that, Paula? You'll be taken to a psychiatric facility at one of the local prisons, where you'll be looked after. It'll be different to what you've become used to here, but the aim all the way through will be to help you. You can understand that, Paula, can't you?”
She doesn't reply.
Instead, she simply continues to stare at me.
“The police will want to talk to you some more,” the doctor adds, “about the people who died. But that'll happen at the other hospital, not here.”
Again, Paula says nothing.
“I just have one more question for you today, Paula,” he says. “Why did you murder those people? Why did you kill Naomi Hart and Rose Boucher?”
Silence.
Paula doesn't even acknowledge him.
“They were both younger than you,” he points out. “They were killed brutally, and the police found their blood all over your knives. You also stabbed a police officer who's very lucky to have survived. You've confessed, so why not tell me why you did it?”
Again, silence.
“I'll just ask Doctor Glover something,” Doctor Michaelson continues, getting to his feet, “and then we can get you back to your room. Just hold tight, Paula. Everything's fine.”
With that, he turns and leaves the room. Paula remains in her chair, still staring at me, while the two guards are standing just a short way behind her. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the faint hum of a security camera.
“Did you hear him?” Paula asks finally, still watching me. “We're being moved.”
I open my mouth to reply, but then I look at the guards and see that they're looking at the back of Paula's head. Then they glance at each other, as if they're a little concerned by her actions.
“We need to think about that,” Paula continues earnestly. “I don't know if that's what we want. Is it, May? We like it here. Maybe we can just talk to them here.”
One of the guards clears his throat.
I don't know what to say.
Paula is still staring at me with a faint smile, and with a faraway look in her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The guards wheel Paula into her room at the far end of the corridor, and a moment later I hear them telling her how she has to get ready for the transfer into the bed.
I should go and join her, but I don't.
Instead, I stand alone in the dimly-lit hospital corridor, and I watch as a nurse comes this way. I stare at her face, convinced that she'll glance at me as she passes, but instead she just keeps on walking right by and I turn to see her heading into another room. Yet again, I've been completely ignored, and I feel the latest flicker of hope dying out in my heart. I've come to terms with the truth since the moment Paula fell from the supermarket roof, but I can't stop myself testing that out every now and again.
I feel so real.
I know I'm a product of Paula's imagination, that she's imagining everything about me – including this confusion right now – but I feel so real. Why does Paula imagine me having these emotions? Why does she imagine me being confused about the emotions? Why is she in her room right now, being handcuffed to the bed, imagining me standing out here? Why does she imagine an imaginary friend who feels this real?
Two more nurses walk past, chattering away to one another. As I turn to watch them, I think one of them even walks partly through me.
Paula must be able to hear the nurses, and a moment later they walk past her open door. I tell myself that this corridor is just Paula's imagined version, but it still feels so real. As if to prove that point, I reach out and touch the mottled beige wall, and I run my hand across the surface. Paula is imagining this right now, but it feels as if it's really happening to me. The only time she ever stops imagining me is when she's asleep or drugged, and that's when I blink out of existence and then groggily return when she wakes up.
So it's not like I can deny the truth.
I'm just having trouble understanding.
Heading to a nearby open door, I look into a small office and see a nurse muttering to herself as she writes on a form. She looks totally engrossed in her work, and she's writing quickly, as if she's in a hurry.
“Hello,” I say out loud, testing myself once again. “How are you doing there?”
I wait, giving her a chance to respond.
She carries on writing, as if I'm not really here. Which is kind of the point, really, because I'm not really here. I'm just an imaginary best friend conjured up by someone whose imagination is a tad more active than normal.
“Hello,” I say again, stepping into the room. “Can you hear me? Do you know I'm here?”
I wait.
She finishes writing in one box on the form, and then she moves on to another.
“My name's May,” I continue, making my way over and stopping next to her. I pause for a moment, before kneeling on the floor and staring at the side of her face. “I'm right here. I'm watching you. I know I'm not supposed to be real, but I'm here and there's got to be some way for you to hear me.”
I reach out and touch her arm. I can feel the fabric of her uniform, and I slowly move my hand down until I feel the bare skin around her elbow. She seems so real, I can even feel a few red spots on her skin, but she's showing no indication whatsoever that she knows I'm here. How can I feel her, yet she isn't even aware of me.
Paula.
She's the answer.
Even from her room, she's imagining me doing this. Maybe she spotted this nurse as she was wheeled past, or maybe she imagined her entirely. Either way, Paula clearly won't let go of the idea that I exist, and somehow her delusion is making me feel so completely real.
I wait.
The nurse is still writing.
My hand is still on her arm.
She doesn't respond at all.
“NOTICE ME!” I scream suddenly, grabbing her harder and pulling her toward me, shaking her violently. “I'M RIGHT HERE! YOU HAVE TO NOTICE ME!”
As soon as I let go, however, I find that she's back where she was and that she's calmly adding some more entries to the form. I feel a little breathless after my outburst, but at the same time I also feel a rising tide of frustration as I realize that no matter how loudly I shout I'm not going to get any attention. I'm certain I grabbed this woman's arm and shook her, I felt myself doing that, but clearly she felt no such thing.
This is all in Paula's mind.
Even my uncertainty is just a part of her thought process. I start feeling angry again, before realizing that even this anger is just another emotion that she's decided I should feel. And this realization, in turn, is again part of her fantasy. Everything I do is determined by Paula's thoughts, and I can't help feeling that she's torturing me. Not only that, but she's making me aware of what she's doing, which means she's one hell of a sick individual.
And of course even that thought is hers too.
I don't exist, except as a figment of her imagination.
“I'm giving you one last chance,” I tell the nurse. “Please, if you sense anything at all nearby, just turn and look this way. Give me one sign, any sign, that you know I'm here.”
“Barb?”
Hearing a voice over my shoulder, I turn and see a nurse in the doorway.
“Can you give me a hand with Mr. Nickell in room nine? He's spilled on his pajamas again.”
Hearing the chair moving, I turn just in time to see the first nurse setting her pen down and getting to her feet, before following the new arrival out of the room.
“I hate those contingency forms,” she mutters, sounding bored and tired. “Do they not think we've got anything better to be doing?”
“I'M RIGHT HERE!” I shout after her, filled with frustration at being ignored yet again. “WHY CAN'T YOU SEE ME? WHY CAN'T YOU AT LEAST HEAR ME?”
Yet even as those words fade, I know the answer. Getting to my feet, I head out into the corridor and along to the room at the far end. The police officer is already retaking his seat on the chair opposite the door, but of course he doesn't see me either. He doesn't react as I stop in the doorway and look into Paula's room, and I immediately see that she's staring straight back at me as the guards finish checking her handcuffs.
And she's smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Once they get us into the main prison,” Paula whispers as she sits on her hospital bed, leaning forward toward me, “that'll be it. We'll never get out. And Caroline won't ever come to visit us, so all of this will have been for nothing. Do you understand why I can't let it end that way?”
“I'm not real,” I tell her, sitting on the end of the bed. “You have to realize that. I feel real, but I'm not. I'm in your head and you have to stop imagining me.”
“I can't. I need to talk to someone.”
“It can't be me,” I continue, shaking my head. “The more you talk to me, the more crazy they're going to think you are. The more crazy you'll be!”
“None of that matters,” she replies. “The only thing that matters is getting to Caroline and telling her the truth. I'm an idiot for not doing that before, but I was scared! All of this happened because I was scared!”
She pulls against the handcuffs that are holding her to the bed, but the metal keeps her from raising her hands.
I glance at the open door and see that the usual police guard is still sitting out there. He's reading something on his phone and looking pretty bored, which is pretty standard for him lately. I guess he's become accustomed to the way that Paula talks to herself during the days, which says a lot about her emotional state.
“You imagined me because you were too scared to talk to the real girl,” I say, turning back to her.
“Of course.”
“Caroline, the girl who was Mayfly90330,” I continue, “is a few years older. But before you tracked her down, you sketched what you thought she'd look like.”
“Of course.”
“And that was me.”
She nods.
“And I didn't exist until that moment I was standing next to the window that night, just as you were breaking in.”
“I'd thought about you a few times,” she says, “but that was the first time I really tried pretending you were real. That was the first time I talked to you out loud.”
“And you called me May.”
“I don't know why. Maybe I wasn't ready to call you Caroline.”
“So when we were in the street and you were talking to me -”
“I was talking to myself,” she replies. “Loudly. Didn't you notice the weird looks I was getting?”
“And when I was being chased through the streets -”
“I was imagining that.”
“And when we were...” I hesitate for a moment. “I mean, when we were in bed...”
“Come on,” she replies, “you can't blame a girl for getting deep into her fantasies while she's masturbating, can you? And you were pretty hot that night. I haven't come like that for a while.”
“I'm not real.”
“You are to me.”
“But I feel real.”
“I want you to feel real.”
“But if you're imagining me,” I continue, “why are you imagining me as such a confused person?”
“It makes you seem more real,” she explains. “I'm hanging onto my sanity by a thread here, May. I reckon, as strange at it might seem,
that you're the one thing holding me together. That's fucked-up, huh?”
“But -”
“I need you!” she adds, leaning forward again but – again – getting held back by the handcuffs. “I know I've made a lot of mistakes, but that doesn't mean it all has to stop here. I have a plan, May, and there's still a chance to figure this all out. All I'm asking is that you stick with me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
She stares at me for a moment, almost as if she's genuinely considering the possibility.
“When I imagined you,” she continues, “I enjoyed making you feel real. Part of that meant having you disagree with me, or get scared of me, or doubt me. Everyone needs opposition, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, I catch myself using you to think out some process that's bugging me. I imagine you questioning my decisions, and that's my way of forcing myself to think through tough spots. I even imagined you finding the knives. Sick, huh? And I imagined you meeting Caroline, because I just wanted to imagine what it'd be like to actually talk to her. And sometimes you...”
I wait for her to finish.
“I what?” I ask.
“Sometimes you surprise me,” she whispers, as if she's in awe. “That's fucked-up, huh? You actually surprise me, Mayfly.”
“That's not possible,” I point out.
“I know. But it's true anyway.”
She starts pulling again on the handcuffs, and this time she doesn't give up at the first attempt. She starts twisting her hands, turning them first one way and then the other as she tries to find some way to get free.
“There's no point,” I tell her. “You don't seriously think you can just wriggle out of those things, do you?”
