by David Scott
My Murderous Mind
The sun shines brightly through an unreachable window set high up in the pitched ceiling of my prison cell.
I angle myself on the bed so that the focal point catches my face and gently warms my cheeks.
With my eyes closed, I watch a kaleidoscope of dancing colours; oranges and reds twirling together and blurring into one.
It reminds me of when I was young. I would bask in the sun with my heavy, ginger cat on my chest. I worried that she was trying to steal my breath, as I once heard cats like to do. My beloved predator watching and waiting; hypnotising me with her lullaby purrs.
My body relaxes fully in a sort of lethargic trance. I drift in and out of sleep.
I recall a terrible beauty of blood spatter behind a breathless body with mannequin eyes.
It fills me with dread. I feel as though my heart is pumping squid ink through my veins and transforming me into some sort of feared creature.
In this moment, I know myself. I know all of the bad I have done, the people I have killed and hurt, and why I am deservedly imprisoned.
The past comes and goes. It torments me over and over again. Soon it will go forever and I will be released from the pains of my past.
Each memory hides away, getting smaller and smaller, as though trapped in some kind of Russian doll, before suddenly revealing itself to shock and appal me.
My mind will also murder everyone I have ever known or loved. Dementia will have its way and leave me empty. It is the worst demon I can imagine.
The State must want to kill me soon to avoid the moral dilemma of executing a man who has no recollection of who he is, let alone what he has done. I suspect the prescient executioner is now so close that she could be standing on my shadow.
A small beetle busily scuttles across the cold concrete floor. It is a welcome distraction. I get up and gently lift it to a safer place, away from feckless footfall. My mind calms.
I look around the white-walled room. I wonder what I am doing here. It is unrecognisable to me, as are so many things.
I scratch my face. I feel long bristle, dry flaky skin and sunken eyes. I don’t recognise the touch of my face, yet I know it must be mine. I look at my arms, thin with saggy skin covered with the moles and blemishes of old age. I have no weight on my body. My bones reveal themselves and press for release.
It is as though I have been put on fast-forward to old age; a worn scabbard sheaving my young soul. Yet there is familiarity.
I shuffle around the room to a shelf where there are two books. One is the Bible and the other is “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. The latter has many turned down pages, but I don’t recall it. I read a few passages and fold another corner.
I decide to go out for a walk. It seems like a nice day and I need to get out of this dreary room.
I move to the sink. I run the tap and wet my thinning hair, using my fingers as a comb to provide a semblance of style. I only have over-sized orange pyjamas on and can’t see anything else in the room to wear.
I pull on the door and it does not move. I try again, harder this time, and start to feel panic rising up within me. I am locked in. What is going on? Why can’t I get out? I shout out. There is no answer. I call again, louder, repeatedly, but there is no response.
Why am I being held captive? Am I being detained for the pleasure of some sadist kidnapper or is the door simply jammed shut? I have no idea and no recollection of how I got here.
Sitting on the bed, I close my eyes and try to remember how to stay calm. I breathe deeply through my nose and concentrate on the air filling my lungs, making me fat, and then rushing out to escape, leaving me deflated and desperate for more.
I remember learning this technique in therapy sessions. I couldn’t cope when I was young and needed professional help.
I remember sitting facing a wall and hitting my forehead against it until I would bleed. I would take my father’s Stanley knife and make little pin-prick piercings in my skin to feel some sort of release. I would repeat words and actions a set number of times, convinced that if I didn’t do it, something really bad would happen.
While therapy didn’t cure me, it did at least teach me coping techniques (as the sterile professionals called them) to find peace of mind and tame the lion roaring within.
My father worked the oil rigs and so would often be called away to keep watch over the fiery tars in some artificial construct in an otherwise barren land. Not that the places he mentioned meant anything to me, other than he was not at home.
I used to stand watch at the front door window for hours, waiting for him to come home. He was always late and I used to get desperately upset, believing something really bad had happened to him; that he wouldn’t be coming back.
Maybe the deep drills or pendulum motions of the rusted equipment had carved him up, or he had choked to death from thirst in the desert sun, or worse. I stared out unflinchingly, hearing every portent ticking of the nearby clock.
The intense relief I felt when I saw him on the horizon was overwhelming. I used to hug his legs with all of my might, hoping to ground him on the spot, so that he could never leave me again. But he always did.
My father was a decent enough man, but his job exhausted him both physically and mentally.
I see his crumpled frame now; asleep on our big, brown leather couch. I would curl up next to him and just lie there. I would try to rest his arm or leg over me and just stay very still. I used to go into some sort of stasis; even if I was too hot, itchy, or restless, I would not move.
On the rare occasion my father could muster up the energy to play with me, it would always involve a competitive sport, in which my adolescence would prove an impossible handicap to overcome. He hated losing and did not believe in letting me win.
When we went swimming he would talk to other people and play with their children; I drifted alongside like an embarrassing inflatable. I would try to get his attention, by doing an underwater roll, or a perfectly straight handstand. He wouldn’t acknowledge my efforts, unless he was being watched. Then he would be the model appraiser.
I open my eyes and look up directly at the white ceiling. Particles of dust ebb and flow in a nearby shard of light. The millions, blinking, unencumbered by gravity.
I am cocooned in my blanket like a trapped pupa. I struggle to release myself.
There is a book next to me which I pick up, and start reading. I haven’t read it before, so I start at the beginning. A curious girl chases a white rabbit down a very deep hole; she takes my mind with her.
The room feels familiar, but I wonder where I am and why I am dressed in orange pyjamas.
I remember that my older sister Lauren loved the colour orange. I asked her once why. She described the colour of the late-afternoon sun, burnt out and exhausted from its efforts. The marigold flowers in full bloom, which plagued our garden. The joyful boredom of long, lazy summer holidays. It makes sense now.
Looking back, I feel sorry for her. Lauren was my enduring babysitter and had to take me everywhere, as if by maternal obligation. This was not a happy position for a teenage girl, venturing into the adult playground full of boys and hormones.
I remember laughing hard and often, even when she manipulated my emotions to create the centrepiece of some joke or theatrics. My high reactions, whether through fright or humiliation, always seemed to be an enjoyable spectacle for Lauren and her friends.
Not that I minded. I was a willing player who needed to feel wanted, or special, like Lauren. Of course, I didn’t belong in a group of teenagers and would be quickly discarded, once the show was over.
Lauren’s first boyfriend was different. He would sit with me on his knee for hours and treat me to novelty sweets, like wate
rmelon flavoured gobstoppers and sherbet fountains with liquorice straws.
He endured my need to be ever-present and suffered my constant chatter. He was one of the first people who made me feel cared for and accepted; he genuinely liked me and I could be myself with him.
Of course, first boyfriends rarely last and I cried for hours when my sister moved on from him.
My mum was always there to comfort me when I needed her; a human pacifier. She would hold me in her arms and rest her head gently on top of mine; sing silly songs when I was sad, believing that her little boy could do no wrong. My constant cheerleader and enduring protector.
Life had been unkind to my mum and she sought solace with late nights out drinking in town with her friends. This was seemingly enough to get her through the everyday exhaustion of life and her loveless marriage.
The past seems so close to me now. The detail is crystal clear, but I still can’t put together what is happening now or where I am.
I feel like a little boy again, scared and alone in the middle of a pitch-black night, and call out for my mum and sister. They don’t come. The door remains closed.
We lived quite far out from town when I was young and my toy figures were my main friends. Together we would endure prehistoric jungles, find lost civilisations, explore outer space, race across stormy seas and be the ringmasters of the world’s greatest circus. How can I remember such childhood fantasies?
One toy figure accidentally fell in the fire once and I put my hand straight in without hesitation to save her; she was charred but cherished evermore. I think I still have her somewhere, but I can’t think where.
I had one friend at school. We did everything together and played hours of endless games using nothing but our imaginations and a few painted lines on a small school yard. He quickly replaced me when the new boy in town arrived; his choice left me alone again, with an unexpected and novel hurt.
The light is starting to dim, and the door opens. A spotty young man in a blue uniform enters. Not saying a word, he places a tray on the table, before leaving. I shout after him, but he doesn’t reply.
Is it really food? It all looks somehow familiar, but I can’t remember what anything on the tray is. The harder I try, the less I can recall.
I can’t fathom out how to use the plastic shapes to pick up the food, stabbing uselessly at some small green spheres. I am forced to use my hands and feel a sense of humiliation.
Chicken, I know the dry white meat is chicken. It catches in my throat as it goes down, it is so dry and over-cooked.
I recall the chicken hut, outside of our old house. Copious eggs that were laid by Bobby, Angelica and Peter. Why did I pick two boys’ names for my hens?
I loved those silly creatures and found pleasure in cleaning out their hut together with my mum and Lauren. It was one of the only things we did together, or at least one of the only enjoyable things we did together, and it meant a lot to me.
Lauren saw it as the worst possible chore, but I liked the excitement of trying to catch the hens by chaotically chasing them around and around, so that we could place them in the holding pen and tidy their home.
There were always a few spiders crawling around and I was thought to be the brave hero, who would always be tasked with catching them. Death was demanded by Lauren and my mum, as they were comically afraid of the tiny beasts, but I couldn’t bear to kill them; I would just take them away and place them safely in the nearby hedge.
A hen once escaped from the coop. I ran out to save her from the busy road and was gently kissed by the bumper of a passing car, as thanks for my efforts. I was ok, just a bit bruised and shaken. I remember the police had come to discuss it with me, and I had to take a sugary tea to calm my nerves.
It was entirely my fault, but the hens went on holiday soon afterwards, and never came back, apparently because they liked it so much. They had found something better, somewhere new. I was heartbroken, until I was given a small ginger bundle of fur as a new pet.
I suddenly recall that I don’t eat meat, or at least I don’t think I eat meat. My stomach groans in disgust at this betrayal and, urgently and dramatically, I vomit.
It conjures up a memory of the time when my father left us. I didn’t really understand what was happening at the time; I had sat on the stairs with my sister listening to our parents rowing.
Afterwards, I knew something really bad had happened, as my sister was crying, my mum was shaking silently, and I was sick.
This violent reaction to the palpable upset around me quickly refocused our attention and brought us back together.
We then just got on with ordinary life, as you have to, no matter what happens. You can only be still and contemplative for so long. You have to move on.
I didn’t understand at that age what it all meant or what a divorce was. I just knew my father had left us. I would now only see him once in a blue moon, when both his leave from the rigs and my school holidays coincided.
Nothing would be the same again. It was about that time that I started counting my actions and repeating patterns to avoid further harm.
In fact, he took no real interest in me or my life and casually drifted out of it; like a ripple from a stone skimmed in the sea.
I still feel frustration and anger at my father; he should have made an effort and cared enough to remain at the centre of my life. Even today I struggle with the feeling of abandonment.
In the end, we all make our choices, and he made his. Perhaps the reason for his decision is one of the worst, he just didn’t care enough; there was no malice or dramatic falling out. My father just couldn’t be bothered with me.
I wonder what happened to him and whether he regrets his decision. Sadly, I doubt it, but he should. I was supposed to be the most important thing in his life.
I feel embarrassed and ashamed. I had dirtied my nice orange pyjamas. I don’t know where I am and all I want is to be held. I feel a sudden and deep loss. I feel light headed and am shaking. I break down into tears.
The door opens its jaws with a loud jolt and consumes my self-pity.
Harry, the young guard, walks through. I notice his acne is much worse than yesterday. I try to engage with him cheerily, to distract from the obvious unpleasantness, but Harry just grunts and sighs. I have added to his workload and made his day worse.
I am handcuffed and taken from the cell. I know this routine.
I enter a narrow room full of metal shower heads. I turn the chrome shower dial on and stand with my eyes closed under the warm water. I am surrounded in a small fog of steam.
We only had a bath when I was young. The water was heated by the fire. It would get so hot, and the steam from it was so thick, that you couldn’t even see your hand before your face.
Of course, it would eventually disperse and I would normally be left facing my sister, playing with my many colourful bath toys, as my mum washed me.
Afterwards, I would sit naked playing by the bath while my mum washed herself in our dirty water.
I was aware from a young age that I was physically different to my mum and Lauren and felt a desperate need to see my own sex.
After I have showered, I dry myself, and am given another set of orange clothes. I awkwardly and embarrassedly dress, stumbling as I try to put on the trousers.
I have never been comfortable with men seeing me naked. Maybe this is a consequence of my upbringing. It just doesn’t feel right. I am also body-conscious and try to avoid judging eyes.
The guard pays no attention whatsoever and, after I am dressed, walks me back to my holding pen.
Sometime later, or maybe it is the next day, a different guard comes and takes me along a narrow, white corridor and through to another small room.
The room is sparsely decorated with a long pane of glass stretching across its entire length and dividing it in two. Either side of the glass contains mirrored elements: a small metallic stool nailed into the floor, a long wooden ledge and a black telephone.
&
nbsp; Except I am on one side and a woman with unnaturally dark hair is on the other.
She slowly turns to look at me. Piercing blue eyes almost melt the glass between us; these wormholes to her soul pulling me in. I smile instinctively.
She indicates to the phone next to me and picks up the one next to her. While I can’t say who this is, I feel that I know her and I am relaxed in her presence.
I search the gulag that is my brain and find nothing except silent echoes.
She talks nervously without pausing, even though most of the conversation involves questions about my wellbeing.
When I ask again who she is, she looks at me with a mixture of anger and sadness and slowly gets up and walks out of the room.
I sit alone, still holding the telephone and feeling rather silly.
It reminds me of the pretend calls I would make with toy phones when I was little. Hello, is anyone there? I was always scared to ask, convinced that some ghost or alien would somehow have connected to the line and respond.
Of course, they never did. Only Lauren answered, still prepared to play this game despite being several years older.
The overhead lights are blindingly bright and I look at my transient reflection in the glass pane. I see an old-looking man staring back at me. Greasy grey hair, unshaven, gaunt faced, dark shadows underscoring familiar brilliant blue eyes. I do not recognise the face, but it must be mine.
Lauren enters the room. I am so happy to see her. I stand up and place my palm flatly against the pane of glass between us. She mirrors my action and stares into my eyes.
I can’t remember when I last saw her, but I have a feeling it was not so long ago and a flick of her unusually jet-black hair sparks a semblance of a memory. Where are we? What is this screen? Where is our mum?
Lauren gives me no warning and delivers an instant death. Just comes out with it. Mum has been dead for years. Lauren insists that I know this, that she has told me at least a dozen times before.
But I don’t know this. How could Lauren think that? How could mum be gone? I would know it for sure. I always felt certain that you would know when someone you loved died or that their apparition would come to see you before they finally left. I certainly didn’t know this. There had been no ghostly goodbye.
