Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  Sceptic

  By Lilliana Rose

  Copyright 2018 Lilliana Rose

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book has been written using US English, but the book’s story is set in Australia. Some euphemisms that form part of the Australian spoken word may be used. If you would like further explanation, or to discuss Australia, please do not hesitate to contact the author. Contact details have been provided, for your convenience, at the end of this book.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older. Portions of this book discuss suicide, please click here for more information.

  ISBN-13: 978-0994388087 k12

  Book design by Swish Design & Editing

  Editing by Swish Design & Editing

  Cover design by Kellie at Book Cover by Design

  Published by Infinity Dreaming

  Cover Image Copyright 2018

  The Darkness calls to Dazz. Is it too late for her to fight back and choose life?

  Dazz has given up on life. On her family. Her sister. Her only friend. On herself. She wants out. Instead of wanting to finish her last year of high school she takes her own life. That’s when something extraordinary happens.

  Dazz has a fascination with the Victorian Era and especially insane asylums. She finds herself pushed back in time to 1880 and trapped inside one—Z Ward, Parkside, in Adelaide Australia to be precise—and she’s a ghost.

  Dazz is not alone. Bertie, a young man, a few years older than her, who’s usually strapped to the bed to stop him from hurting himself, is also there. She tries hard to resist a connection forming between them, but Bertie has a knack of helping her like no one else can.

  Filled with regret, can Dazz fight for the life she so despised and uncover a way back home?

  To Marianne.

  In order to write this story some of the historical facts have been left out or altered.

  One such detail is that in photos I’ve seen from Z Ward the patients removed their clothing at night and were left outside their doors folded in neat piles. I chose not to include this detail because I didn’t want Bertie to be naked or in his underwear, that wasn’t the type of story I was telling.

  My character Bertie is fictionalised one hundred percent.

  I don’t know how well or bad the patients were actually treated during their stays at Z Ward. But I have seen photos where the orderlies were playing cards with the patients. There were also activities like ping pong and reading, and there was more than one meal per day. I’ve dramatised the treatment of patients in order to tell this story, but then again, maybe I haven’t. However, I have certainly used my imagination to help bring this story to life.

  History of Z Ward:

  https://glensidehospitalhistoricalsocietyinc.com/

  http://zward.com.au/

  https://adelaidehauntedhorizons.com.au/z-ward-asylum-history/

  Blurb

  Dedication

  A Note To The Reader

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven k12

  A Note To The Reader

  Acknowledgements

  Connect With Me Online

  About the Author – Lilliana Rose

  I wasn’t always a believer. Though I’m not surprised it did happen. Well, you know hindsight and all that shit. Plus, I’ve had years to think about what happened. Yes, years. No one thought I’d last that long, especially me, but I have and I will continue to, I guess. It’s different now. There are cracks that let the light in. Sometimes I worry they might close up like a healed wound and I’ll be like I was all those years ago. Disbelieving. At a time when darkness always seemed to cling to me like a sticky autumn fog forewarning of boggy ground ahead. The sort that not only makes you stuck but sucks you in swallowing you whole like a boa constrictor, stopping you from inhaling.

  Breathe.

  Goddamn it, breathe.

  See I’m still affected. The memories are real, embodied within me forever. It’s my cross to bear. Ever since that first time when I was four, and my memories began. Oh, how my skin prickles now with electrical currents of life when I remember.

  Sticky fogs and boa constrictors, they weren’t my only nightmares. There were other monsters that walked in my mind, the devil ram, dragon, and a chimera monster, somehow seeping out into the real world and playing havoc in my life. Life. Now that’s a word I used to hate. I don’t like it now, but I don’t hate it, and that I’m told is very good progress.

  I’m getting stronger. I don’t stumble any more, not since I came back.

  So where did I go? Well, now that’s a bloody good question. I’ve told no one. I’ve got enough problems without them adding crazy to it. I don’t want to be medicated. I want to keep feeling, now I know what it means to live, though I still remember what death feels like. It’s a comfort to remember. Keeps the cracks open and the light coming in. Small rays of orange sunlight. Fuck! Now I’m becoming a poet. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.

  I’m told that playing with words is apparentl
y a good thing. Good to know I picked up something from high school English. The words will help to make sense of my emotions. But they don’t understand. It’s not my emotions that were ever the problem. It was… I dunno. The darkness as bloody cliché that is. The fog would move around, press down on me like a lead weight, and sometimes the monsters would come out, the boa constrictor, the ram, the two-headed dragon. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I can now. I see them as my friends, the monster under my bed, the voices in my head, the heavy weight of depression. And I can step into the fog and create my own monsters. It’s fun. Better than doing what I used to, better than walking on the edge, flashing my tits, and mooning my bare arse to the abyss. Yeah, well, people like me talk about the abyss. Another fucking cliché. See I’m not a full poet yet, thank God. Guess that’s only a matter of time.

  My thoughts are still fragmented. Not like they used to be. I can bring them together now, place the pieces together like a puzzle and look at the landscape image of my mind that stretches out in front of me. I should do that. To help you understand why now I’m a believer and no longer a sceptic. But I’m not sounding all love and light so you might not believe me. Honestly, before I left and then came back, there was no longer any light within me. The darkness had taken it all, the monsters had grown big and strong, and there was only death ahead, and I wanted that finality. That peace. Fuck, I wanted to get the hell out of here. And I was nearly there. But something went wrong. Terribly wrong. And instead of following a tunnel of light, I was pushed elsewhere.

  I’m getting ahead of myself again. I’ve been writing more. I’ve learnt I have to structure my writing. It helps. It might help others. Like fuck, I reckon. But hey, I have the time, and I’m not like I used to be.

  They tell me to write.

  ‘Play with those words dear,’ Tanya would say in our therapy sessions.

  ‘You can write your own narrative now. What would you like to change,’ Dan, my art therapist, would tell me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I would reply with all the arrogance of youth that I had back then.

  Amazing what a few years can do and a trip down fucking scary lane.

  Dan didn’t like that answer. ‘There must be something you’d want to change, Dazz?’ He would look at me through his thick glasses. How someone in their late twenties could have such bad eyesight always amused me.

  I did want to change something, but that something had brought me back to life, and I needed to remember it. Keep it for myself, locked in my mind until I understood it better. Now I know I need to share it. Sorry, I’m scattered. It happens as I go into this story. It’s hard for me to tell. I don’t want to get it wrong.

  They, the many people I’ve seen, have taken different approaches to try and remove the darkness, narrative therapy, art therapy, some performance shit, meditation, hypnosis.

  My parents tried different approaches too, but none of them helped. I write now because it makes them happy and gives them the peace they need after what happened. Plus, I don’t mind moving words on a page, but don’t tell anyone. Don’t want to instil too much hope in that I might be cured forever. That hasn’t happened. It never will. I know it because of the way my mind blurs at the edges when I think about it, and the fog breathes back into my grey matter.

  Besides, I don’t want them to edit out my language. I like the words I use. Especially the ones that make people sit up, fear running down their backs, the hairs on their neck prickling in wave after wave of that electrifying buzz of unknowing that makes us become stuck in our lives. Fuck. Tits. Vulva. Blood. I’m not thinking of sex. I’m just picking words. Got you worried, right? See, how much power I’m finding in words.

  Vampire. Zombie. Werewolves. You’re laughing now. Not so scary, right?

  Trapped. Dark. Bound. Water.

  Ghost. Silent. Watching.

  The hairs are prickling. They will prickle more if you keep reading. I should start at the beginning, like a good storyteller. Problem is I don’t know when this really ever began.

  ‘Have you done your homework,’ yelled Mum from the kitchen.

  I don’t move. I breathe into my pillow, alone in my room. I can’t even be bothered rolling my eyes. I haven’t. Year twelve is important and all, but I don’t give a shit today. I’m sure the homework is to write poetry, one that bloody rhymes or some shit. I haven’t had a bad day, but I feel like I have. One of those days where a truck, you know one of those big road trains that rattle through the red dust in the Australian outback, has run you over. Yeah, you know. I don’t need to explain that shit. What I do need to explain I don’t want to.

  ‘Dazz!’ I hear her slam the pots down on the stove. A smell wafts up the hallway. The starchy smell of potatoes. A hint of meat, probably lamb chops again. Simple. Mum’s been busy I guess. She can cook but doesn’t want to tonight. I think she must be going out. That’s good. I want her to go out.

  Suddenly I feel a presence in the room. ‘Well, have you?’

  I jump. Look up, and turn to see Mum through my foggy eyes.

  She groans like she’s in pain.

  ‘Not yet.’ I have to answer, I’ve been conditioned to.

  Tell her to go away. Frank, the dominant monster in my mind is restless

  Mum is here in my room. I have given some of the monsters names. Frank. Yeah, funny right. Short for Frankenstein. It’s that dark humour which absorbs through my skin. Frank, he’s a four-footed oaf, hairy chest, pimply shoulders with dirty skin, he’s been the most vocal today, the one who has weighed down on my mind, pushing me closer to my final resolve.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her voice drops in volume, there’s fear at the edges. I can hear her mind thinking, not again Dazz. Please, for the love of God, not again.

  It’s not like I can help it.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. I’ve learnt to, and it’s easy. For a little while, and up to a point. The problem is I’m at that point today.

  I can help you, Frank speaks softly. I shiver, but it’s not with fear.

  ‘Dazzie.’ Her voice cuts into my skin, slicing at my life, the spark isn’t there. I’m not completely numb, but I’m close. The letters of my name are edges to a razor and lifts the epidermis layer in one piece, exposing me, making me vulnerable, forcing me to be reminded that I’m alive.

  Go away you stupid bitch. Frank’s voice rips through my mind, pulling apart my neurons.

  ‘Okay, I’m on to it.’ I sit up, forcing myself even though my body feels like it’s made of lead, and it’s hard to move. I hate Frank calling Mum a bitch. It unsettles me, pulls me away from what I hope to achieve later.

  ‘You’ll tell me if you’re not okay.’ I see her eyes and look away. I’d rather look into the red eyes that I see in my mind’s eye than her blue eyes, clear as day, clouded with fear.

  ‘Of course, Mum.’ The second lie stings my tongue, and I like the sensation of tickling pain.

  I can see her shoulders ease a little. ‘Dinner in fifteen.’

  ‘Okay.’ I pick up an exercise book, marked English, full of doodles on the front page. Some of them were eyes, but I changed them into flowers because I didn’t want to be sent down to the counsellor again. Apparently, it’s not the done thing to draw eyes like I had. It was one of those days where I was seeing lots of eyes in my mind, and I’d slipped into that space in between reality and fantasy and drawn freehand. It made me feel better. Until my teacher saw my drawings, nearly screamed, and sent me packing to the counsellor. I don’t blame her. I would’ve done the same thing.

  But nothing like that had happened today.

  Leave! Frank paces in my mind. Heavy thundering footsteps that increase the speed of my pulse.

  Mum remains in the doorway of my room. She’s standing there, stiff, hands folded across her chest. She’s still wearing her work clothes, cream blouse, tight grey A-line skirt, black stockings, and ankle boots. I like to wear something similar, but with my own twist to it. Like a dark blue blouse, petal-like flower collar,
tucked into a skirt with a pattern of tiny bluebirds, all stuck in flight on the heavy material. My tights are thick, textured, and my boots heavy with rubber grip, come up just below my knees. It’s a completely different look to my mum, but you know it’s the same sort basic clothes. I always find that fascinating.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re like this…’ Mum’s voice trails away.

  I look up from the front of my exercise book, to see her quickly move her hand over her mouth as if she wants to grab at the words and put them back in. My mum is supportive of me and my differences. My dyed dark hair, long and straight, almost gothic looking but not quite, the thick black ribbon around my neck holds a cheap glass red heart. I’ve only one set of earrings—bluebirds, gold ones that Dad gave me when I was eight, with a little blue aqua stone in their bellies. An alternative look is what I prefer to describe how I dress. I love it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s an example of an outward look of how my mind is working in silence, a hint of what lurks inside of me. Either way, my parents have questioned my ‘look’ before, hinting that maybe I wouldn’t be so ‘different’ if I dressed a little more upbeat, and add a little more colour like my sister, Ashla.

  Hey, I’ve got bloody birds on my skirt. You don’t get cuter than that.

  Apparently, it wasn’t what they meant. I reckon I could wear the most conservative clothes, the darkness that follows me, the emptiness that sucks at my mind, and the monsters that roam on the edge with me would still be there. It’s who I am.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mum says hurriedly.

  I know they don’t get me. I don’t bloody get me either. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have the monsters who fuel the thoughts of such terrible things that I haven’t even shared them with Mum or Dad. They just think I’m depressed at the moment. It’s worse than that. Much worse. And today, I saw how deep the pit is inside my head. I’m not even scared. I should be, but I’m not. Death is coming. I’m ready. The darkness wraps tighter around my chest, the boa constrictor unfolds its body inside of me, its muscles ripple around me, tickling, soothing, before tightening.