Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  I can feel Bertie. Well, I can feel him pressing at my heart wanting to be let in, but so far I’ve managed to keep him away. I simply push him back, and I dunno, it’s like I’ve weaved part of my awareness at the point to keep the pressure constant, so he doesn’t come in. He feels all soft and gooey-like, with a hint of sweetness. Perhaps like freshly made toffee.

  I reach out and hold my hand above his chest. It rises and falls slow with shallow breaths. I move my hand higher. I suppress a laugh. His breath tickles my hand, just like I remember the breath of my dog Tippy on my hand before the accident. It feels real.

  I step back. This isn’t what I’m looking for. This isn’t me. I’m not a child of happiness or goodness. Not since that fall when I hit my head, and the darkness grew and shaped the landscape of my mind. Not since I’ve done the terrible things to myself and my family, and pushed away my friends. It’s too late to change it now. I’ve tried. I’ve had so many hours of therapy. It was just better to go with it. That was something no one seemed to understand. I don’t mind. It was the only flow I could move with.

  The tingling sensation lingers in my hand vibrating between my ghostly molecules, his warmth, his breath of life. It feels weird to me. I don’t like it. I shake my hand to try and loosen the breath that lingers on me. Slowly the sensation fades. I won’t be putting my hand near his mouth again. Or his body.

  I glance at the window. The day is beginning. I don’t think the sun is up, but its rays have pushed the clouds of night away, back to the west over the ocean to another part of the world. I’ve always had a sense of good direction.

  Relief washes over me. Things will be different now. I don’t feel so scared.

  Footsteps sound outside. A chill moves through me. I rush to the corner by the door. I don’t know if I can be seen in the day or not. I assume not, but I don’t want to know what they will do to me if they find me here.

  I feel him on the other side. Smithy. I freeze. Fear runs like an army of ants over me.

  I hear keys and the metallic thud of a heavy lock sliding.

  I want to rush to the door and hold it, to stop him from coming in. Instead, I press myself back into the wall, slipping back into the bricks but still able to see the room. I imagine myself looking scary as hell, half coming out of the wall. It’s only a distraction for a few seconds.

  Then I see Smithy.

  ‘How are you this fine morning, Bertie,’ says Smithy, sarcasm thick in his voice. ‘Come on. I’m taking you out for a piss.’

  Smithy is tall. His dark hair is clipped close to his scalp, and his round face is pushed together a bit like a bulldog, eyes sunken in folds of muscularly skin, a short forehead, and a chin lost close to his mouth. He looks like he was made without a neck, and his broad shoulders could take a load much heavier than his own weight. He’s strong. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen what he’s done to women in his mind.

  Another orderly comes into the room behind Smithy. The bald one from yesterday. I don’t feel at all safe with these men so close to me. I try and sink back further into the wall, but I’m met with resistance, a pressure that pushes me back.

  ‘Take the legs, Ernest,’ mutters Smithy.

  They begin to unbuckle Bertie. Poor Bertie. He flinches from their touch, expecting to be hit or something. Smithy grabs his shirt and pulls Bertie to a sitting position on the bed. Ernest shoves Bertie’s legs over the side in a swift movement.

  ‘Come on then. We’re under strict orders not to let you out of our sight,’ said Smithy as he pulls Bertie to his feet. Bertie is oddly compliant. He doesn’t fight or protest. He goes along with them as if it’s the most normal thing to his day. I wonder how long he’s been here, or if it has nothing to do with him being submissive.

  ‘Long night,’ says Bertie. His voice is light.

  ‘Right you are there, Bertie,’ answered Smithy. ‘Good you didn’t cause us any problems.’

  ‘Maybe you can leave me untied?’ asks Bertie his voice trembles slightly.

  ‘No way,’ says Ernest.

  ‘Can’t do that. We gotta follow orders, too,’ says Smithy.

  I don’t like the way Smithy talks. He doesn’t sound genuine. He sounds like someone who should be in one of these cells. Maybe he has control of the darkness in his mind, rather than the other way around.

  They stand on either side of Bertie, roughly holding his arms and pulling him forward making him walk. Bertie stumbles. He’s been laying on the bed, tied down for hours. The dried blood on his shirt makes him look a terrible sight like he murdered someone while he was sleeping and can’t remember it.

  I want to push them away and tell them to leave Bertie alone, but I don’t. I’m trapped, held by my own fear.

  They walk from the room. For a moment I pause. Unsure of what to do. The door is open, but they aren’t far away. The bathrooms, or washroom, or whatever the fuck they call it is the door opposite mine. I’m scared of what I might discover outside of this cell. Somehow for me at the moment it feels safer inside caged like a bird.

  For a moment.

  Then I rush for the door.

  I’m better off taking my chances.

  So I make a run for it.

  Launch myself at the door once more.

  Something hard and unseen slams into my face then my body. Pain bolts through me and I’m held in the air for a moment then pushed back with a fierce force which lands me on the back wall of the cell. Air pushes from my being like I’m winded as I slide down and crumble to the floor.

  Fuck. This isn’t even possible.

  I get up and try again. Moving towards the door as fast as I can. I can’t manage to get a run up in this small cell. Maybe I should’ve tried a hop, skip, and jump approach like in triple jump at Sports Day. Either way, I’m flung once more into the back wall of the cell. My essence is shaken, and vibrations shiver through me, which stings with pain.

  I’m not going to let this chance go. So I walk to the door, slowly, like I’m sneaking up on the force field or whatever the fuck is keeping me in here. I hold my breath. Step over the threshold between the room and into the corridor. I feel the pressure on my foot pushing me back. Newton’s law is right. I push harder, and there is an equal reaction on my foot and leg. I wobble with my foot up in the air. My balance was never good.

  This is beyond weird. From all the things I’ve read about ghosts, which is not much, I can’t believe this is the way things are meant to be. I should be able to move through physical objects. I mean bloody hell, there’s nothing physical here in front of me, and ghost or not I should be able to walk through an open door.

  I wobble and put my foot down, on the safe side, the stuck-in-the-room side. The side I don’t want to be on. I shimmy my feet forward, standing as upright as I can and press my whole body forward. I’m pressed back slowly. I lean forward, increasing my own pressure. The resistance is immediate, and consistent, across my entire body which is coming up against the invisible barrier in the doorway.

  Maybe it’s another ghost? A sick joke on its own kind. The thought doesn’t ring true for me. Just my weird sense of humour coming up with a pathetic attempt to explain this situation I’ve been thrown into.

  ‘Come on, Bertie, we gotta go back now,’ Smithy says. His words might be kind, but they don’t sound kind. Fresh panic fills me. Without thinking I step through the door like I’m alive and in a corporeal body. Once more I’m thrown back into the room, but this time I simply stumble back and somehow manage to keep on my feet. I like to think this is progress. That I’m finding out more about the world I’ve been thrown in but it’s not. I’m not delusional.

  I get my balance just in time to look up to see Smithy and Ernest bringing Bertie back into the room. I don’t even have time to freeze or step out of the way. They simply walk through me. I didn’t like the feel of my hands in Bertie’s feet, and I sure as hell didn’t like his breath. But the three of them passing through me sends my ghostly mind into a nightmarish spin. I glimpse im
ages of each of the people, parts I don’t want to know.

  Ernest needs to work here to support his family. He’d rather be out on the shipping yards, but something happen and he can’t go back there—someone wants him dead.

  Bertie is a soft soul. I sense a gentleness in him that causes the space where my heart would’ve been to ache. He is misunderstood. There is also a part of him that’s locked up tight from the world. A secret. Just something about him, a big part of himself, of who he is, isn’t available for me to see.

  Not like the other two men. They’re easy to read. I see more about Smithy. A bloody bed. Another shallow grave. A body too young to die. I try to pull away from him but I can’t. I’m held by what I see.

  Bertie’s expression changes slightly. His forehead wrinkles a little with thought. Warm honey. That’s how he described how I felt to him. That sensation, of warm sticky honey, ripples around me and I pull away from the evil images of Smithy, and the messed up life of Ernest, and finally manage to move so I’m not touching any of them.

  I exhale with relief, well you know, going through the motions like a habit. I don’t actually have to breathe. The images still linger within me and I know I won’t be able to get rid of them. But for now I focus on the room, on Bertie and the warmness of honey as I stand watching.

  ‘I don’t need to be strapped,’ says Bertie calmly.

  ‘Come on now, Bertie, don’t make a fuss,’ says Smithy. He pushes Bertie back onto the bed.

  Bertie lifts his own legs onto the bed.

  Fight back, I think and I think it really hard.

  I clench my fists and dig my fingernails into my skin. They hurt, and for a moment I think I’m a real person again and not a ghost. But then I remember none of them can see me. It’s like I’m not in the room.

  ‘I’ve been really good,’ says Bertie.

  ‘Keep it up for longer, and I guess they can come off,’ answers Smithy.

  ‘But I didn’t cause you any trouble last night.’

  This is Bertie’s protest?

  It’s pathetic.

  I want to yell at him to fight back and then scream at Smithy to leave him alone, he doesn’t deserve to be tied up like this.

  ‘There was some racket in here for a bit.’ Smithy tightens the strap around Bertie’s right wrist. Bertie flinches as his raw skin is touched.

  ‘I had to come down here,’ continues Smithy as he systematically moves to tie the leather strap around Bertie’s torso.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bertie says without hesitation. ‘Just a misunderstanding. I was the best behaved last night.’

  ‘It was me.’ No one turns to look at me. ‘It was me. It’s not fair to punish him for something I did.’

  Smithy laughs. The sound vibrates like little knives down my back, nipping into my ghostly form making me more alert. ‘That may well be the case, but I had to come down here. You know the rules.’

  I don’t like how Smithy enjoys the power he has. I don’t know why such a monster like him could be in charge of this place or perhaps he just thinks he is. Doesn’t matter. I don’t like it.

  ‘Don’t you go blaming him you fucking pig.’ The anger is slipping out of me. The laughing doesn’t help. Watching Bertie tied up on top of the bed, after being like that all night fuels me to stand up and fight even though somewhere inside of me I’m scared shitless of this man.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. He’s done nothing wrong.’ I stand with my hands positioned on my hips, my stance wide. ‘You got a fucking nerve after what you’ve done.’

  Smithy stands up suddenly and whips around. He looks me straight in the eyes. I nearly shit myself. Lucky I’m a ghost. Still, I might have lost some of my ghostly molecules. Somehow I stand looking into his black eyes. The dilated pupils of black holes begin to suck me in. I can feel my form unravelling towards him.

  No.

  I take a step back. The chain connecting me to Bertie rattles through Smithy.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Smithy asks. There’s doubt in his voice, and I smile. Fuckhead deserves whatever he gets.

  ‘Nothing,’ answers Ernest as he finishes buckling the last strap.

  I stare back at Smithy. My nerve is returning. I spit at him. Childish right. It’s what I do. Despite my age. But what else could I do? Ghostly noises? I would do a dirty kick to his balls, but I don’t want to feel my foot disappearing into his body again. And I don’t want to see any more of his mind after what he’s done.

  ‘Could’ve sworn I heard a voice.’

  My anger cools. Did I hear right? He might have heard me. I allow the anger to well up inside of me and let it go like I’m throwing a bomb at him.

  Smithy jumps. I take satisfaction in his action. I like my own form of twisted justice in this fucked up limbo-land I’ve been dumped into.

  ‘This room gives me the creeps.’ Smithy made his way to the door. Ernest doesn’t need to be asked to leave, whether he felt my presence or not, he hightails it out of the room too.

  ‘Good riddance.’ I resist sending another blast of my anger at them. I’ve gotten rid of them and feel rather proud of myself. Though, guess it was a bit hollow as they were always going to go. But I like to think they left quicker because I had something to do with it. And I like to think I’m finding my ghostly power. Bit like being alive when you’ve got to fill out the self-awareness type forms to find your strengths. I reckon my strength as a ghost is to throw nasty, angry bombs at people who deserve it.

  Suddenly, I wonder if I can move things. I’ve been wasting my time in this room trying to get out, when perhaps the first step is to find my strengths and weaknesses, then maybe I will be let out. Bit like the training part of a computer game. Not that I played computer games much. But I knew enough. That’s what I’m in, my own computer game. That sounds a lot better than saying I’m, stuck in my own nightmare.

  The door slams. The lock clunks into place.

  Reality bites.

  I’m in a nightmare. Stuck in this cell. One where I’m beginning to feel there are other images ghosting here, which I haven’t felt before. Smithy’s stirred them into life.

  ‘That was a bit harsh,’ says Bertie.

  ‘What do you mean harsh?’ I demand.

  ‘He didn’t need all that anger blasted at him.’

  ‘Yeah, he did. You’ve got no idea what he’s done.’

  ‘No. But I do know what he can do, and that’s take off these blasted straps.’

  My throat constricts, and for a moment I think the snake is back.

  No, it’s worse. Guilt.

  I’m trying to help Bertie. I don’t want to see him tied up like this. It is inhumane. We never even tied up our dog Tippy like this.

  ‘He can’t feel me,’ I say.

  ‘He did. You went too far the wrong way,’ says Bertie. I note there isn’t any anger in his voice.

  Then my thoughts catch up.

  I’m talking to Bertie.

  My form vibrates faster.

  This is an exciting development.

  ‘So you can hear me?’ I ask. It’s almost like I’m two years old and I have to stop myself from jumping up and down with excitement. It’s been so long since I’ve felt any sort of joy I’m a little dizzy. This is good. I can at least have a conversation with Bertie, and I don’t have to talk to myself for eternity. I figure that’s how long I’m going to be here in this room. Eternity. On account of what I’d done. On account of taking my life. Plus, all the other things, and my connection with all things dark and wrong.

  ‘What? Can’t you hear me now?’ Maybe I’d imagined it. No. We had been having a conversation. About Smithy.

  ‘You’ve gone silent. Don’t take to heart what I’ve said, Honey Pot,’ says Bertie kindly. His voice is so sweet. ‘I know you don’t like him, but we’ve got to play it smart. He’s just a knucklehead.’

  ‘Yeah, you got that right.’ I smile. Then I stop smiling. I haven’t smiled for years. ‘What do you mean by
Honey Pot?’

  Bertie doesn’t answer. I stare at him wishing he would answer me. Please, please, please. He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Maybe I’ve upset you? I hope not. I hope you’ll hang around. I’m a bit boring, but I’d love the company. You know on account that I’m not going anywhere. Not even off this bed.’

  I laugh.

  Laugh.

  I fucking laugh.

  I’m unsure of this new state that Bertie is bringing out of me. I reckon my head will literally start spinning soon. There’s way too much happiness within me. I’ve had nothing for so long. One gram of the emotion would be likely to send me high as a fucking kite.

  ‘Oh, you’re still here. And you’re even warmer. Am I making you laugh?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘You’re funny.’ I don’t say the words out loud, but I think of him as a clown.

  ‘I don’t think I’m funny.’

  Wow! This is cool. I literally jump up and down before I contain the joy bubbling through me.

  ‘But I’m not a clown.’

  ‘No.’ I imagine the word written down and send it to him. I make my thoughts into images and send them to him. That’s how I have to communicate with him.

  ‘Glad you agree, Honey Pot.’

  ‘Honey Pot?’ I put an image of a Honey Pot, you know the old fashion sort with the words honey on the front and honey spilling out. Then I make a question mark.

  ‘I can feel you. You’re like warm honey.’

  I’ve yet to work out how exactly this communication works, but it does. And this is a nice turn of events in my current hellhole. Being told I’m warm as honey, and not cold as ice like I’m used to, is changing me. And I think I like it. For once my silence is not because I’m giving out the silent treatment instead I’m lost for words.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Ralph.’ Smithy’s words rattle down the corridor. He and Ernest have continued down the corridor of rooms checking the occupants.

  ‘Why the fuck do you have to do that?’ asks Smithy.