Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  I pause in front of the window.

  Another bonus of learning how to levitate, I can now look out on the grounds. I’m a little worried how easily Bertie got me to do this. With a shiver, I think very soon he might have me walking through walls. I don’t know if this will be good or not. I think it might be. If I can leave this room, then I’m sure I could leave this building. I could go adventuring.

  Bloody hell. Listen to me. This doesn’t sound like me at all. I don’t want to explore anything. Ever. But now I’m here able to look out into the world, there’s a little spark glowing inside of me. It’s so tiny I can imagine it’s not there. I blame Bertie. I don’t know what the fuck he’s done. I’m a little annoyed. I didn’t ask for him to do this. I feel more uncomfortable with this new light inside of me. This ember of fuck-knows-what. I want it out of me. I can cope with the waves of air over me.

  Looking out into the darkness of the night, I can’t help thinking that I could reach inside of me and pull it out. But the thought chills me.

  I look through the many panelled windows, the top part which isn’t concealed by the metal sheet. Day is still a few hours away. It’s dark, but I can see with my ghost eyes. Elm trees with their branches stretching out into the night, spreading their life just beyond the deep brick ha-ha wall that’s about twenty metres away and surrounds the building. They don’t want anyone getting out of this place. Ever. I can feel it with the way the building has been constructed. I know what some of these people have done, and I don’t even want them to get out.

  I can’t see beyond the wall, the tree branches make it difficult to make anything out. I remember something that Bertie had said. This part of Adelaide is considered country. In my time, this area is leafy-green suburbia and is prime real estate. It’s difficult for me to think of Adelaide in any other way. Undeveloped. Just starting to become established. It wasn’t proclaimed until 1836, I secretly listened in my History classes at school. Something stuck in my head.

  I move higher to look down. There’s one level below. I change my angle to look up. I glimpse an edge of a gutter. Only two floors. I discover this room is at the front of the building, there are only two floors, and the building doesn’t go back far. I’m surprised it’s not a big building though why I thought it would be bigger, I’m not sure. Might have something to do with the movies I’ve watched or the research I’ve done. I’d been given the impression that asylums were significant buildings. Something of an impending structure that lifts up from the ground out of nowhere. I guess this building would sort of qualify. I think there are other buildings around the place. I remind myself this is Z Ward. You don’t really want too many people like the ones here locked up in one place. There could be problems.

  I push up close to the window. Take another look out into the grey night. It will be light soon. Another day. Here. I don’t want to think what that could mean for me. Things are changing. I’m yet to work out if they are for the good or bad. I’m so used to change being bad.

  Not wanting to think about this anymore, I glide back from the window, move up and down some more until the sky lightens.

  ‘You’ve made the room feel like warm honey,’ says Bertie. He doesn’t smile. Just looks upwards. He doesn’t have much choice where he looks because he’s tied down. Bertie doesn’t move at all on the bed. He still has his shoes on. I can’t believe he’s not complaining. If it were me laying there, forced to be on top of the bed, strapped down at my wrists, torso and ankles, I’d be screaming the place down for justice. At least that’s what I like to think I would do.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I don’t know why I ask him.

  ‘No.’ His face is flat. It unsettles me. Though, I remind myself that’s how I was, deadpan face, quiet, and just aching to be left alone, before I became a ghost.

  ‘I’m bothering you?’

  ‘No. Feels like you’ve had fun during the night.’ The light is coming through the window, waking the room in the early morning.

  ‘I’m not the sort of person who has fun.’ I wouldn’t know what fun feels like. I imagine I wouldn’t like it one little bit. But I would know if I was having fun. Wouldn’t I? The motion tightens in an anti-clockwork direction. My thoughts mingle and blur.

  ‘I don’t mind if you have fun.’

  ‘It’s not what I do.’ I feel anger bubbling in the anti-clockwork motion within me. I don’t do fun. It’s not who I am.

  ‘I think it is.’

  I don’t want to argue with him, but I don’t want him to think I’m someone I’m not. I know who I am. Lonely. Desperate. Full of darkness. I’m skull bones and monsters, not unicorns and rainbows. I’m not fun. Nothing about my life has been fun, so why would it start now? I fold my arms across my chest. Bertie’s comments rattle through me like knuckle bones on a shaman’s shaker, waking up what I want left sleeping.

  ‘You’re wrong.’ I’m not going to let in any fun. And I don’t like that Bertie is suggesting that’s what I’ve done. I’ve never liked being told what to do. My parents learnt not to even hint that I should do something. I remember the first time it happened. I was six. Mum wanted me to eat my peas. I didn’t want to. I’d already refused to clean my room and go with Ashla to walk Tippy. I was very strong-willed. Later at dinner that night as we sat as a family around our little square table the time came for confrontation. Mum was making a stand. And so was I.

  ‘Eat them,’ demanded Mum. ‘All of them.’

  I flicked a pea onto the ground. Tippy licked it up. Mum’s face stormed over.

  ‘Eat them,’ she said louder.

  ‘Come on, Dazzie,’ interjected Dad. ‘I’m eating my peas. They’re good for me.’

  I liked peas, but it wasn’t about that. This was about power. I never felt like I had any control over my life. This was my way of trying to get some.

  ‘No.’ To make sure they knew I was serious I pushed another pea off my plate and watched it roll onto the table, then off the side, and onto the floor.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mum.

  Ashla rolled her eyes. But she knew enough to be quiet.

  Then I picked up my plate, and tipped the remaining peas onto the floor and then dropped the plate. It smashed. Mum and Dad jumped. Mum looked angry as hell. Dad’s face looked sad, a sort of sad that I’ve only just realised what it means. But then I didn’t care, and I was angry. I wanted to take control, and this was at the age of six, but it was the only way I knew how.

  While there was the pause of horror by my family at what I’d done, I stepped between the broken plate and walked to my room. Mainly before I was told to. Ashla was such an obedient daughter, my parents never knew what to do when I arced up. Frank applauded me as I slammed the door to my room. He told me I had shown them. I thought so too. It was really pathetic. I got a bit better at it, slowly increasing how I reacted, getting a little worse each time, slowly wearing my parents out.

  Ashla would call me selfish and spoilt. A brat. That’s what she thought. But it was more than that. On the surface perhaps she was right. Then again, she didn’t know of the darkness lurking deeper. The darkness Frank helped to stir with his restless walking. Still, the fact remains, I don’t like to be told what I should and shouldn’t be doing.

  Now with Bertie, this was no different.

  ‘You know I’m not,’ says Bertie.

  My jaw drops. It’s the tone of his voice. The certainty. The softness, with a ripple of attitude that speaks of confidence and intuition. No-one has ever managed to argue me down from my don’t-tell-me-what-the-fuck-to-do attitude. Ever. Plus, there’s the chain that connects us, and I’m sure that’s part of what’s betraying me. I should make a note of trying to remove it again. But for some reason, I keep forgetting.

  Before Bertie even suggests we have another lesson I know he’s going to ask. I wish he wouldn’t, but I can’t stop him. So far I’ve learnt to levitate, and I’m scared about what else he might manage to teach me. Even though I want to get out of the room,
there’s a growing part of me which doesn’t want to leave him.

  ‘So how about we give it another go, Honey Pot,’ says Bertie. He turns his head towards the window where I’m sitting just in front of the wall. I don’t want to be touching the wall and accidentally losing myself in the bricks, or worse, falling two levels to the ground. At least I can’t break into a thousand pieces like Humpty Dumpty because of my spirit form, but I don’t want to be trying it. Besides, there are other sensations I still have, like echoes as if a connection still remains between me and my body, sort of something like the chain that connects Bertie and me.

  I stretch my legs out in front of me. Bertie’s looking straight at me. He always knows where I’m sitting. It can’t just be because of the chain that connects us. It lies between us. I’m not noticing it as much as I have been. I know it’s there, I’ve just been thinking about other things. So much so I’m surprised I don’t have a headache.

  ‘How do you know where I am in the room?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he answers patiently. His gaze remains on me. His deep eyes on me even though he can’t see me. I won’t hear him say it again. He knows this and smiles, briefly, so I nearly miss it.

  ‘You feel like honey. Warm honey.’

  A warmth sweeps through me like gentle summer’s wind when you’re lying on the sand at the beach. I close my eyes, and for a moment I can imagine I’m there at the beach, lying on the sand. I only ever went when I was little. I’m unsure if this is when the memory is from because I didn’t much like going after the incident with falling in the paddling pool. I felt so awkward in my bathers, and there were the marks to cover up.

  ‘But how do you know where this feeling is in the room?’ I want to know how he does it. I’m a ghost, and I feel everything, and when I was alive, I felt nothing. I’m confused about this reversal. There’s something I need to learn here, but I’m not sure what.

  ‘Don’t you know what warm honey feels like?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah.’ I sort of do, well I can imagine well enough. I’d imagine it would feel good. I’d like to walk through the sensation of warm honey in the air now. Sweetness with warmth. It would be like a reassuring hug. I don’t know what that feels like. Maybe something like my beach memory I’ve just remembered.

  ‘Well, I just reach out into the room and feel for warm honey, that’s how I know where you are.’ There’s a deepness in his eyes which fascinates me. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away, even though I suspect he’s doing something very clever.

  He can’t reach out. His hands are secure in the straps on the bed. Even though the room is small, he could almost stand in the middle, hands stretched out at shoulder length and touch each wall with his fingertips.

  ‘But how do you reach out?’ I ask. I feel stupid. There’s knowledge in his eyes but not the sort you read from books.

  ‘I push a part of myself out from my body and into the room. I reach out that way with my mind and my heart at the same time. Then as soon as I feel the warmer air, I know where you are.’

  I pause thinking. His explanation captivates me.

  ‘It’s like my essence wants to find you, that little part that I release, like a butterfly net, and you’re my butterfly, but of course I don’t want to capture you. Just find you. I like knowing where in the room you are.’

  It sounds beautiful. I like how he reaches out into the room. I feel myself reaching out. I can’t help it. It’s hard to explain what I’m doing. It’s different to how I stretched myself when I was learning to levitate. I’m not stretching myself at all. It’s like I’m moving my awareness from me, extending it out like a ribbon from me. My ribbon weaves itself forward through the air towards Bertie. It’s cerise in colour, and it moves calmly and confidently. Gracefully. It’s about to touch Bertie on the cheek when I realise what I’m doing. This is a little forward, especially by my standards. I pull the ribbon back.

  ‘Like that,’ says Bertie quietly. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Like that,’ I echo unsure what exactly I’ve just done. I look into his eyes. My mind is thinking. Pushing the fragments back together. I get it.

  ‘I could do this to walk through walls,’ I say excitedly.

  ‘You could.’ His lips thin with a smile.

  I can’t wait to try. I jump up from the ground and stand at the wall by the end of his bed. I put both hands on the wall. I press forward slightly. They disappear a few millimetres into the bricks. I feel a coolness seep into my hands. This is as far as I’ve been able to go. Now, I want to go further. I close my eyes and concentrate. Instead of pressing forward with my hands, I reach out. Just like I did then with the ribbon. Just how Bertie does to find me.

  My hands slip forward further into the bricks, followed by my forearms, elbows, biceps. I can feel my hands pass through the bricks into the room on the other side. This is very cool.

  Suddenly, I stop. My confidence seeps away. I don’t know what’s in the other room. I’ve heard the patients yelling and screaming. I talk with Bertie because I trust him and because despite what he thinks he shouldn’t be here. Like me. I’m pretty sure others who are here should be. I’ve seen the imprints in the leather. I’ve glimpsed the darkness in Smithy. I don’t want to face any of that. Ever.

  I pull myself back.

  I realise what Bertie did. He didn’t even trick me so I can’t be angry with him. I look at him. He’s watching me, well looking in my direction.

  ‘You almost did it,’ he answers. ‘Why did you stop?’

  I don’t know. It wasn’t time. It suddenly didn’t feel right. There’s something else going on, and I want to know what that is first. I’ve got all the time in the world, so I don’t need to rush this.

  ‘I couldn’t go any further.’ I don’t like how I lie to him. I want to tell him the truth. But I don’t even want to admit the truth to myself.

  ‘One step at a time then, hey,’ he says very diplomatically.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I look at the wall. The painted brick that I don’t ever want to touch because of what might be on it. Shit. Blood. Piss. But I had touched it. I had gone into it. I could’ve gone all the way into the next room if I’d wanted to. I realise I didn’t get the images forming in my mind from touching something physical. It might be because I was concentrating so much and had blocked them out. I don’t know. A vibration starts down my back, and I want to try again.

  I feel myself constrict with an ache I don’t understand. I move away from the wall and return to my sitting position under the window. I need to think. I want to think. And there’s something different inside of me. Something growing, like a flower bud, not something out of control like a tumour growing where it shouldn’t. But something beautiful. Something that’s never been nurtured before inside of me. The little flame of light is growing within me.

  Not only have a learnt something, plus there’s another line of knots around the mandala that I can see within myself. Knots that are forming a beautiful pattern, and knots that can never be undone.

  The door swings open and Smithy is standing there with Ernest. I reel backwards to the far wall until I bang into it. I slip into the bricks without caring. It’s not just because of Smithy that I’m horrified. He has blood on his shirt. I can tell it’s not his blood as there are no scratches on his neck or face. His shirt hangs over his trousers and below his waist.

  ‘Tough morning?’ asks Bertie. I can tell from the ripple of fear from Bertie through the chain between us he’s as unsettled by the sight of the blood as I am.

  ‘Now don’t you go giving me any bloody trouble, Bertie,’ says Smithy. He motions for Ernest, and they unbuckle Bertie.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ answers Bertie. This is the first time they’ve been in here this morning. Bertie would’ve been within his rights to complain. He hasn’t even been taken to the bathroom. Though he hasn’t drunk or eaten since yesterday, so I guess he might not need to. No wonder he’s so slender. Just skin and bones
my grandma used to say.

  ‘Good. Make sure you keep it that way.’ Smithy pulls Bertie up from the bed, roughly without any care. ‘Right, you hungry?’

  ‘I need to take a piss first,’ says Bertie.

  Smithy groans as if in pain. ‘The sooner we don’t have to watch you the better.’ He drags Bertie out of the room like he’s a naughty child.

  I’m not sure why they have to watch Bertie take a piss. It reminds me of the times when my parents watched me, but I was at least allowed to go to the bathroom by myself. I shiver. I wouldn’t want anyone watching me. Sounds a bit perverted. I mean honestly, what the hell could Bertie do in that time? Run to the door? Make a mess on the floor? Doesn’t seem like a big deal to me. There’s a lot I just don’t seem to get here. Like why there’s blood on Smithy’s top. I shudder. A lot of reasons come to mind, and I don’t like any of them.

  I watch them leave and walk across to the door beyond the room. I don’t walk up to the door. The lessons with Bertie are going too well for my liking. He’s getting me to try things no one else has ever managed to achieve. Soon, I’ll be walking through time back to my real life. I don’t want to be walking in that direction. I don’t care how guilty I feel about what I did. I’ve made my mind up. I remember a saying grandma used to mutter when she did her crocheting, ‘You’ve made your bed now lie in it.’

  I wave of recklessness washes over me. I decide to lie on the bed. Bertie’s bed. I’m half expecting to fall through it and end up under the bed. But I don’t. I can feel his warmth under me. I tremble, forcing myself to stay lying. I want to know him more. This is why I’m doing something like this, especially when I know I’ll end up feeling too much of the memory which is embedded in the objects I touch. I can control whether the images enter my mind, to a point. I know that from the last attempt from trying to move through the wall. But it’s not easy, and I’m still learning.