Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  The bed isn’t comfortable. The mattress is made of dried plant material or something and is lumpy. I can feel Bertie’s discomfort, and how he wishes he could move. How the blanket is itchy and how he longs for it to be over him at night.

  I reach out for the leather straps which are on the sides of the bed. I grit my jaw tight and open my hands. Then I close my fingers, imagining the feel of leather on my palms. It works. I look down and see that I’m holding a strap in each hand. I raise my hands, and the straps move with them. I can feel the images on the edge of my mind, they are pushing to get in, they want to be heard. I can’t hold them back anymore so I let go. The straps fall with a thud on the bed.

  I can also feel the echoes left from people who have laid here before. Their voices are stronger and more dominate than Bertie’s.

  My form shivers. I nestle down into the imprint of Bertie’s body in the mattress. I feel like he’s hugging me. I like it. For a moment I close my eyes in peace.

  But then the images start. I can’t push them away. The images reach over me like a large wave, pause, then dump on top of me with an unexpected force.

  I gasp as if I’m being drowned. I half expect my mouth to fill with water. Panic locks within my body. This is a mistake. Right up there in the top three mistakes of my life, assuming I’m somewhat alive but that’s not really important right now as I struggle for breath, for space, and not to be crushed by the force of the memories of people who have been here before Bertie.

  I want to know more about Bertie. Instead, I’m swept away with a tirade of snippets of scenes from other people in this room. There’s something about this room. This bed. These people are all very similar. Something connects them with each other even though they never knew one another. There’s something similar within them that’s inside of me. I don’t want to see this similarity. I regret this now. I want to move on to death, only because I know I can’t move on in life. I took that option away myself. If only I hadn’t. The regret grows deeper inside of me, a deep hole that catches the images and plays them for me to watch.

  I feel myself sinking deeper into the bed. My arms go up automatically, gripping the side of the bed. I should get off the bed, but I don’t. I stay. Sinking. Watching. Unable to look away from what I know is also in my heart. For isn’t that why I’m here too? In this room. But it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. I’m a ghost. I can’t kill myself. I’ve already tried and look where that got me. Stuck. One foot in each camp, bridging myself between the living and the dead. I was very clear that I wanted to die. But maybe the devil wasn’t listening that day and every day after that.

  I look into the images playing around me. The fragments are strung together, and I watch. I need to focus. This is about Bertie, not me. I can’t find Bertie in these images. Just other men and their torment for life, which is much deeper than what I ever felt. A darkness that was something viler than what was ever within me.

  Dead. Unbreathing. Some are tied to the bed. Some are bleeding out on the floor. There’s so much blood in this room. Splattered on the walls, even the ceiling. The window even changes. It didn’t always have the metal panel on the bottom. Then I see a man break the glass, and take a shard. It’s what they all want in this room. Not necessarily the glass. But something, anything, that will help them continue on the journey that they’re desperate to continue on. The one that ends with death. The journey I wanted to go on. A word forms in my mind. Desperate. I feel that emptiness inside of me. I’m trying not to think of the Law of Attraction. I don’t believe that shit anyway. This isn’t what I thought would happen when I lay on Bertie’s bed.

  I squirm. I’ve seen enough. I should’ve practised unbuckling the straps. Instead, I’ve wasted time lying on the bed fighting the images I didn’t want to see. I’m breathing fast, well going through the motions. It’s sort of calming. I swing my legs off the side of the bed. The images are fading in my mind. I see the edges of those I couldn’t see before in the horrors. Not all were the same in this room. Not all wanted to harm themselves. And not all of them succeeded. There’s hope. I never knew that before. I just thought there was desperateness, followed closely by regret.

  Dare I look to hope?

  ‘Let me out.’ One of the men on this level, way down at the other end of the corridor, begins talking. ‘God help me.’

  He’s loud. Very loud. They’ve left him in his room while they’ve taken the other patients downstairs for a feed and whatever else they do down there. Every now and then I hear the sound of a ping pong ball being hit or bouncing on a table. I’m glad the people here aren’t locked in their rooms all day. But for whatever reason, they’ve left this guy in his room. He’s been kicking the door occasionally. I jump each time. So I know he’s not tied on the bed. But they must be busy or ignoring him or something. I don’t see why they would tie Bertie up and not this guy. I’m sure he’s up to no good in his room. He could be the one that smears his shit all over the walls every morning. I hear them when they open his door. There’s usually a lot of swearing, followed by an argument between the orderlies about who will clean it up. I reckon if they strapped him down at night then they wouldn’t have such a problem. But dunno if these orderlies think too well. They’ve got their own issues, and I just try and stay clear of Smithy, slinking back into the wall as far as a dare each time he enters Bertie’s room. I don’t want to risk touching him and learning what other criminal things he’s done.

  ‘What do you mean you don’t want to share this room with me?’ the man yells out. There’s a thud as he kicks the door. I wonder who he’s arguing with. From what I can make out there’s a room further down where there are about seven or so men in the one room. Then there might be another dormitory-like situation, but other than that it’s one man per room. Except Bertie, there’s me, a ghost.

  ‘No you should get out.’ He’s getting louder, more frantic in tone. I don’t like it. I wish Bertie’s here with me. In this form, I can feel his energy rippling through the air, and I’m feeling this guy’s agitation and how angry he is. He’s on the edge. About to jump into a dark place. Not like the dark place in my mind. His is different. I don’t like it. I don’t want to know about other people’s dark places, I’ve got my own.

  ‘Why? You’re a selfish prick,’ he yells. His voice is different.

  I sink back into the corner. It sounds like there are two people in that room. But I know there isn’t. I’ve not been in here long, but through the vibrations in the air, the sickening ambience that reaches me I’m discovering about this place things I’d rather not discover. Plus, I can hear. The sound of the ping pong during the day. The slapping of cards onto a table. The clink of a spoon in a bowl. The turn of a page in a book. It’s like my senses are heightened. Well, at least my hearing and I can feel my surroundings, even from things I can’t see is something I can’t explain, and for my own piece of mind, I blame it on being a ghost.

  I can even hear the lock on the front door opening. I know to listen for it now. There’s a bell that rings first. Then there’s a lot of yelling and rattling of keys before two people go out through the front door. Well, first they have to unlock a wrought iron door, then walk down a short entrance, open another wrought iron door, then the front wooden door, then go outside and open the large iron gate. That’s when I hear the massive lock turn. We don’t get visitors often, and there’s only been one new patient, but I can hear what’s going on. Bertie and I don’t talk all day. And I don’t want to be thinking all day either. Bloody hell, I don’t like being left with my thoughts even though I seem to be thinking more without creeping close to the edge. The abyss within me has changed. But I guess being in a place like this would mean I’m already in the abyss. Darkness certainly surrounds me. It just not what I expected.

  ‘I’ll punch your lights out if you say that again.’ The man’s voice is high-pitched and brings me out of the safety of my thoughts.

  ‘Like to see you try.’ His voice deepens.
/>   It’s like a ping-pong match in the same room. It’s freaking me out as well as giving me a headache at the same time. I rub my head. I wish they would come with the opiates or whatever it is they use to calm them down. This guy needs a lot of medication. And now.

  Bang.

  I jump.

  Finally, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I listen carefully. There are three orderlies. I assume orderlies. I guess there’s a doctor here, or maybe he visits, but I’ve not heard him being here or even being talked about. They don’t really know much about mental health in the late eighteen hundreds. They don’t really know much in my time either. At least I was never medicated, or strapped to a strange bed and left alone for hours at a time with nothing but the emptiness in my head. I shiver.

  There’s a commotion as they open the door to his cell.

  ‘Billy, calm down,’ says Smithy.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ yells Billy with a high pitched voice.

  ‘There’s only one of you in here, Billy,’ says Smithy.

  There’s a comic side to what I’m hearing, but nothing about what’s going on in the cell and the demons inside of Billy so I don’t laugh. Only push my knees tighter to my chest and rest my head on my knees.

  ‘Don’t you tell lies,’ says Billy, his voice now deeper.

  There’s a scuffle.

  ‘Don’t you touch me,’ yells Billy.

  Smithy doesn’t listen. The ripples come down the corridor towards me, into the room through the open door, and I feel the vibrations of what’s going on. Delayed knowledge. I know more than I would like about what’s going on in that room. Poor Billy. But I’m glad they’re giving him something. It’s unsettling hearing him like this. Unhinging.

  I turn my head and rest my cheek on my knee. My mind is making connections, I wish it wouldn’t. I wasn’t like this. But I experienced someone else’s dark moment, and I’m struggling. I was always harsh on my parents and Ashla.

  Is this what they wanted to do when I had my outbursts? Hide away and not see me and wish it would all go away. That’s what I’m wishing now.

  ‘You were here,’ says Bertie after they close the door. He was gone longer this time. I missed him. But at least I learnt a few things while he was gone. I might be able to help him and take off the straps, but I’m going to have to practise, and it’s not going to be easy to stop the images from overtaking my mind. I like to think I’m up for the challenge. For Bertie’s sake.

  ‘Where?’ I ask all innocently.

  ‘On my bed.’

  A heat flushes through my form. For some reason, I feel like I shouldn’t have been on his bed. That it was something unforbidden for me to have done, an invasion of privacy. I know Bertie likes his privacy and I feel I’ve invaded that.

  ‘Sorry.’ I’ve never apologised for anything before. Not even when I nicked Ashla’s hairbrush and used it on the dog because she pissed me off and wouldn’t let me borrow her new dress. I made sure I brushed the dog long enough, so his hairs were clearly in her brush. Then walked into her room when she was getting ready to go on a date. She had five minutes before she was getting picked up by whats-his-name, and she exploded with anger at me. I couldn’t have planned a better response if I had tried.

  Bertie doesn’t respond. It makes me feel even more like I shouldn’t have been on his bed. Guilt twists inside of me.

  ‘If it makes you feel better I didn’t learn anything about you,’ I say. Then wish I hadn’t. He doesn’t really know what I see and what I feel when I touch objects. While we are connected by the chain, we both hide emotions from each other.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His voice is edgy.

  ‘Umm… I dunno. Just that.’ I feel like I’ve just been caught with my hand in the biscuit jar and now I’m scrambling to hide the evidence.

  ‘Honey Pot.’

  The chain between us pulls tight, and an ache starts in my heart.

  ‘I don’t know how to explain it…’ I pause. I can’t think of any option but to tell him the truth. ‘Sometimes when I touch physical things I get images of the people who had touched them before. But don’t worry I haven’t learnt anything about you. I mean I have. Sort of. But nothing like what I can’t see. You know, like how uncomfortable the bed is, the itchy blanket that you want over you so you can curl up against the night. And, of course, you want the leather straps removed, but then you’ve said that to the orderlies when they’ve come in.’ I finally stop talking. No more words come. I’m not sure of the images I’ve sent to him, probably a scrambled mess. It’s how my mind thinks. I feel exposed, worse than I ever have in the past.

  ‘Don’t worry, Honey Pot. I can only just feel your warmth, and I like it. Makes me want more.’

  I let his words hang unanswered in the room. He’s not looking at me. It’s just a feeling we’re talking about. It isn’t an invitation. Somehow I know that. And with every molecule that now makes me who I am, I wish it was an invitation. I’d be next to him in a heartbeat. If I didn’t have to feel so much of his emotions when I touched him. I promise myself to practice touching physical things and get better at holding the images back. Then I might be able to not only undo the straps but also give him a hug.

  ‘Do you miss your home?’ asks Bertie. There’s a hint of soap, and I think he’s got fresh clothes, but I can’t be sure. Things don’t smell that clean around here, especially with the bathroom across the hallway.

  I don’t know how to answer him. I want to say yes and no at the same time, but of course, I can’t. I didn’t realise that I did miss home as such. Not until he asked.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I reply. It is.

  ‘Well, I suppose being a ghost isn’t easy,’ he says.

  ‘Bit like being green,’ I answer absentminded. Remembering some of the crazy shows I watched when I was little. Before the accident.

  ‘Are you green?’

  ‘No silly,’ I giggle. I don’t want to explain all about the childhood show I watched. ‘Just a joke from where I’m from.’

  ‘Can you go home?’ he asks, his voice is soft.

  His question hits me hard right where I’m hurting inside, but I don’t know exactly where. He found my hurt. I don’t think he meant to. He found it with such accuracy it’s uncanny. Not only does his questions make me hurt even more, but it makes me think about things I don’t want to think about.

  I don’t want to think about home. I chose to leave. I chose death instead of life, hatred instead of love. I burnt that bridge. Cliché as it sounds I don’t think I can go back. Regret isn’t going to rebuild that bridge or take me back to my body. I double forward as a stabbing pain grips my belly. My body. I don’t want to think about what they’ve done to my body. Naturally, that’s the only thing I can think of right now. No matter how hard I push that idea it won’t go away.

  Have they buried me yet?

  Have they redecorated my room, glad they don’t have to worry about their child who was bound with the darkness and kept bringing the family down?

  Have they given away my clothes? My things, the toy rabbit I used to carry around with me when I was learning to walk, the jewellery box Mum gave me when I was eight, now filled with necklaces of skulled jewellery, or tipped out the black nail polish I used to wear.

  At least I didn’t keep a diary. Thank the fuck for that foresight on my behalf. With the countless therapy that was one thing I refused to do. I didn’t want to write my thoughts down. I didn’t want to see them myself. And I sure as hell didn’t want anyone else reading them. I was in enough trouble for what I’d done to myself. I didn’t want to add the dark thoughts to the list, or what Frank would say to me. Nope, that one I knew not to do no matter what.

  Guess that stuff doesn’t matter anymore. Not my clothes, my own room, my soft and cosy bed, the toy rabbit, or my jewellery. There’s no way I can go back. I’m sure it’s been a few days. Long enough for them to have buried me. Maybe I’ll crawl up through the grave like Buffy. I’d like to
come back as a vampire slayer. That would be fun. I could be on the dark side and be normal. Well, you know what I mean. I could if I wanted. I could if there was a way to control the darkness. But there’s not.

  Another bolt of thumping pain grips my belly.

  What if they cremated me?

  Shit, would they? I have no idea. I didn’t have any wishes for a funeral or anything like that. I was only concerned about leaving life, and going to hell, and being with others like me. That was going to be my sort of fun. Not this, being a ghost in an insane asylum, stuck in the lowest ward there is.

  In the seconds it takes for these thoughts to reel through my mind. I realise what I would like.

  ‘I’d like to go home, but I can’t,’ I finally say. A new emotion burns inside of me. Shame. I can’t get away from it. I’ve got supportive parents, a sister who annoys me but does love me. I have a home and everything I could want. Except to live without the darkness. I feel weak for giving into it like I did. Without Frank’s voice in my mind I feel I should’ve stood up to him. Even though I knew how hard it was to do that, it was next to impossible. Something is happening inside of my head. There are hairline cracks forming. Fuck I’m falling apart. It’s finally happening. I’m really starting to go crazy.

  ‘I understand,’ says Bertie.

  Those two words that mean the world to me. I hold together for a little longer.

  ‘Why don’t your parents come and visit you?’ The question blurts out before I’ve thought things through. Hours have passed, a comfortable silence between us, each of us together lost in our own thoughts.

  His lips press together tightly. They lose some of their redness as the blood flow is stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I say quickly realising this is something that Bertie doesn’t want to talk about.