Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  I scream into the room. I want Bertie back. I don’t want to be alone in this room. I’m not stuck here, but I feel like I am.

  This emotion inside of me is edged with things I don’t want to admit to. Having Bertie trick me into leaving the room hurts me deeply. But I did something similar. It’s the way we work. There’s control over the situation, but then again there isn’t.

  I know what the real cause of this sadness inside of me. I know what’s going on. I sit staring into the room looking at the window but not seeing it. I can only feel this way towards Bertie because I loved him.

  The ember inside of me is glowing softly. Weakly would be a better description. I notice it’s there within me even though Bertie is gone. Even though part of me hates him for leaving because I loved him. I’m not sure how a ghost can love a human. I don’t know how I could have such a strong emotion since we never even kissed. I never wanted to love. I never wanted to feel so much. I’d worked so hard in life to keep people away from me so I wouldn’t feel this hurt because I couldn’t cope with it. It’s like I’ve physically been hurt and it’s only emotions, deep and dark emotions, which are pushing me in all directions, so I think I will burst.

  I can feel the ember inside of me. I’d forgotten about it or chose to ignore it, either way, it’s reminding me it’s there. Along with the growing mandala.

  This ember has grown without me realising. Even though he isn’t here with me anymore, and that he’s fucking left me, this goddamn light glows a rich red inside of me. I don’t want this light. It’s not who I am. How could he have ignited this inside of me? I wouldn’t do this shit to myself. No fucking way.

  Looking out into the emptiness of the room, I can’t help thinking I could reach inside of me and pull it out. I’m losing my grip. I’m feeling the emptiness of the room press down on me in all directions. I’ve got to get the ember out. I’m a ghost. How hard would it be to get the ember out? I’ll just reach inside of me, grab it, pull, and throw it as hard as I can at the window. I don’t think about what I’m doing. It’s no different to what I’ve done to myself before when I was skin and blood and alive. Now I don’t even breathe, or eat, or bleed. And I’m fucking angry. How could Bertie leave me like this? He’s the only person I knew here, in this building, in this time.

  I plunge my right hand into my chest. Pushing deep. My fingers open up searching for the ember. An explosive pain bursts through me. I fight against it. I need to get this out. I need things to go back to the way there were. Before Bertie. Before I tried to kill myself. I just want to go back. And I don’t know how to do that. I need to forget this all happened and I can’t with the ember side of me burning away in a little sphere of molten fire. That’s the only thing I can think of doing. I didn’t ask to change. Bertie did this to me. I fight against the pain. I clench my jaw. Tight. I can’t do this for much longer.

  My fingers brush against something hot inside of me. I’ve found it. I try to reach deeper into my chest, but suddenly a heat radiates out from the sphere of fire. The momentum pushes my hand from my chest, and I gasp.

  New knowledge fills my mind. Pain rips through me, breaking me, creating cracks within me. Cracks that can never be filled or closed ever again. I scream.

  I didn’t ask to do this.

  But I must have.

  Bertie didn’t ignite this ember inside of me.

  I did.

  I’m back feeling confused. I’m left with my thoughts in the room which has been my world for a few days. I can only think. I could explore, but I don’t have the motivation to do that anymore. I don’t want to see what else is in this building. I don’t want to see Smithy, or Mad Jim or Billy.

  I know how my parents felt now. I feel ashamed about what I’ve put them through. I wish I hadn’t. But it’s hard to control myself when I’m consumed with darkness. It’s this swinging between emotions which is making me confused. I miss Bertie. But there’s a logic in me which knows we could never have been together. I’m a ghost. I’m out of my time.

  He taught me a lot.

  It’s time to move on.

  Despite all that’s happened here, and what I’ve seen, and how Bertie left me alone.

  I don’t want to go to hell.

  I don’t want to stay here.

  I want to try again.

  I want life.

  This time I’ve made up my mind. Now with the process of one step at a time, I want to get back to my body.

  How am I going to do that?

  Instead of thinking about it I move around in the room. I go to sit on the bed, but then change my mind. Determination is building inside of me. The same determination that got me in this situation in the first place. But I’m not going to go down that path again.

  Maybe I could try and be all Dorothy. I click my heels three times and think of home. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I open them to see the closed door. I shiver. For a moment I see Bertie there. I turn away and refocus. I might want to go home. I’m changed. I know that I can tolerate emotions now, I know how to keep the darkness from consuming me, and I want to see how I can live like this. But I’m still fragile. There’s so much that can still go wrong. I could easily end up in the hole I just climbed from. Fuck, I’m still in a bit of a hole, it’s just a room in an asylum instead.

  I sit in my usual place. Back to the door, legs to my chest.

  Why do I want to go home?

  I think of Mum. Of all the times she was there by me even though I was being hurtful to her. For the first time, sitting here, in a different time, I get a whisper of her love. It’s like a warm zephyr. I shiver. I like her love. I open my heart, and I let the breeze come in. I feel the mandala knot, growing another row inside of me, adding a memory, encasing the memory of what Bertie did.

  I know I can live with what Bertie did. I don’t want to. And I’m still upset and angry with him. But it’s like I can get a glimpse into the future and I know it will be all right. I know eventually, I can forgive him. Just like my mum forgives me.

  Now I think of Dad. He was always there. Sitting silently next to my bed in the hospital. Walking with me. His love is there, entering my heart in the form of a strong sunset with all the reds and oranges blazing in the sky. The mandala grows. The ember inside of me increases in size and its heat burns through the sadness I’m feeling and the loneliness.

  I smell a hint of roses. I know this is Ashla’s love. It wraps around me, through me, melds with the warm zephyr and the brilliant sunset. They love me. I always knew that. For the first time, I can feel their love, and I let it into my heart.

  I’m not overwhelmed by the emotions I’m letting in. I can feel the ember growing, and the mandala forming, making a record of this journey so I’ll have something to remember.

  Then something else happens.

  I’m pulled. In one direction. Makes a nice change from being drawn in different directions at the same time. It feels something like I’m going down a plughole and I’m sucked out of the room through a worm-hole or something. There are flashes of white and light blue light. I have a moment of thinking ‘oh, that’s what it’s like to go in just one direction,’ then bam. The momentum increases and I’m in for a ride.

  I’m ready. As ready as I’ll ever be. There’s no point staying in the room anymore. There’s nothing for me there. And Bertie was right when he kept telling me I didn’t belong there. I didn’t. I was hiding there. Whether it was by choice or not, or if some sort of being—either angel or demon I’m not too sure which—put me there, either way, it was a hiding place for me, where I didn’t have to make decisions and move on.

  I stay calm. I don’t know where I’m going. I close my eyes and focus. I hold on to the images of the warm zephyr, the sunset and the smell of roses.

  Unexpectedly, pain shudders through me. Shadows play on my eyelids. Light hurts my eyes, but I allow them to flutter open.

  ‘Dazz!’ I hear Mum’s voice.

  ‘Mum.’ My tongue is floppy
from not talking for so long. I see her. She’s crying. And so am I.

  My tears are real. They’re hot and sticky and clog my eyes before falling down my cheeks, and my face crushes on Mum’s shoulder. She smells all clean and florally, and there’s a hint of sweat. I can tell she hasn’t showered for a few days. She’s not left my side. I don’t even need to ask her to know that it’s true.

  ‘Dazzie,’ she squeezes my name out between sobs. ‘I thought I’d lost you for good this time.’

  Mum doesn’t know how close to the bone her comment is. She nearly did lose me. I nearly lost myself. I’m not sure I’ve actually found myself, but I’m not so… let’s say… attracted to the darkness, which means in time I could find myself.

  I don’t answer her. I just enjoy being held by her. Yes. That’s right I enjoy being hugged. For the first time in my life and I don’t want it to end.

  For a moment I expect Frank’s voice to echo in my mind. Fear shudders through me like an icy cold breath on the back of the neck. His voice doesn’t come. He’s gone for good. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I think while I’ve been in ghost form I’ve been sharpening my sixth sense or something like that. My intuition lets say.

  I wait for the snake to enter my mind, for its constrictive grasp to wrap around my chest. There’s no snake, and there’s no fog, but I’m not completely free. I can never be. It’s not how I’m made. Instead of the monsters, there are now cracks. Little cracks within my mind. If I close my eyes, I can see them. They are letting in bits of light. That’s how I know they’re there. The light falls on the mandala, reminding me it’s inside of me, positioned in my solar plexus. It’s a beautiful piece of mixed colours, odd knotted patterns of stories and memories. I can distinguish each one, not just by the colour, but the pattern. There’s a little red book for Bertie. A lock for the room. A patch of white for when I was a ghost.

  I hold my breath. This time it’s not a memory of breathing. I feel my lungs begin to burn then I easily exhale and then inhale again. It’s good to be breathing again.

  ‘Hey stop hogging all the hugs,’ says Dad. He wraps his arms around me from behind. I’m sandwiched between them. For a moment I can rest. Then my older sister joins in. I finally stop crying. I’m enjoying the warm sunset that they’ve created around me, with the scent of roses.

  I’m not left alone, but after hours of being held, and then my parents and Ashla sitting in the hospital room with me, they’re falling asleep. A nurse suggests Mum goes home and rests, and Mum nearly cuts her head off with words I didn’t think she was ever capable of saying. It’s good to see Mum fighting for me.

  I tell them to go for a little while. A nurse stays with me. I don’t mind. Sort of. I mean after what I’ve been through, and what Bertie did when the straps came off, I understand why they’re cautious around me. They need to be. I’m still vulnerable.

  I lay back on the pillows. For a moment I think I’m going to fall through the bed, but of course, I’m not a ghost anymore. There’s been a lot for me to adjust to in such a short time. I’m sort of proud of myself for being able to stay away from the edge right now and that I’m not letting the darkness overwhelm me.

  I wrinkle my nose against the smell of cleanliness. The last few days have been full of me smelling body fluids. Other people’s bodily fluids. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it. Now it smells too clean for me. I wriggle uncomfortably, and the nurse looks at me sharply.

  ‘I’m fine,’ my voice croaks out. My lips are dry, and my mouth is full of that gross furry aftertaste that happens when you don’t brush your teeth. ‘Can I brush my teeth?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m not going anywhere.’ She looks at me gently. In the past, I would’ve looked for something to throw at her. I don’t. I just nod my head. Brushing my teeth isn’t a priority.

  I sigh back into the pillows enjoying the feeling of something physically soft. I think if I’d spent the last few days in my own bed, I wouldn’t think that these pillows are soft. They are lumpy and well used. But it’s better than not being able to feel. Look how much I’ve changed. I also don’t get images from people who have used this pillow in the past, or the bed, or this room. For that, I’m grateful that some of the nightmares of the past few days is over. At least I hope so. I’m still sceptical.

  I can see the mark on my left arm. It’s not very long or wide. It looks very innocent. I’ve done worse to myself before. But I guess that’s not the point. I didn’t end up as a ghost before. In the past. Stuck in an asylum.

  I run my finger over it. It’s healing, with a freshly knotted scar. I don’t think this would cause me enough pain to go into a coma. It doesn’t make sense to me. Bit like why I’m afflicted with the darkness and dark thoughts, and other people aren’t. Maybe there’s an angel looking out for me? And my angel thought it would be a good idea to put me in a situation where I had the chance to grow and change. I’ve started. There’s so much more work for me to do. But not today. I’m going back to the one step at a time theory.

  For a moment I wonder with a sickening twist to my gut if I’m suddenly going to be pushed into the future. That would be the next step surely. I don’t want to go. I’m finally back in my own time. I can hear the traffic outside, and it’s soothing. I can see the nurse is dressed in a uniform that looks familiar. I remember the clothes my parents were wearing, and that’s what I want. To be in my own time. I don’t want to go travelling anymore. If I do, then I want to jump on a bus, or train, or plane. Not be sucked through some portal or whatever it was that happened to me. Where I went doesn’t make sense. Back in time. What caused it isn’t clear which is why I’m gripped with worry. Could I easily slip into the future? Have a glimpse of myself in say ten years’ time? Would I be alive? My skin prickles as the thoughts tumble in my mind.

  No. I breathe deeply. I see the mandala. There’s a green line of leaves with little buds.

  Hope. Growth. Change.

  I’ve seen enough to know I can live. I don’t need to go into the future. I don’t need to do a past, present, future thing.

  I close my eyes. And allow myself to sleep.

  There. This is my story. Written and full of clichés and maybe it’s not believable, I don’t care. It’s my story. This is what I reckon happened when I was lying in bed in a coma. It makes sense to me. It feels right to me. That’s all that matters. Right?

  I wasn’t sure how Mum and Dad would cope with this story. But they have. They are. They’ve not given me any hint of it being any other way. It’s like my way of doing things is accepted by them, and they’re not interested in the slightest of telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I appreciate it. Ashla is the same. They’ve not said a lot. Ashla did offer to proofread my work and fix the typos. Thanks. That’s what sisters are for, right?

  Hey, if someone told me this is what happened to them I wouldn’t have a lot to say either, but I would suspect they might be a little on the crazy side of life. I don’t feel crazy. I feel normal. This is my normal, and I’m learning to live with it. So are my parents and sister. They are champs. My therapist says we can discuss it when I’m ready. I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss, other than mixed metaphors, clichés and poor writing. I’ve been researching how to write a story too. I’ve been busy. It passes the hours when I’m alone. I like it. It helps me to remember Bertie.

  It’s better the story is out, written, rather than being kept inside of me. Healthier that way. I don’t know why but I reckon it is. If I find myself getting close to the edge sometimes I go and write.

  Poems are good. I write out a poem and let the words spill on the page. Then I rip it up. I would like to burn it, you know, symbolism and all, but I’m restricted with matches and while I don’t have a history with burning things the matches are out of bounds. I can live with that. I like the sound of the paper ripping anyway. I’ve kept some poems. But honestly, some things are better written and forgotten. Those poems, those words, are destroyed. And I feel bette
r after. And it’s better than doing something harmful to myself, and I still get a release.

  Except this story. I don’t want to destroy this story. This story reminds me how I changed. I don’t know exactly when and how that happened, but I’ll look over the words, and I’m sure one day the pieces, the few fragments that still move aimlessly in my mind will fall into place, and things will make even more sense for me.

  It’s not been easy. I knew it wouldn’t be. I’m getting better at recognising the signs within myself. Then I think of the mandala inside of me. I look for Bertie’s red book, and I’m reminded of the pain of losing him. I don’t want to put my family through that. Or myself. So far it’s helping to keep me balanced. It might not always work that way, but for now, it is. And it’s only the present that I’m able to think about. Sometimes the future, a little, but not always. It’s still a little scary for me when I can feel myself moving towards the edge. I don’t want that. So I stop thinking about the future and just focus on now. Like today, I’m writing. Right now.

  My great grandma’s letter opener is locked away. Mum let me look at it. Under supervision. There’s a little rusty bit from my blood. I thought about rubbing it off and polishing the silver, but then for some reason, it felt wrong so I left it. I don’t know if it was the letter opener or other greater forces, which pushed me back in time. It sort of doesn’t matter. Maybe it was my mind cracking, and then being creative, and making up a story. I seemed to be good at making up stories.

  I’ve not made this one up.

  This is real.

  For me.

  As real as my breath.

  I don’t think about the letter opener anymore, and I’m more careful of the questions I ask. Sometimes it doesn’t matter about the answers. It’s as simple as, how am I doing today? Good or bad. Then making decisions from that. Can I write? Do I want to research instead? Or maybe sleep? Sometimes I’m very tired, but this is all progress. Slow. Like it was when I walked through the marsh out of the hole. There are more holes for me to navigate through, but this is better because I’m living. And I’m allowing people close to me, and I’m not getting lost. Miracles can happen.