by Kathryn Hore
I think I began to cry then, for my body convulsed and my eyes were shut so tight that my head ached. It’s hard to contemplate now exactly why I wept: despair perhaps, or regret. It may have been simply the only means of escape from the pain, which swarmed beneath my skin like a colony of fire ants. Whatever the reason, those tears were cleansing. They didn’t take the pain away, but they took me out of myself, out of my body. They allowed me to let go of everything. And in that letting go, I became weightless, unencumbered by the thoughts and feelings and memories that had bound me to myself. I felt as though I were floating upward, the itching and the weakness and the wetness now so dilute as to be almost imperceptible, completely overwhelmed by the greater flood of transcendence, of oneness, of interconnectedness with all things.
There must have been nothing left in the kitchen worth eating, for, sometime later, a rat came to visit me where I lay. Emboldened perhaps by my immobility, she hopped up onto the foot of the bed and perched on the toe of one of my walking boots. I watched her lift her head and sniff all around, teeth bared, nose twitching. The bed, I realised, must have smelled like a butcher’s shop, of blood curdling as it dried, of meat that was just beginning to turn. She tiptoed down the ladder of laces and stopped at the bunched-up end of my sock, leaning out over my calf to take another sniff, not little sips this time but long questioning inhalations.
I barely felt the first bite. Watching her little jaw at work, tugging, first tentatively and then with incredible focus, at the ligaments of my lower calf, I experienced… nothing. A distant pulling sensation, like someone unthreading a bootlace.
Soon, other rats began to pop up over the sides of the bed. They didn’t take long to tuck in. Before long, they covered my legs, tails curling, pulling off strips with those coarse yellow teeth. They were unstitching me, one red ribbon at a time. And by then, I was too weak to even lift my head, let alone to sit up and sweep them away.
And, I wondered, would I even want to? I had shared my blood. Should I not share my flesh as well?
I had always felt I had so much to offer, so much to give, but Sallie never saw it that way, how good I could have been for her. She saw only a vacuum, an emptiness that emptied her. Her loss. She would never understand. I can see that now. Not like my new friends with their simple needs, so easy for me to satisfy.
What would Sallie think if she could see me now?
I picture her, weeks, maybe months from today, returning to the cabin. The doors, once the threshold between the small but civilised inner space and the boundless incivility of wild nature, are now open wide. The smell of damp and decay is everywhere. Frogs, birds, lizards, and the legion tiny marsupials, have made their homes here, in the water pooling from the holes in the roof, in the branches that pierce the fly screens, amongst the rotting foam spilled from decrepit furniture, and in every one of the many boltholes and crawlspaces that now perforate the cabin. Fungi, moulds and grasses bloom throughout. Like the veins of a great living organism, tree roots have burst through the mock linoleum floor, vines have ripped through the ceiling. Twisting, coiling, interwoven, they lead Sallie to the living heart of the house, the bloody bedroom, and my parting gift. What will she think? How will she react to find, in that bed, which held us close so many nights, the hiking boots and the gleaming skeleton, so white against its flag of red, seething still, perhaps, with the life of a multitude. The centre of a living ecosystem.
What will she think of me then?
Inside the cabin, all is grey. It’s as though all the colour has leeched from the room, and whatever world still exists outside of it. Even the crimson sheets are now just a deeper, darker shade of grey. It is neither night nor day, but a perpetual twilight, as though we are caught, my friends and I, hovering in a borderland between twinned worlds: light and dark, satiety and hunger, numbness and pain, life and the absence of life. It is as poignant as a dream. And I can’t help but wonder if this greyness exists without — in the room, in the insatiable gnawing of the rats, in the droning of the flies, in the silent procession of the many ants — or whether this absence of colour, of contrast or tone, is in fact mine, dimming, faltering, fading unerringly to white.
I can hardly believe I have anything left to offer. Yet here we still are, all of us together, sharing this last meal. My true friends and I.
VERONICA’S DOGS
Cameron Trost
‘You have often asked me about cases of species dysphoria, Charles.’
Charles Radic closed his copy of the Australian Journal of Psychology and dropped it onto his desk. He had been under the tutelage of Professor Broughton for nearly five years and knew when the University of Queensland’s most highly regarded expert on psychosis was about to say something memorable.
‘If I tell you a secret, will you promise to keep your lips sealed?’
Radic grinned. His tutor had a taste for the dramatic. ‘Of course, I promise.’
Professor Broughton took a bottle of Lagavulin from the small cabinet beside his desk and poured two glasses before commencing.
‘Last year, after several complaints from residents living near Bowman Park in Bardon, police arrested a man. He had been acting strangely and sleeping in the rushes along the banks of Ithaca Creek. More bizarrely still, he had been coming into the yards of homeowners who had dogs and eating from their bowls. One resident even caught him marking his territory.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Radic asked, the repugnant thought causing his brow to crease and his nose to flare up.
‘But I am.’
‘What became of him?’
‘The authorities reacted intelligently for a change and a media circus was avoided. The man was given expert attention. I can vouch for that.’
Radic clasped his hands together in front of his mouth. This was the most intriguing tale Professor Broughton had ever shared with him, and that was saying a lot.
‘It would be an exaggeration to claim that this chap is now of sound mind, or that he ever was or will be. But he has certainly returned to the human race, for whatever that is worth.’
‘What a strange case!’
‘It is indeed, and you don’t know the half of it yet,’ the professor continued as he took a few sheets of paper from the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘Would you allow me to read his account of the incident that led to the onset of dysphoria to you?’
‘I’m all ears,’ Radic answered.
‘These are the patient’s words. He is very articulate and his honesty is admirable. This account will prove to be an invaluable aid in comprehending the mind of a dysphoric individual. I have, of course, changed his name so as to protect his identity, and in order to avoid placing your good self in a compromising position. For his part, he refused to reveal the identity of the woman involved despite the insistence of his therapists. Arguably, she is in even greater need of attention than he is.’
‘Understood,’ Radic said, although his choice of word was clearly inappropriate given the context.
With that, Professor Broughton began.
#
This is my account of the events leading up to my psychotic episode. I have changed the names of the people involved and refuse to reveal their identities even to you, my therapist. After all, you are the one who has made me realise that nobody else is responsible for what happened to me. I should also point out that the wording of the exchanges reported in this account is not exact, but I have done my best to present the details of my experience as accurately as possible.
I first saw the woman I will call Veronica at a café in Bardon one Saturday morning after cycling with my friend and neighbour, Anders. We had stopped, as was our weekend ritual, for a flat white after a vigorous ride. I had never been to that particular café before, but I was to make the mistake of returning there on innumerable occasions over the following months.
While Anders was ordering our coffees at the counter, I noticed a dignified woman in an immaculate white and violet tracksuit sitting at a tab
le by the door. What struck me about her at first was not her beauty, or the way her dark shoulder-length hair looked as though it had just been coiffed when it was obvious that she had been jogging, but the fact that her dog, a handsome and proud boxer, was sitting opposite her as though they were engaged in conversation.
My reaction was immediate and intense, one that I suppose romantics would have classified as love at first sight. But I am no romantic, and I now know that this feeling was far more complicated and inexplicable than any classical coup de foudre. As it happened, her appearance and the fact that she was treating her pet like a person greatly aggravated me. Although I am no stranger to middle-class snobbery myself, it was her air of pretentiousness that annoyed me so much about this woman. Every perfectly placed hair and every drop of perspiration that she dabbed from her forehead with a violet handkerchief screamed arrogance and vanity. Then, before my very eyes, she poured two glasses of water and placed one in front of her canine companion.
It was ridiculous and incongruous. I found myself both despising and desiring this strange woman, and I have to admit, if I am to be completely honest with you, that I had an overriding urge to give her a good spanking right there in the café.
Little did I know at that confounding moment that another surprise was in store. On his way back from the counter, Anders stopped at her table and spoke to her. He patted the dog’s head and I noticed her grimace, momentarily creasing her regal brow. Then, he pointed at me and I felt my whole body tighten as she stared straight into my eyes. I felt exposed.
A second later, she turned back to Anders and flashed him a fake smile.
It wasn’t until my friend was sitting opposite me that I managed to tear my gaze away from the woman.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked him as flatly as I could.
He told me her name and informed me that he had invited her over for a drink that very evening. Anders’ circle of friends was as wide as the Nullarbor Plain and it was unusual that I failed to make a new acquaintance whenever I attended one of his parties. Still a bachelor in my mid-thirties, Anders and his fiancée were accustomed to my need to flirt with any single woman amongst their friends, and I had, on several occasions, gone home with fellow partygoers.
‘I can see she has caught your attention,’ my friend whispered.
‘Is it that obvious?’
Anders gave me a hard cold stare and then glanced quickly at Veronica.
‘I regret inviting her now. I should have known better. She’s an interesting girl and can be a lot of fun in small doses, but you don’t want to get too close.’
‘You know I like them quirky,’ I reminded him.
‘Listen, just trust me on this. I’m warning you,’ he continued. ‘Stay away from this one, mate. She’s messed up. She’s the kind of girl you can have a laugh with over a drink, but nothing more.’
It was clear by the stern tone of his voice and his stony expression that his words were to be taken seriously. But it was too late. I was infatuated.
For the first time since we had been friends, which was close to six years, I was angry at Anders. I was aware of how ludicrous it was, but his words had deeply offended me, as though he had spoken about a woman I had known intimately for years. I have never been married, and expect I never will be fit to take on such a commitment, but I imagined that a husband would react the same way to criticism aimed at his beloved wife.
I turned to look at Veronica and found her sipping at a cup of coffee and flicking through the morning newspaper. She stopped at one page and frowned. Then, she spun the paper around and showed it to her dog, raising her razor-thin eyebrows, silently asking her pet for his opinion of the article. It was so deliciously ridiculous of her and again an uncontrollable urge came over me.
Anders clicked his fingers at me and my head snapped back toward him. He flinched, half expecting me to lash out at him. His eyes widened and he shook his head.
‘Don’t do this, mate. Get a grip,’ he whispered desperately. ‘You don’t want to go there.’
I closed my eyes and nodded, but I didn’t mean it.
That night, at Anders’ place, I wasn’t myself. Or so he kept telling me. He told me to knock it off and have some fun, but I just kept asking him where Veronica was and by nine-thirty decided that my suspicions were true. He had surely called her and retracted the invitation.
‘Tell me the truth, mate,’ I said once I had drained yet another bottle of Byron Bay lager. ‘You told her not to come, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘Now, just forget about her. I wish I hadn’t even spoken to her this morning. I should have known this would happen. You always do this.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I hissed.
‘You always go for the wrong types. That’s what it means. You’ll never have a serious relationship if you keep doing that.’
‘Wrong type? Maybe I’m a wrong type too!’
‘No, you’re not. You’re my mate, and you’re a good bloke. I don’t want to lose you.’
‘So, that’s how it is!’ I practically yelled. ‘I have to choose, do I?’
A dozen faces turned to see what all the commotion was about.
‘You don’t have to choose, mate. I just want you to make the right decision.’
‘Don’t worry, I will!’
But I didn’t. I stormed out of the house and have barely spoken a word to Anders since that evening. I hope, one day, to make contact with him again. I know he wants to remain my friend and help me recover, but I am so ashamed of myself.
After leaving the party, I walked from Anders’ home in Ashgrove up to the hilltop suburb of Bardon. You have told me that Anders tried to find me that night, knowing where I had gone. He must have got behind the wheel despite being over the alcohol limit, but I didn’t see his silver Land Rover. The poor fellow, I’ve put him through so much. I will apologise to him one day, once I can bring myself to do it properly.
In Bardon, I crept into people’s gardens and peered through lit windows. The suburb is a vast one and the notion that I could be so lucky as to stumble upon Veronica simply by sneaking around like some kind of pervert was absolutely ridiculous. However, I was barely aware that I no longer belonged to the world of the sane. I reassured myself that anybody who felt love or lust for another was beyond sanity, and that I wasn’t alone.
Needless to say, my foray was unsuccessful. I came close to being caught by one woman who heard her verandah floorboards creak as I approached a window. The front door lock turned before I had time to stumble down the steps that separated the verandah from the garden path, but I could just make out a man’s voice telling her that it was only possums and not to be so paranoid all the time. She must have accepted his advice because the door remained closed.
In another yard, facing Ithaca Creek, I came close to being mauled by a German shepherd. I had jumped a fence after noticing a woman who might have been Veronica washing dishes at a side window. The dog barked once and then came racing out of nowhere. It was almost on top of me before I had even caught sight of it. I was terrified and thought that my time had come. But for some reason — and looking back, this was the first sign of my dysphoria — when the animal growled at me, my instinct was to take a step toward it and growl right back at it. Indeed, I think I roared. The dog came to a halt within striking distance of my face, cocked its head in confusion, and then actually started backing away. I did the same, backing slowly away until I reached the front gate and could make a hasty departure.
My recollection of what happened then is unclear, but I must have decided to go home, because I woke up in bed the next morning. I was still fully dressed and my clothes were covered in leaves, prickles, and dirt. My legs ached terribly. My muscles were used to cycling long distances, but not to walking, crawling, and jumping.
I took a quick shower and decided to drive, not ride, to the café in Bardon, hoping against all hope that Veronica would be there and that I would know what to s
ay to her. But she wasn’t, and after almost two hours and too many flat whites, I went home heartbroken.
I returned to the café on Monday morning, on the way to work, but Veronica wasn’t there. I tried again on Tuesday morning, but the result was the same. I decided instead to cycle the streets of Bardon every evening that week, searching for a dark-haired princess with a boxer. I was pathetic, I was miserable, and I was unsuccessful.
Then, on Saturday morning, the first I hadn’t spent with Anders in a long time, I rode to the café.
No sooner had I arrived at the door than I saw Veronica, dressed in a red tracksuit and gingerly dipping a jam drop into her mug of coffee. Her hair was perfect, shining in the warm morning sunlight that flooded through the doorway as though directing customers toward the counter. The boxer was sitting opposite, his posture as elegant as that of his owner, and he wore a studded collar that was the exact same shade of red as Veronica’s tracksuit. It was all absurdly gorgeous.
I was simultaneously enthralled and aggravated by her all over again. I felt my knees buckle. She had weakened them. She had done what some of the toughest cycle paths in the state had been unable to do. I was like putty, but I didn’t know whether she would want me in her hands.
She recognised me and twitched the corners of her lips. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it wasn’t a frown either. The boxer looked at me too, with complete disinterest, the way he might watch a leaf fall from a tree.
I gathered up enough courage to speak to her. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You didn’t come to Anders’ party last week.’
She seemed surprised. ‘He told me there was a problem and he’d had to cancel it!’
‘Oh, did he?’ I said, shaking my head.
‘What a dick!’ she hissed, yet she managed to make those crude words sound quite classy.
