by Matt Shaw
The doctor looked at the mess which was my ankle and started speaking in ‘doctor terms’ to the nurse, who just stood there listening and nodding - making, no doubt, mental notes. I zoned out but there was mention of an IV drip being set up.... possible dehydration.... replace lost fluids.... X-RAY for my ankle, possible fractures and pain relief.
The nurse disappears behind the curtain to, I guess, get things ready.
“Is there anyone we can call for you?”
Who can he call?
There is no one.
“You mentioned...” he hesitated.
I knew what he was referring to and just looked at him. A nod to confirm.
“The police will want to have a chat with you but we’ll get you comfortable first, see what’s what with your ankle and get you into your own room; get you some privacy...”
“Thank you.”
Not set to default setting.
I try and fight back the tears, my eyes are stinging enough as it is. Surely I have no more tears to cry.
The doctor smiles, “The nurse will be back in a bit - give you something for the pain and I’ll pop back later to see how you’re getting on and - hopefully - it won’t be long before we have a bed for you.... We’ll have you up and about in no time...”
He gives me a friendly smile. For a split second, the spitting image of Peter. Shake the image from my mind as the doctor leaves my little curtained cubicle...
“Doctor...” I call after him.
Nothing.
Obviously didn’t hear me.
No matter, I was only going to ask him to leave the curtain open - let me see the people outside. Let me see, more importantly, that I’m not alone...
I can hear people.
That should be enough.
Enough to let me know I’m not alone.
And at least you can’t lock curtains. This is the safest I have felt for as long as I can remember.
“You’re forgetting,” whispered Peter.
I spun around, casting my eyes around the cubicle.
Alone.
He’s not here.
He’s not here.
He’s not here.
He’s...
“You’re forgetting,” he hissed again - a spiteful tone of voice, perhaps more spiteful than needed, just to get my attention.
He’s got it.
“The car,” he continued. “The car, outside... it’s not my car. It’s not yours. It’s his...”
It dawns on me.
The old man’s car.
“Fred’s.”
My heart starts beating furiously.
“What are you doing with their car if you didn’t know them?”
What am I doing with their car?
He laughs.
Fuck you.
“They already know you brought the car in... They’ve already had it moved.... after your dramatic entrance.... The police will be here soon. It won’t take them long before they discover who owns the car.... are you ready for the questions?”
The questions?
“You’ve implicated yourself beautifully in the crime you so carefully tried to hide.”
More laughter.
Panic starts to set in.
No.
Stupid.
Nothing to hide.
He took the car.
Peter took the car.
You took the car.
“Did I?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Question; how did I set fire to the house.... how did I kill the old woman and her husband.... when I, myself, was already dead?”
Panic.
“And... how did I take their car?”
He couldn’t have.
“Lie all you want.... They’ll discover the truth...”
The curtain swings open, revealing the nurse....
Not the police.
Yet.
15.
My own room is worse than the cubicle.
At least, in the curtained cubicle, I could hear other people... in here....
In here.
It’s just me and him, again.
What am I talking about?
It’s not me and him.
He isn’t here.
He doesn’t exist anymore.
He’s dead.
Dead.
Killed.
By me.
Every time the door opens, I panic it’s the police - here to take me away before I get a fair chance of explaining what’s happened to me. Will the doctor tell them anything of what I’ve said so far? The rape? The violence? The drugging? Or will the police just come in, knowing only that I’ve set fire to a house after killing an elderly couple who were happily living in seclusion.
Seclusion.
They were happy.
No outside interferences.
He was right.
Peter was right.
Outside interferences ruin everything. Ruin relationships.
I ruined their relationship - the elderly couple.
Because of me, their relationship is no more.
“Murderer.”
Ignore him.
The painkillers, given by the nurse, are helping with the pain and the drip of fluids... whatever they are... are also making me feel better. But - dulling the pain - just accentuates how scared I feel.
At least when my ankle was hurting, and my body was screaming from various muscles... at least it took my mind off my fear.
Fear.
The doctor said the police would chat to me after they’ve finished with me. I’m still waiting for the results of the blood test and X-Ray.
I still have time.
But, the speed they got me a bed. The speed with which they’ve been dealing with me.
It won’t be long before the police are here - wanting to talk.
“Murderer.”
Ignore him.
Stop even acknowledging his existence. He isn’t real. It’s all in your head.
Should I tell the doctors?
No.
The police don’t find anything out but the doctors have me locked up anyway for being a crazy.
Just keep quiet.
My heart skips a beat as the door to my private room swings open. Opened by the doctor.
No police.
Yet.
It’s only a matter of time.
I feel my face redden as I think of the lies I’ll have to say.... as I think of the questions they’re going to ask me.
The doctor stands at the foot of my bed, a beige file in his hand.
He smiles as he opens the file and looks through the relevant documents inside. It wasn’t a real smile. Far from it. Sympathy. A sympathetic smile...
My heart skips another beat.
“The results of your X-rays are back and we can confirm there are some fractures on the Talus and the Fibula; would certainly explain the discomfort.....”
The doctor continued to talk but most of his words were muted...
“... Keep the weight off...”
“... unstable....”
“... surgery...”
“... plate and screws on the side of the bone...”
“... re-align the bone fragments, keeping them together as they heal...”
He said more but I heard nothing.
Nothing other than Peter.
“Sorry about that.”
“... Blood test results came back...”
What?
“... HGC levels high...”
“..."Human Chorionic Gonadotropin", the pregnancy hormone...”
Pregnancy?
“What?” I asked.
“It’s too early to be sure but there is a good indication you could well be pregnant...”
“No, I can’t be.”
Can I?
“I’m going to be a dad?!”
Fuck you.
The doctor was gone. I didn’t even notice he said goodbye. Was he even here? Did I dream that?
Preg
nant?
“What do you think - boy or girl?”
Fuck you.
“What would you rather?”
What would I rather?
Why even think about it.
I can’t keep it.
Like Father, Like Son.
A Monster.
“What about names? All girls dream of what they’ll one day call their children...”
If he’s in my head, is he my subconscious? My subconscious asking whether I’d really want a girl or boy.... what I’d call the child of the monster that raped me...
Why would my subconscious think I’d want to keep it?
Maybe Peter is real.
Not dead.
Living, in my head.
No.
Stupid.
I’m not keeping it.
I’m not raising his child.
The door opened, again, breaking my concentration - the nurse, from earlier, leaned in.
“There’s a couple of police officer’s here to see you, if you feel up to it?”
Panic.
16.
Not long.
The nurse has gone to get the police.
Could be less than a couple of minutes before they’re walking through the door - ready to ask me questions...
Arrest me.
“Murderer.”
Get out of here. Run. Don’t look back. Don’t let them take you.
I slide down the bed, unable to simply roll out of it due to the rails being up on either side. Reach over, grab the IV drip.... use it as a walking aid. Listen to the doctor’s advice - keep the weight off my ankle.
I hop over to the door and peer out of the small window, just above the handle.
I can’t see anyone.
No one is coming yet.
But they will.
Soon.
Time is running out.
No.
Time has run out.
I know what needs to be done.
I don’t want to raise his child. I don’t want to go to prison. Would they even let me raise the child? Or would they give it away to care whilst I’m rotting in jail?
I don’t want to give birth to his child then.
A child, in care, who could grow up to be a monster.
No.
I need time.
No time.
The nurse, at the far end of the corridor... with two uniformed officers.
There is no time.
I can’t leave this way. They’ll catch me. Especially with my poorly ankle.
A quick look around the room.
No other doors.
Just a window.
I look through the door’s window again. They’re getting closer. I can make out their expressions now. Stern. They mean business. They know I killed the old man and his wife...
“Fred.”
I hop over to the window and push it up. I can’t help but laugh when it opens easily.
The first window I’ve seen for ages which hasn’t been locked.
If only the window’s in Peter’s house hadn’t been locked - none of this would have come to pass.
If only.
“If only you had loved me,” he whispered.
I climb out of the window and just stay sat, perched on the edge.... my feet dangling. A quick glance down.
A long way down.
No choice.
This is the best thing I can do.
I should have done it ages ago.
I should never have let it get this far.
I can put all of this right...
Behind me, the door opens and the nurse comes in with the two police officers.
“What are you doing?” asked the Nurse.
The two officers stepped from behind her, in an attempt to try and control the situation. They won’t be able to. Not this time.
Now...
... For the first time in a long time...
... I’m in control of the situation.
“Why don’t you come in from there?”
They’re closing in on me. Probably, when close enough, they’re going to want to grab me. Drag me in... cuff me...
No.
No.
This is my time now.
I look at the three of them and smile.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I wonder. Will that be enough to redeem my soul?
My smile broadens. The first, genuine smile for as long as I can remember. For a long time, I didn’t think I would smile again. Butterflies float around in my stomach as I push myself off the ledge. I hear the nurse scream.
A long way down.
Two stories.
Wind rushing past my head.
Cold on the skin.
Smiling.
Mum.
Dad.
I love you.
“I love you,” whispered Peter.
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17.
She opens her eyes.
Truly beautiful.
Sat there, cuffed to the dining room table. She looks perfect.
The confused, sleepy look on her face...
Maybe...
Maybe I slipped her a too high dosage?
Mental Note to Self: Next time, try a lower dose.
At least she’s awake now. She’s been sleeping for ages; dreaming weird dreams by the way she was twitching.
She smells so good. I don’t know what her perfume is and I don’t think she’d actually tell me yet. As far as dates go - I’ve had livelier. She hasn’t even touched her meal, I’m glad I only served up the supermarket’s own brand of roast meal today. Christ, imagine if I gave her a Birdseye meal and she just wasted that? That’d upset me.
“Do I know you?” asked Vanessa.
Poor Vanessa.
Disorientated Vanessa....
“Do I know you?”
Does she know me? It just goes to show that shop assistants, bank workers, basically anyone working with the public... It just goes to show that they don’t really like you, as they pretend they do. They just want to be your friend whilst they wait on you – getting you to spend more of your money. Bastards.
Of course she knows me!
For the last four weeks she has seen me in the bank, where she worked, as I’ve been trying to sort out Internet banking. Ha! Internet banking, they say it’s a simple way to pay your bills. That all depends on which computers you use. Before I upgraded, my computer crashed constantly making any online payments a nightmare.
She looks as though she has a headache, “Does your head hurt?”
“Please, what do you want with me?”
I want her to try and be civil and at least pretend to eat her meal. It’s a shame to waste any food, even more so as we’ll be wishing we still had the food to waste one day.
