by J A Heron
I want to run again, but this time I want to run into their arms. I long to feel their embrace once more, but I know it’s absurd. It’s inconceivable. I would give anything to feel them near.
My parents wave to me again. I wave back with a huge smile on my face. Confusion hits because they’re walking towards me, but not getting any closer. “Walk harder. Walk faster,” I cry out, willing them to decrease the distance between us, yet still they don’t come any nearer. I feel a tear fall down my cheek and it fuels my anger. “Fight!” I scream. They’re not fighting though. They continue to smile and wave at me as if nothing is wrong. Sobs wrack my body as I struggle in my bed that’s holding me prisoner. I want to run to them, but I’m held back by an invisible force. I struggle hard, but all I hear are alarms bleeping loudly.
“Run!” I scream out, as a huge tidal wave crashes down on the beach, washing everything away. Everything in it’s path is decimated… including my parents.
I walk down a long corridor; white, clinical. I feel someone holding my hand, and when I look up, it’s Lisa. I’m confused, but not enough to halt my steps. We keep on walking, and with each step, I feel Lisa’s hand grip mine tighter and tighter.
This is a memory, not a dream.
“They’re just through these doors,” the man in the white lab coat tells us. “Are you ready?” I don’t know how Lisa responds; I nod my head.
As we move closer to our dead parents lying in the mortuary, Lisa’s hand leaves mine.
“This is all your fault!” Her deafening screams ricochet off the white-tiled walls. “Why did you call them? If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here looking at their lifeless bodies.”
I take all her abuse, refusing to throw it back at her. Refusing to scream at her for getting so drunk that night I had no choice but to call them. Maybe there was another way. Maybe I could’ve called an ambulance instead.
I’ve lived with all the what ifs and maybes for a long time now. But to blame me for everything is unfair. I tell myself she’s grieving, and people do things out of their control when grief has its grip on you so tight it’s hard to escape.
“I’m sorry,” I respond. Not as an admission of guilt, but more of a comfort to my sister. Even though she’s throwing accusations, harsh accusations my way, I still feel the responsibility to comfort her.
I take a step closer to my dead parents lying on separate tables, but side by side. I lean in to kiss my mother’s cheek.
“Don’t you dare touch them!” she screams at me. “You don’t get to touch them ever again. You lost that right when you killed them.”
Road diggers are having a party in my head.
When I open my eyes, I’m thankful for the muted light.
I’m alone, naturally.
I look around the room, and it resembles a hospital room; it smells like one too. It takes a while for my brain to compute how I got here, but I come up short. I have no idea. The last conscious memory I have is writing in my blog before the world fell dark around me. I remember the flashbacks, and scary dreams, and they make me wonder how long I’ve been here. When I look to my left, I see that I’m hooked up to a machine that’s monitoring my heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygenated blood count. I also have an intravenous canula in the back of my hand. It looks to be administering a clear fluid of some description.
I nip the skin on my arm, putting some force behind the pinch. I feel the pain, so I guess I’m not dead, or dreaming. I could press the buzzer to get a nurse’s attention, but I’m enjoying the solitude of my surroundings. Nurses are crazy busy these days, and the last thing I want to do is burden them with all my bullshit. Being alone with my thoughts is comforting, and the more I think about it, the more I realise I’m in a good place. I know I won’t be able to stay here forever, but it’s the perfect place for me to be right now.
They don’t serve booze in hospitals.
The craving is still there, and I’m under no illusions that I’ll always feel the urge to drink. I just have to find a way of controlling those urges, to find something that will take my mind off it. I need a hobby. I need something I can turn to when I feel like the battle is getting too much.
There’s always knitting. A small chuckle leaves my lips at my wayward thoughts.
The mystery of how I got here deepens, and I can only surmise that Benny came home from her parents’ place earlier than expected. If that is the case, something must’ve happened for her to leave.
Oh, shit. It’s Christmas Day.
Shittier shit. I must get out of here. I have to work.
I press the buzzer for a nurse, throw the sheet covering my legs off me, stand up, and look around the room for my clothes.
“What are you doing?” A young nurse enters the room. Newly qualified, I’d say. She can’t be much older than me.
“I have to leave. I have a job to go to.”
“No, you don’t. Get back into bed. You need to see the doctor before you can leave.”
“Try and stop me. I’m discharging myself.”
The young woman stands with her hand on her hip, judging me. I could really do without someone my age giving me the third degree. “Please, Kat. It’s in your best interests to stay. Just a little longer.” Her tone is a lot softer than previously. “At least wait until the doctor stops by. He shouldn’t be long.” She glances briefly at her watch.
“Fine.” I slump back down on the bed. I take a deep breath and wonder what excuse I can come up with to tell Grumpy as to why I’m not at work. I’m in so much shit it’s unreal. First, I steal from him; two bottles of rum to scratch an itch that just wouldn’t go away. Then, secondly, I let him down, and of all days, it’s Christmas Day. I don’t think the bar will be as crazy as it was last night, but still, he needs me. He’s relying on me, and I’ve let him down. I’ve also let my best friend and myself down.
Talk of the Devil, he’s bound to appear. My best friend bursts through the door. “Where is she?” She sounds angry. My ass is grass, judging by her tone. She spots me sitting on the edge of the bed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
All I can do is shrug. “I needed a drink,” I tell her. Pointing out the obvious has fuelled the fire, and she clenches her fists at her side. Her eyes glare into mine, boring right through my skull.
Her jaw clenches when she says, “You scared the crap out of me. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come home?”
“Why did you come home?” I ask, perturbed by her presence. I know she cares for me, loves me, but right now, the last thing I need is her bollocking me for something I had no control over. “I’m confused. Why are you here?”
“I… err…” she stutters. “It’s a good job I did. I found you passed out with two empty bottles of rum. I dread to think what could’ve happened.”
“I’m fine. But I want to know why you’re here. How come you left your parents earlier than you said you would?”
“I… I’m free. Of him. Of them,” she sobs, referring to Giles and her parents. “I came to tell you the good news, but you were… you were…”
“What? Come on, Benny. Spit it out.”
“I thought you were dead! Raven. It’s Raven…”
“What about Raven?”
“He swept me off my feet.” Her expression is a mixture of sadness and jubilation.
“What do you mean?”
“He came for me. He told my parents there’s no way I’m marrying Giles and got me out of there. I swear, Kat, I didn’t have to think twice.”
Just the mention of Raven’s name has my pulse racing. He’s one of Connor’s friends and he must know what’s been happening between him and Lisa, but failed to mention it to my best friend, who in turn, would tell me. Instead, I found out from that bitchy text she sent me.
“I’m happy for you.” My tone is half happy, half melancholic. I’m happy she’s finally free of Giles, and her overbearing parents. But the sadness is overriding. What does this mean for us and our apartment? Am I going to
lose my best friend because she’ll be too busy going on double dates with Lisa and Connor? I’m being ridiculous, I’m aware, but still, the image of the four of them together makes my skin crawl.
There is no way I’m going to piss on her fire. She’s happy; any idiot can see that. The grin has transformed into an almighty smile that’s sure to break her face. When I look at her, there seems to be more to this story, more than she’s letting on. She’s avoiding eye contact with me, only giving me occasional glances.
“My God. It was like he rode in on a white horse or something.” She chuckles at the memory.
“That’s fabulous. What now?” My tone is a little more convincing of my happiness for her.
“Only one thing will change, Kat. From now on, I do as I please. I stand on my own two feet without any handouts from my parents.” She sounds determined, but I’m a little sceptical. I don’t think it will be that easy. “Raven has promised to help us out if we need him.”
Oh, great. Living on handouts from her parents is off the cards, but handouts from Raven are okay. I shake my head at her, letting her know I’m not entirely thrilled about this situation.
“Look, let’s not worry about any of that for a while. We have breathing space, and I’m not betrothed to the biggest idiot on the planet anymore.” She chuckles again.
If she thinks it’ll all work out, then I don’t want to upset her by voicing my opinion.
“Okay,” I concede.
“We have to worry about you now. What happened?”
I give her the run down of last night’s events, all that happened after I called her. I spill my heart out, baring my soul about all the shit I went through.
“You stole?” she yells. After I tell her how my world fell apart last night, she fixates on the fact I robbed one of my closest friends.
“Yes,” I say sheepishly.
“Did you think about suicide?” she blurts out.
“No!” I stare at her, lifting my shoulders, emphatically proving to her that idea didn’t even cross my mind. Even during my homelessness, when I thought all hope was lost, I never once thought about taking my own life. “I would never do that.”
“Good.” She stands with her back to the door. Someone opens it, but she blocks them from coming in. “I’m not done yet,” she shouts through the door.
“Who’s that? If it’s the doctor, let him in. He needs to discharge me so I can get the fuck out of this hell hole.”
“Not so fast, lady.” She walks towards me and sits down on the edge of the bed beside me. She places her hand on mine, supporting me… yet again. “You’re not going to like this…” she trails off. My eyes meet hers.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to take control, Kat. It’s for your own good.”
My puzzled expression deepens. “Stop talking in riddles and just say it.”
She chews on her thumbnail, searching for words. “You can come in now!” she shouts.
The door opens, and in walks a man in a white coat, quickly followed by Raven and Audrey.
“What the hell?” I frown at my best friend. “Benny? What is this?”
“Intervention.”
I didn’t put up much of a fight, because, deep down, I knew they were right. Their words ring in my ears as I sit in the back of a luxury black Mercedes. It’s Christmas Day afternoon and the sky is dull, overcast, and gloomy. I’m thankful for the clear roads.
Three people had their own input before I left hospital, and I will be forever grateful to all of them.
“It’s for your own good,” Benny said.
“The time will pass by, and you’ll be home before you know it. All healed,” the doctor said.
“There’s a car waiting outside. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got the cost covered,” Audrey said.
This is the right thing to do, and I hope it works. This is a new beginning, and the ‘Get Kat Back Plan’ mantra repeats over and over in my head. I will succeed.
I still feel a little woozy after just leaving hospital. They said there was no permanent damage, but what I need now is professional help. So, here I am, a few hours later, after a car journey, a ferry ride, and another car journey; I arrive. I step out of the car, looking up at the huge expanse of the imposing building. ‘EST 1918’ is carved in stone above the entrance. I spotted a sign before the car drove up the longest driveway I’ve ever seen. It said I had arrived at Witchfield Manor.
I just hope there are no witches in fields around here.
The building sits on acres and acres of lush greenness. Fields, trees, and hedgerows as far as the eye can see. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I guess this is the perfect place to be, so no one escapes.
Stone steps lead up to the wooden double doors. I press the button on the intercom – a truly modern bit of technology that’s totally out of place here – and wait. A disembodied female voice cracks through the speaker. “Welcome to Witchfield Manor. How can I help?”
“Kat Powell, checking in,” I tell her.
“One moment, please.”
She’s very polite, and judging by her perfect eloquence, I’d say middle class, in her fifties, and works on reception here part time. When the door opens, I’m right. “Welcome, Kat,” she says.
The driver Audrey arranged for me is by my side, and he hands me the bag Benny packed for me. “Thanks.” He tips his chauffeur hat and leaves.
I’m apprehensive, worried what will happen once I cross the threshold. Whatever lies ahead, whatever awaits me, I have to face the person I’ve become, the alcoholic that I am. I keep telling myself that it’ll all be okay, things will work out, and when I do finally leave here, I’ll be a better person for it.
With sweaty palms, I take the plunge, cross the line, and walk towards a huge desk in the middle of a lobby area that sits at the foot of a double staircase. Stairs lead to the upper floors on either side and are carpeted with a royal blue carpet. Ornate pictures, carvings, and lamps hang on the walls, and when I look up to the ceiling, a ginormous chandelier hangs down, displaying at least fifty candle lights. It’s opulent, splendid, and very, very expensive. A wave of guilt washes over me. If I’d known this is where Audrey is sending me, paying for, I would never have agreed to it.
The heavy wooden doors click shut behind me, and I now realise there is no way out; not without permission, anyway. The fifty-something woman must sense my apprehension. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ve made another significant step into getting better.” Her warmth causes my tense shoulders to drop slightly, but still, my guard is on the defensive. “Let’s get you settled in, shall we?”
She walks around the huge desk and begins shuffling papers, clicking a keyboard linked to a Mac, and writing something in a folder. I take a step forward just as she closes it, and I spot my name clearly marked on the front. ‘Katherine Powell’ in a fancy font, with my date of birth in a smaller font, stare back at me. The folder is thin, but I’m guessing over the course of the next six weeks, it’ll be a lot thicker.
“What do I do?” I ask, unsure of where to go.
“First time?” she asks.
“And the last.” I’m assertive, sure, determined.
“I like that attitude, Kat. Come with me. I’ll show you round.” She walks towards me, coming from behind the desk. “Claudia.” She reaches out to shake my hand.
I smile at her, returning her warmth. “Kat,” I say, realising she already knows who I am. “Merry Christmas,” I add softly.
“Merry Christmas,” she returns. “This way. Keep up.” She suddenly turns into a sergeant major, or someone else authoritative, slapping her hand against her thigh as she moves. “This is the rec room,” she announces; it’s the first room we reach. As we enter, there are a few people, all doing different activities. It’s a massive room, but with only a dozen or so people inside. Two men playing chess, a woman playing cards by herself, and some people just sitting around reading. We move on to the next room. “This is the q
uiet room and should be treated as such.”
There’s only one person in here; a young woman, maybe a little younger than me, and her sad eyes meet mine when she hears us enter. Her long blonde hair tied up in bunches makes her look like a teenager, but on closer inspection, she could be the same age as me.
Claudia leads me to different rooms in the house. The kitchen, dining area, and bathrooms are all pointed out. The rain has suddenly started to come down in sheets, and the double French doors that lead from the dining room look out over a massive, well-maintained garden. I spot people running around outside; gardeners, I’m guessing, by the way they’re dressed. Wellington boots trudge through the soil bedded areas as they try to escape the sudden downpour.
Lastly, Claudia shows me to my room. I’m wowed when I step inside. If I didn’t know this was rehab, I’d say I’m standing in a very expensive hotel. A king size bed dominates the room, with a lovely white bedding set with pastel coloured flowers, and matching cushions placed haphazardly at the head of the bed. “Get yourself unpacked. Look round the house. The garden is open for activities at certain times of the day. Check the notice board in reception for time schedules. All doors and windows remain locked at all times. No mobile phones, we don’t have wi-fi, and dinner is at six in the dining hall. Other meal times are on that card over there.” Claudia points to a dressing table, mirror, and stool close to the entrance of my en-suite. “If you need anything, I’m here until five, then the evening staff will be able to assist you. Okay?”
“Okay. Got it.” I feel like I should salute her, but I refrain. The last thing I need is to make enemies, and somehow, I don’t think Claudia would appreciate my little joke.
Claudia leaves, closing the door behind her. I throw my bag on the bed and begin to unpack. Thankfully, my laptop has been packed, but I know I won’t be able to connect it to any internet source. At least I’ll be able to write about my experience, should I need to.
