Coma

by Emmy Ellis

  Maybe I should have done what Jen suggested one time. Write it all down; write a letter to Scott and Mags and tell them what I thought of them, how they’d made me feel. She’d told me to send it to them afterwards, even send it to Uncle and Auntie so they knew all about it.

  Why would I want to do that?

  “Let it go, kid. It’s for the good in the long run, you’ll see.”

  I blinked, tried to focus back in the present, and looked to where the man had last stood.

  He wasn’t there.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wilf’s house was like something out of a fairy-tale book. Hansel and Gretel. The outer walls of his house were made of gingerbread, the front door a slab of chocolate complete with raised squares. Windowsills made of red- and-white-striped candy held marshmallow flowerpots. The upper struts of a fence closely resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy; each little man danced to the tinny theme tune of the TV show The A-Team that seemed to come from the flowers in the front garden. A red lollipop chimney belched pink candyfloss smoke, which hung above the house.

  Wilf opened the door. “Might have known you’d be here before the day was done. What do you want? Besides a cloth to wipe that mess off your hand and arm.” Wilf handed me a wet face cloth—where it came from, I had no idea.

  “Um, hello, Wilf. I’m here to apologise for not listening earlier.”

  “Well, that’s just peachy, Wayne. Now if that’s all you came for…” He moved to close his front door.

  “No, I wanted to ask when I have to start university. If you’d be so kind as to tell me?”

  He slammed the door. Shreds of chocolate fell onto the candy path and melted instantly; that sun was damn hot. Hot like the anger that whizzed through my veins.

  I turned from the door and jogged back down the path. I sped through Gogglins, past the roller coaster that housed ghost riders, past Larry’s Log Flume water ride, and weaved in between games stalls and the shooting range. Out of breath, I stopped running, stooped, and placed my hands on my knees.

  Air wheezed into my lungs; the heat of it dried my throat. Swallowing didn’t help. I closed my eyes.

  Counted: one, two, three…

  Opened my eyes.

  Daylight had vanished. A dark-purple sky loomed, and a silver moon cast light down on a vast field. Purple knee-high grass swayed in the warm night breeze. In the distance, the church spire of my hometown jutted proudly.

  A way out.

  Shame on you, Wayne. Take the right path!

  Don’t listen to them, kid. Do what you’ve got to do, and I guarantee there’ll be no more nightmares.

  Think about goodness, Wayne. Walk away…

  Wayne… Just make sure you’re good. Please…

  I stumbled forward. Long grass grabbed my ankles in an attempt to stop me running. I ploughed on, ignoring the whispers of the purple blades, heedless of the true meaning of their words. I didn’t want to hear them, didn’t want to accept what I was doing was wrong. Mags screeched—a bird in the night—and dogs howled behind me.

  Hear the howl, someone’s played foul.

  I surged onwards, keeping the church spire in sight, afraid that if I looked away for one moment it’d disintegrate like the moon mist in Herbert’s eyes. Hell, in too many people’s eyes. The dogs’ yelps grew in volume, seemed to wrap around me, an invisible cocoon. I stumbled. Landing on my knees, my ankles entangled in grass, I wrenched my feet free and crawled a little farther.

  Come on, Wayne, come on.

  Closer, the town was inching closer, embracing me in familiarity. I managed to stand, legs unsteady, but shit, I was going home.

  * * * *

  The back door swung open, and the scent of home whacked me in the face. Every damn thing that ever happened to me in that house ran amok through my mind. I stepped inside and made my way over to the sink in the darkness—an elephant never forgets—reached for a glass that I knew would be there and filled it with water from the ancient silver tap. After placing the glass down, I patted the pocket of my jeans and felt my medication vials, though I didn’t recall putting them in there. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out one plastic bottle, unscrewed the cap, and shook tablets into my palm. I selected four—who cared what colour they were—and put them in my mouth, gulping them down with the water.

  The quiet mumble of voices from the TV in the living room meandered into the kitchen. Someone was still awake.

  I walked down the short hallway, my back against the wall, and leaned to my left to peek round the doorjamb. Scott, eyes closed, mouth agape, arms flung out by his sides, sat on the sofa, dead to the world.

  I headed for the stairs and climbed them slowly, moving to the left and then the right to avoid the creaky ones. The ones that used to let me know Mags was coming to whip my arse, that Scott was on his way to whip my arse in an altogether different way.

  The air seemed to change as I reached the top. Mags’ bedroom was three steps away, three steps. I took them and grasped the doorknob, paused for just a moment to listen, listen to the sounds downstairs. A snore from inside Mags’ room sounded, followed by dialogue then canned laughter from the TV. They were fucking laughing at her. Laughing like drains.

  I slowly open Mags’ door and went inside. A low-voltage lamp glowed from her bedside table. A set of bangles rested next to a Bible. Her body spasmed in sleep, and she flung her arms above her head, whacking one wrist against the headboard. I moved forward, sat on the edge of her bed, and stared at her face. She’d aged—not well. Wrinkles marred her once smooth skin, and grey hairs grew like weeds along her hairline. Her pointy nose seemed more witch-like now, and that mouth, I’d bet it could still spout venom quicker than a snake.

  She opened her eyes. Wide.

  “Wayne?”

  “Mum.”

  Her head now rested on a circular red leather pad on The Bell Whack back at Gogglins Theme Park. I had no recollection of how we’d got here, and I didn’t much give a shit. My imagination couldn’t have come up with a better setting, a better end to the existence of a mother who’d disregarded me my whole life, who’d ridiculed, abused, and controlled.

  Her wrists were tied behind her by huge Ribena straws, the plastic cutting into her skin. Shame. She was on her side facing me, cheek against the leather pad, eyes bugging. Her legs appeared broken. They rested upon the ground at odd angles to her knees, clad in American Tan hosiery, and her inevitable short skirt had bunched up around her hips.

  Some things never changed.

  I stepped to the left of her, reached out, and grasped the huge mallet. It was so heavy… I stood in front of Mags once more. The need for words didn’t seem so important now. I used to rehearse what I’d say to her when I envisaged killing her in my youth. I’d have conversations with myself about how she’d plead and beg for her life, how she’d say she was sorry.

  Saying sorry is the key, Wayne.

  She’d apologise for every damn thing she did to me. Repent of her many sins, realise her follies… But no, none of that seemed to matter anymore.

  I raised the mallet over my head. I wanted the biggest swing possible. I looked into her eyes. She’s not even scared.

  “Biggest swing you can now, sir. Ding the bell and you’re a winnah!”

  I flicked my gaze to the right. A chubby, brown-haired man rubbed his protruding gut with glee. His shoulders shook with laughter, and he nodded several times, a manic grin splitting his face.

  I kept my gaze fixed on the man, raised the mallet, and brought it down with all my might. Blood spattered across the man’s cheeks, and he dashed out his tongue to lick a droplet from his lips.

  The bell sang out: ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!

  Dogs howled, their whines a pitiful sound.

  “Winnah! We have a winnah!”

  I dropped the mallet without looking back at Mags, turned, and made my way back home.

  * * * *

  I stood in the living room doorway. My shoulders ached from the weight of the ma
llet. I shrugged them in circular motions. Tension bled out and, while I stared at the sleeping Scott, fresh vigour bounced through my joints. I hadn’t planned how I was going to do this.

  The sound of dogs baying in the distance merged with Jim Carrey on the TV—the movie Liar Liar, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  Scott twitched. His eyelids flickered, and he brought his hand up in sleep to rub the end of his nose. He flung his hand back down, smacked it against the remote control next to him, and sat upright. Nap daze shrouded his whole being—glazed eyes stared at me but through me. Maybe he thought he was dreaming.

  “Wake up, Scott.”

  He blinked, shook his head a little. His mouth opened and closed, a hand puppet with no ventriloquist. He placed his palms down against the sofa and moved to rise. A look of satisfaction grew on his face. From his narrowed eyes to his watery smirk, his face was much the same as it used to be during the times I’d met my ‘new best friend’.

  “No need to get up on my account, Scott.”

  Did he sense a difference about me?

  He leaned back, seemingly smug that he was in control of the situation like he always was. “Nice to see you, Wayne.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Just like old times. How did you get in?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” He shifted slightly—uncomfortable? Unsettled?

  A burst of air puffed from my lips. “Always did speak a load of crap, didn’t you?”

  Scott brayed. “Ooh, get you! Mr Hard Man.”

  I closed my eyes then opened them again slowly to show him I was being patient—and that he was beneath me with his taunts.

  “No, not hard, just…changed.”

  He jerked forward. I didn’t jump, didn’t show any indication that he’d affected me. His torso leaned into the space between his open legs, he rested his elbows on his knees, and his hands dangled downwards.

  “Seen your mother?” He lifted his head to meet my gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “And? Pleased to see you, was she?”

  “Surprised at first. Probably very displeased at the end.”

  Scott shifted forward and stood, straightening his grey sweater from its bunched-up position around his waist, then he flicked out his feet so the bottoms of his trousers sat correctly. He had on old man slippers, beige check with elastic side panels, and grey hair peppered his temples.

  “So.” He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Staying long?”

  “No. Just a quick visit.” I ignored his act of friendship.

  He dropped his hand, and two spots of embarrassment grew from pinpricks to apple-sized blooms on his cheeks.

  “Want a cuppa?” He stepped forward to brush past me, and I let him lead the way to the kitchen.

  “I’ll make the tea,” I said. “You have a sit down there at the table.”

  He stared at me for a moment, obviously unsure as to whether I was genuinely being nice. Contentment stole through me at his uncertainty. He nodded curtly and moved towards the table. Step-slip-step.

  Seated, he said, “So, you’re out of the institute, then?”

  “Yes.” I went through the motions and filled the kettle, switched it on. I got out the mugs, put tea bags and sugar in them. Rested a teaspoon beside the cups.

  “Got your own place?” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop.

  “Yes. Other side of town.”

  “Nice?”

  “It’ll do.”

  Tension reigned.

  “Scott. I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes. To enable me to move on, I think I need to watch you go through something I’ve experienced. Maybe then you’ll understand why I detest you so much.”

  The slightest wince flickered over his features. He stopped drumming his fingers and laced them, leaning his chin on their tips.

  “Oh, right,” he said, calm as you like.

  I turned away from him and opened one of the wall cupboards, reached in and took out a can of processed peas. I pulled out the drawer where the can opener was and opened the can without hearing any movement behind me whatsoever. Maybe he wasn’t worried. After all, he’d always been the one to call the shots in the past. Tosser. I selected a dessert spoon from the cutlery drawer, picked up the open can, and walked to the table.

  “Now, I know how much you like these kinds of peas, so you won’t have any problem eating them, will you?” I placed the can and spoon down on the table and returned to the kitchen area.

  He moved to take the can.

  “Wait one moment,” I said.

  He frowned a little, put both palms on the table.

  I took a cup from the draining board, strolled over and gave it to Scott.

  “First,” I said, “you need to acquaint yourself with my ‘new best friend.’ Only then can you eat the peas.”

  * * * *

  We were back at Gogglins. Scott had been on the roller coaster three times in quick succession, looking as green as the peas. He climbed out of the carriage, gripping the handrail for balance. Unsteady on his feet, he staggered towards me, leaned over, and heaved.

  “Oh. You really shouldn’t be doing that,” I said. “Again, wait one moment.”

  A reel of Sellotape rolled towards me. I stooped and grasped it, picked at the edge and pulled a strip off. The sound didn’t bother me now, not when I was the one administering the punishment.

  “Stand up, Scott. You dare be sick!”

  He clamped his mouth closed. His nostrils flared as he struggled to regulate his breathing, to outwit the vomit that was so obviously threatening to exit. I stepped towards him and slapped the piece of Sellotape across his mouth.

  I attached the end of the Sellotape to the piece already on his mouth and wound it round his head. I walked with the tape, circled him, and each time I passed his face I said, “Isn’t this great, Scott? Oh, yes. This is great fun. Now we’re pea buddies. We both know how it feels.”

  His eyes widened, their whites streaked with mini red rivers, veins of stress. His torso convulsed, and his arms batted against his body. His nostrils flared, and a growl rumbled in his throat. Pea pieces shot out of one nostril and landed on the ground.

  As he choked and writhed, I marched him back to the roller coaster. Despite his current predicament, he pushed his feet onto the ground in an attempt to hinder our progress.

  I pulled him to stand near the front of the carriage. “Now, then. You lay down there across the track. I’m going to secure you to it, and you’re going to have a little rest.”

  His eyes bulged further, but he did as I’d asked. One side of the track rested behind his shoulder blades, the other beneath his knees.

  “Comfortable?” I asked.

  He shook his head frantically.

  “Well, that’s just a shame, isn’t it?”

  I knelt. Ribena straws, two metres long, appeared beside me on the wooden platform where joyriders were meant to wait to board the carriage. He just stayed there passively. All the fight had seemingly fled his body. I secured each leg to the track with the straws, then hopped over to the other side and tied his wrists in the same manner.

  “There. All done. I’m going to board this carriage and select the reverse ride. That way, you get to think about all the naughty things you’ve done in your life before the carriage comes back.”

  I climbed into the front seat, and a mechanical sound whirred. A padded security belt came down over my head, clicking into place with a loud crack.

  “Oh, and Scott?” I shouted. “All you have to do in this place is say sorry, apparently. Then everything is all right.”

  I laughed again, so hard my ribs ached, and jabbed my thumb on the reverse journey button. The carriage jolted and slowly moved.

  It was thrilling to have the wind whipping through my hair, to feel alive and invigorated. My heart throbbed to match the speed of the roller coaster as it flipped me through loops, over humps, and do
wn sheer drops. Even more thrilling was the carriage approaching the boarding platform to gear up for the second run of the ride, the wheels jolting violently over Scott then resuming a smooth and exciting second journey.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Do you know why you’re here, Wayne?”

  “No. I don’t even know where I am,” I said.

  I looked at Mr Grace. Seemed his face wasn’t so nondescript now, like his features had formed more since I’d last seen him. A prominent Roman nose dominated his face much like a zit on a vain girl’s chin. His eyes were definitely open this time—long top lashes almost touched his grey bushy eyebrows. He sat in a chair, the backrest made from feathers. It almost merged into the white wall behind him. In fact, all the damn whiteness in here was blinding. And ‘in here’…where the fuck was that?

  It was annoying the hell out of me.

  “If only it were that easy, Wayne.”

  “What?”

  “To annoy the Hell out of you. If we could do that, you wouldn’t be sitting here.” Mr Grace put his elbows on the white desk before him, held his forearms arms up, and clasped his hands.

  “Look, Mr Grace. No disrespect, but this is doing my head in. I leave Klinter and go to The Apartments. Supposedly to make me get better. I get to The Apartments and everything is one big mind-fuck, like you lot want me to fail. I don’t get it. You drive me crazier than I was when asleep in the hospital, stuck in my own damn head. And now you ask me why I’m here? Well, excuse me, but I have no fucking idea why I’m here, and right now, I don’t give a shit, all right? I’ve had enough. Now I see why Jen said I could scoff all my damn tablets. Oblivion would be better than this crap.”

  Mr Grace sighed so greatly the feathers of his chair rustled, nattered to one another.

  Wayne’s losing it, Wayne’s losing it, Wayne’s losing it…

  “But if you’d have taken all the tablets, you’d have gone back to square one. Skipped this part of the process and began again, don’t you see?”