Whisper: The untold stories

by Bray, Michael

  “Don’t say that you’re just upset-”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not upset. Not anymore. For a long time I wished for you to come and get me and take me out of here, then over time, I got used to it. Eventually, when you realise nobody is coming to save you, it’s easier to deal with your surroundings.”

  “Please, give me a chance…”

  “No, Melody. As far as I’m concerned, I have no mother.”

  “You can’t do this. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “Then go. Leave me here like the inconvenience I’ve always been.”

  Flustered and struggling for breath, she stood, the chair sliding against the tile floor as she backed away, her entire body trembling.

  “You know,” he called after her. “I still sometimes wish I’d have been the one to die back in Oakwell instead of my dad. Maybe that would have been better for everyone, wouldn’t it? Mother.”

  She couldn’t bear to hear anymore, and rushed to the door, feeling not only her son’s eyes on her as she fled, but the grin he wore with pride.

  III

  Out in the cool of the car park, she managed to just about hold herself together until she reached her car. She fumbled in her bag, pushing aside the brown envelope which she hadn’t even managed to bring up in conversation, and fished for her keys, eyes and nose raw from crying. She snatched at the keys, dropped them, and then got them at the second attempt. All she wanted was to get away from the hospital, away from what she had done. She could feel it looming behind her, a figurative statement of the first of many bad decisions. Only distance would help, and it was a medicine which, although imperfect, had served her well during the previous four years. She tried to unlock the car door, but her hands were shaking too badly for her to get the key in the lock. Frustrated, she began to cry, letting out huge, grief filled sobs as she made another attempt to access the car. She knew everything would be better when she was inside its familiar cocoon, somewhere less hostile and alien than her son’s current dwelling. Again, she missed the lock and dropped the keys on the ground. Wiping her arm against her eyes, she bent to pick them up. Almost immediately, nausea surged through her. She took a sharp breath, then felt herself falling, pitching forward into the car. She slid down it, landing on her knees and slumping forward onto the concrete. She was already unconscious before her head hit the ground.

  (Here is another scene from later in the first draft of the third book which gives us a better look at the very different way Isaac had developed as a character.)

  Isaac couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the outside world. It seemed his existence went on within the confines of his room or the recreational area with the other inmates of Creasefield. Now, however, he was free, or at least as free as being transported by car with three orderlies for company could be. He stared out of the window at a world which was alien to him and thought about his mother. Word of her collapse should have triggered some kind of emotion in him, and yet he wasn’t quite sure what it was. His brain was a maze in which he had been lost for years, each turn and dead end bringing with it more confusion. And then, of course, there were the voices. He had, over the years managed to keep them distant, training himself to block them for the most part. He knew the medication helped, and yet there were times during particularly bleak periods of his life when he came close to breaking down those defences he had built and granting those creaking whispers into his mind. Occasionally, they got in any way, and those times were hard. Those things spoke words which were both soothing and threatening, violent and influential. He knew how easy it would be to fall completely under their spell and do as they told him. He liked to think it was willpower that stopped him from giving into their devious words, yet had half an idea something else which he didn't quite understand was responsible.

  "You okay there Isaac?"

  "I'm fine, Dry David."

  "Try not to worry too much. We'll be at the hospital soon."

  "Do the doctors know why she collapsed?"

  "I don't know. I'm sure you'll find out more information when we arrive."

  "Is it much further?"

  "Fifteen minutes or so. Just sit tight."

  Isaac didn't reply. Instead, he stared out of the window and tried to figure out how he felt about not just his mother, but life in general. One of the voices in his head crept through his defences, the sound of its raspy breath infecting his mind.

  Why not just put her out of her misery?

  He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, desperately trying to repel the alien thoughts.

  Reach over and grab the wheel. Drive the car off the road. We'll keep you safe. You'll have to kill the others, though. They wouldn't understand.

  "Shut up." he snapped before he could stop himself.

  "You okay there Isaac?" Dry David said, flicking a concerned glance to his passenger.

  "I'm fine," Isaac replied, aware of the two orderlies in the back seat who had stiffened and were watching him intently.

  He didn't care about them, though, or Dry David, who he had always got on well with. Instead, he was staring at the steering wheel of the car, then out of the window. They were coming up to a bridge, the water some forty feet below black and fast flowing. It really would be so easy just to reach across the seat as they crossed the bridge and pull the wheel towards him. He wondered how it would feel during those precious few seconds before impact before icy water started to flood into the vehicle, the pressure against the doors and windows as they sank making it impossible to escape.

  In his head, he felt the disembodied voice unleash a wicked smile.

  Just do it. We'll look after you. You can be free of this world. You can come to us if you would only die. Your father is here with us. He screams for mercy which never comes.

  Isaac was now tapping his feet in the foot well, drumming his hands on his knees at the same time. He wanted to ask for help, for his medication, but they were already on the bridge and his ability to resist the will of the voices was becoming next to impossible. He could see the water stretching in both directions as they crossed. He cursed the bridge for being so long, and knew no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to resist much longer.

  As was their way, the voice in his head encouraged him, telling him things which made such a crazy decision seem like the sanest thing in the world.

  I'm gonna do it.

  This time, the voice didn't belong to the dark thing in his head, but it was his own. He was staring at the steering wheel now, waiting for his moment. The dark thing in his head waited. Isaac could feel it crawling around in there. Rather than scare him, the idea of death felt strangely appealing. He was about to lunge for the wheel when he realised what he was about to do, and instead, he balled his fist and punched himself hard in the face. As explosive as the pain was, it served its purpose and banished the voices from his mind. Even as the orderlies in the back restrained him, one of them wrapping bear like arms around his torso, pinning his arms to his side as the other prepared to sedate him, he didn't care. The important thing was he had won the battle with the thing in his mind. For now, at least he was in control.

  II

  After a delay at the hospital to treat his broken nose and assess his suitability to visit his mother, Isaac was shown to the fourth floor of Eagle Pines hospital and shown into the private room where his mother was. It had only been a day since he had last seen her, and couldn't remember if she had looked quite so fail before. He supposed it could be the setting. The way she looked like a tiny fragile porcelain doll in the middle of a bed which seemed to envelop her. The subtle lighting of the room, designed for maximum patient comfort, threw heavy shadows across her gaunt face and giving her a ghoulish appearance. Isaac sat by the bed, locking eyes with the woman who had given birth to him, and wondered why when he looked deep inside himself, he didn't feel any emotional connection whatsoever.

  "What happened to your face?" she asked. Her voice steady and st
rong.

  I slipped on a wet floor in the hospital and fell." he said, touching the white plaster across the bridge of his nose, the surrounding skin under his eyes already starting to bruise.

  "This hospital?"

  "No. The other one. The one where I live."

  He didn't intend to make her feel bad, especially as she looked so ill already, but the fire fueled by his anger burned as brightly as ever, and he couldn't help himself.

  Smother her.

  He ignored the oily, alien voice in his head and started at his hands.

  "I'm dying."

  He looked at her, still unsure what the gnawing feeling in his guts meant. Formulating words were out of the question. Even if he could, he had no idea what he would even say. She spared him having to fumble around to find the right thing to say, and spoke again.

  "Cancer. It's in my stomach, they say. It's spreading into my other organs."

  Numb, he could only nod.

  "It’s my own fault. I started to feel unwell months ago, but I ignored it. Now it's too late."

  "What about treatment?"

  "They can't do anything now. It's terminal."

  He nodded, trying to decipher his feelings and unsure how he should react. He shifted position, wishing she would stop looking at him.

  "How long?" he asked, unable to look her in the eye.

  "A few weeks. If I'm lucky, two months."

  She grabbed his hand, and he had to will himself not to recoil from her touch, her frail hand appearing withered within his.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. Not because he meant it - that was something he was still trying to figure out - but because that was what people said in situations like this.

  "That’s why I came to see you yesterday. I had been wanting to tell you for a while now, I just couldn't find the courage to go through with it."

  "I don't know what I'm supposed to say to you."

  "You don't have to say anything. Now you're back, we can spend my last few weeks together."

  He pulled his hand free of hers. "This doesn't change anything."

  "But you came here to see me."

  "The hospital made me come. Don't think for a second all is forgiven. It's not as easy as that."

  "Isaac, please... "

  No. I won't do this. I won't make it this easy for you."

  "Easy? I'm dying. I'm scared to be alone." she said through her tears.

  "Then at least you know how it feels. Maybe this is what you deserve."

  "You don't mean that."

  "Don’t you tell me what I feel!"

  She flinched at his words. Isaac took a deep breath to compose himself, trembling in anger.

  "You don't have the right." he added.

  "I know things were bad between us. I just want to put this right."

  "It’s always about you, isn't it?"

  "What do you mean?" she said, her cheeks slick with tears.

  "It’s always been about what Melody wants. She can't be bothered to look after her son, so she gives him away. She decides she wants to move away to the country and buys the house that will be responsible for her husband’s death."

  "Why are you saying these things?"

  "Because it's true. The mess this excuse for a family is in can all be traced back to you. Nothing you say can change that."

  "You don't understand. When you're older maybe -”

  “Don’t play the age thing. I had to grow up plenty since you decided you didn't want me anymore. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm some kid who doesn't understand."

  "Your father wouldn't let you say these things,” she said, almost gasping the words.

  “Well, he's dead now isn't he, and we know who to blame for that one."

  She turned away, shoulders trembling as she tried to hold back her emotions.

  "Anyway, I've said what I needed to say. I don't want to see you again," he said, standing and approaching the door where the orderlies waited.

  "Please, don't do this. Just give me a chance.”

  “No, I can’t do that. I’m sorry about your…situation. But that doesn’t give you the right to forgiveness. I’m going home, back to my room in the hospital. Don’t contact me, or visit me again. You and I are done.”

  He turned then, ignoring the sour stares of the orderlies as he waited to be led back to the car and away from his mother. Her cries echoed through the corridor as he walked away. Isaac didn’t know if the alien thing which constantly invaded his mind had form. But if it did, he could imagine it there now, in the shadowy recesses of his psyche. He thought it was probably smiling.

  III

  Isaac stared out of the window as he was driven back towards Creasefield. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation with his mother, or if he had made the right decision by severing ties with her. He supposed in time, he would regret it, however, it seemed like the most natural and sensible thing to do at the time. He thought about what she had told him about the coming end to her existence on earth and wondered why he felt no sadness. He supposed it might be because their relationship had been almost nonexistent, and the memories he did have of her were built on grief, sadness and fear, which were far from the building blocks for a loving son and mother relationship. Rather than scare him, the thought of being alone in the world filled him with a sense of relief, a finality which would absolve him from the responsibility of having to care about anything but making it through life. Certainly, he was approaching that aspect on a strictly one day at a time basis, fighting each battle as it came.

  During his numerous counselling sessions, he had been asked about suicide, and if he ever considered it. He told them he hadn’t, which apart from a few particularly bleak times early on in his time at Creasefield, was true. He told his doctors the reason was because he wanted to get better, to beat his illness. The real reason was he was deathly afraid that death, for him, would be worse than anything life could throw at him. Despite the best efforts of his doctors to convince him otherwise, Isaac knew the voices in his head were nothing to do with schizophrenia, and belonged to something else. Something dark and forgotten, some black, oozing thing which existed only to try and pollute his brain with ideas and thoughts which were not his own. It was an almost constant assault, a barrage of attacks which he did everything in his power to fight. Sometimes, he would barely hang on, his mental defences weakened almost to the point of giving up and just doing as they said. On other occasions, it was painless and easy as if he had some kind of otherworldly assistance.

  The idea of ever getting ‘better’ and living a normal life was one he had long since given up on. He knew well enough the battle he was engaged in was a lifelong one, and far from wanting out, acknowledged that Creasefiled, as frustrating and depressing as it was, could well be the best place for him to be if the time ever came when he did lose the battle with the thing trying to take control of his body.

  “Goddamnit, this guy is right up our bumper.” Dry David said from the driver’s side, breaking Isaac from his solitude.

  The two orderlies in the back looked over their shoulder at the white van which was running less than two feet behind them.

  “Asshole. There’s plenty of room to go around.” One of the orderlies said.

  Isaac was also watching with interest, for the time being, able to forget his own troubles. He turned back towards the road and saw the orderly in the back was right. The road as straight and clear with good visibility. There was more than enough room for their tailgating driver to go around.

  “Well, I’m not speeding up. I’m at the speed limit. If he wants past, he’ll have to go around.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was instinct, or maybe even the thing that kept trying to get into his brain, but Isaac felt an ominous sense of danger. Something about the entire situation didn’t feel right, however, if Doctor David felt it, he wasn’t showing it, his narrow face screwed up in frustration. He put an arm out of the window and waved the truck around, still muttering und
er his breath.

  The truck complied, pulling out into the opposite lane and accelerating alongside their car. Only Isaac was prepared for the impact as the truck broadsided their car, slamming into it hard and sending it off the road, where it crashed into the tree lined roadside. Glass shattered, metal crunched and deformed as the car first slid, then found purchase in the soft earth, flipping the car over onto its roof. Its passengers tossed violently, the car came to rest ten feet down the embankment on its roof, smoke rising from broken radiator, ferns and branches pushing into the spaces where the windows once were.

  Isaac came to, blood in his eyes and mouth, head ringing and neck sore from the impact. He was hanging upside down, still held in place by his seatbelt. He breathed in, separating scents. Copper. Oil. Pine. Next to him, Doctor David had also come around, and like Isaac was allowing his shaken brain to reset itself. His face was bloody, and one of his shoulders was hanging at a nauseating angle, his arm limp against the bent roof of the car. In the back, the two orderlies were unconscious but alive. One, like Isaac & the Doctor, hanging upside down. The other, who hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, was lying on the roof, moaning in pain but alive.

  Swimming in and out of consciousness, Isaac heard the distinct crunch of boots on grass as someone approached the upturned car. He hoped it was help, someone coming to aid them after seeing the accident, then he thought of the thing in his head, how he'd imagined it smiling.

  Hands on him now, cutting him out of his seatbelt and dragging him out into the light, his still scrambled brain unable to comprehend what was happening. A silhouette above him, a face, the features unseen. Just a black mass against the white light of the sky. Even dazed and in pain, he recognised the dull throb of fear.

  He was moving now, those hands which had pulled him from the car under his armpits, dragging him up the embankment. He could see the vehicle now which just a few minutes ago he had been inside. Upside down, shouldering. Broken.