Trick Of The Mind

One.

Broken moonlight is scattered across the forest floor. Far away in the darkness, someone is weeping. Maybe it's real, maybe it isn’t. The line between reality and the imaginary got lost somewhere in the undergrowth a long while ago. Your heart beats in your throat, your legs are weak. You’re not sure where you are going, but it doesn’t really matter anymore.

All of a sudden, you start to run. What did you hear? What did you see? Are you scared? I always knew you were a coward. You are crying out, screaming. Suddenly you stumble, fall face down in the mud. You can taste dirt and tears. The forest is silent around you. There’s no one there, you know.


* * * * *


It smells of white here. It’s cold and there is no love. I am used to it now, and I forget what love is like. The only words I know are spoken with sugar-coated condescension, or with a voice impaired by many years of mandatory silence. There are many such voices here. I hear them in the night, in the day, and sometimes they do not stop.
I don’t much mind them, to be honest. I have doubtless been known to have many such conversations with myself. It is necessary to, in this place, for there is so little to do. There are no books, there are no games. Not even crayons or baskets to weave. Just ladies in their white uniforms with their perfume and lipstick and their patronising tongues.

You know, as far as I know, no papercut ever obtained proved to be fatal.


* * * * *


Your face is muddy. Your mother wouldn’t like that. But your mother is far away in the past now. Will you ever see her again? It brings tears to your eyes. Her round, friendly face swims in front of your eyes, and you can’t get rid of it. She smiles at you in your mind’s eye, and your heart melts. She was a selfish, bitter woman, but you loved her all the same. You gulp back the imminent tears.
You continue to stumble along, but you can’t see your way. The moon has receded behind the clouds and now you are alone in the smothering darkness. It presses against your eyes and you feel as if you are blind. It makes you feel sick with fear.
The crack of a twig. You inhale sharply. You almost hear yourself whimper.

         “Daniel. How could you?”

Now you scream, and turn to run.

* * * * *


“Help, help! Please, help me! The ghosts are after me!!”

Megan’s had another nightmare. She has them at least once a week. Every week it’s the same. Help, the ghosts are after me, help.

“Please help me!! They want revenge, I tell you! Revenge!!” Megan cries and screams and takes hold of the nurse and says, “Help me, why don’t you help me?!”
And the nurse holds her firmly by the shoulder and says, “It’s okay, you’re safe, nobody’s after you.” She tucks the woman in tight and says, “It’s over now, you can go back to sleep, my dear, everything’s fine.”
And she leaves Megan alone, screaming and wailing, walks primly off, leaving her perfume stench behind. Megan retreats into a choked silence.
She’s still thinking about the ghosts.


* * * * *


“Don’t try and run, Daniel, you foolish boy.” A female voice, smooth, alluring. It makes your skin prickle. But you have no time for female seduction. You begin to scramble through the undergrowth.
You have barely moved a metre before a searing pain seizes your side. It feels as though your rib is on fire. You clutch at it as if trying to quell the flames.
“The more you try to run, the more painful it will be,” And the pain engulfs both your ribs and your chest and your stomach, and your eyes begin to water.
“Who are you?!” you scream, and the pain embraces more of your body, your legs, your arms, your head. “Let me go!” you shriek. “Please!” You drop to the floor and writhe in agony, frantically trying to kick away the pain. Mud is in your mouth, your eyes, your nostrils. You are aware that you can taste your own blood.



* * * * *


Razor. Skin. Blood. Razor. Skin. Blood. Razor. Skin. Blood. Razor. Skin. Blood. Razor. Skin. Blood.

It plays like a broken tape. Over and over in my private kaleidoscope. My little world where wrong is right and right is left. Where love is hate and hate is only an illusion. Where nobody can tell me I’m wrong.
Pain is not enough in the material world. But I don’t have to live there.
The little plump ladies with their spectacles can sit and talk to me for hours, asking me to talk about my feelings, how do I feel about this, how does this make me feel, why do I feel like this. But I will not listen, and I will not talk.



* * * * *


You open your eyes.
The first thing you notice is the absence of pain. Your bones are tender and weak beneath your skin. The second thing you notice is the churning feeling in your stomach. You roll to on side and vomit into the dead leaves.
Your head throbs. You want to go home.
"Don't try and run, Daniel, you foolish boy." She called you a boy, Daniel. You may be twenty years old, but you're just a little boy inside really. A foolish, cowardly little boy.
"No, I'm not," you find yourself saying.But you remember the way you cried and screamed last night, and a shadow of doubt flickers across your mind.
Grow up, Daniel, you tell yourself. You're twenty years old, for goodness sake.
You get to your feet, brush leaves and dirt from your trousers. Dawn broke many hours ago, but there is no peace in the dappled sunlight strewn across the muddy ground. You look at your watch, and realise it is not there. You swear under your breath.



* * * * *


Nine o'clock came earlier than usual this morning. Sunlight had already found its way into the room and made its home in elongated window-like shapes across the floor.
I stayed still for many minutes while nurses shuffled around and beds rustled. I listened with slight sadness to the shape of the morning routine. So mundane, but never normal.
Normal does not smell of disinfectant.

I stare at my daily slush, and listlessly swirl it around in its bowl. I remember times when my life was that slush. I scoop some up on the spoon, then let it slide off again. I remember when my life fell away like that.
At least then I still had my childish hopes.



* * * * * 


You feel alone, don't you? You're scared. You're scared because you're a coward. You can't even remember what brought you here.
You want to go home. You want your mummy.
You feel sick and disorientated. You can't remember where yesterday was, nor do you know when tomorrow will be.

Clunk.

Things don't go clunk in forests. Your whole body stiffens.
You spin around, your senses acute. Nothing. A silent forest, rustling trees. Laughing at you.
You twist around once more. This time, you catch something out of the corner of your eye, do a double take. There's a house hidden amongst the trees.
You could have sworn it wasn't there before.

And, what's worse, you know that house. 



* * * * *


They call it "Sweetie Time".
A pretty cruel irony, really.

Nurse Ellie hands me a cup half-full of water and two little white tablets. I look at them resentfully as they rest on my palm, silently mocking me.
"I don't need your drugs," I utter under my breath, every syllable injected with bitterness.
I crush them in my fist, throw the cup to the floor. Water begins to spread in a silvery puddle. 
Heads turn. Nurses converse with each other in low voices. I don't stop to listen.
I walk calmly out of the cafeteria door, down the whitewashed corridor, through the reception area, out in the open air.
I've been out here many times before, but I've never really known this world. Never before have I really felt the fresh air fill my lungs. Never before seen the colours of the world in such clarity. Been free, but never felt liberated. 



* * * * *


You know that house well, don't you Daniel?
This is getting ridiculous, you think angrily. I want out of here.

"Oh, I don't think that's possible, Daniel."
It's her again.

"Shut up!" You shout into the empty air. Only your echo replies. "Leave me alone, you stupid bitch!"

"I wouldn't say that, Daniel." And the familiar pain rips through your side. This time you bite back the anger bubbling inside you. You won't let her get to you.
She's a voice inside your head, for goodness sake. She's not real.

"Am I not?"



* * * * *


I laugh softly to myself. Nurse Ellie is leading me back to the ward but I don't try and make a run for it. Resistance is futile.
And as far as I'm concerned, they can do all they want to me. I have power that they will never know. Stronger than walls.
Stronger than  perfume.

I laugh out loud this time.



* * * * *


"You can't hide from that place forever, you know."
You say nothing.

"You can't hide from what you are, Daniel."
Still you say nothing. You don't move a muscle.

"Don't ignore me, Daniel." And you hear the spite injected into her voice. Another bout of pain searing through your bones.
Soft, malicious laughter reverberates around you.

"Don't you think you should go in now, Daniel? You wouldn't want to seem rude, by refusing their hospitality. " And something invisible collides with your spine, and you are jerked forward. You fall onto your hands and knees.
And before you know what is happening, you are crawling across the forest floor towards the house. Frantically you try and stop your arms and legs from moving, but they refuse to respond to your brain's commands.
More laughter. Harsher, coarser this time.
You crawl all the way to the front door of the house. How do you feel now? Not so brave anymore, are we? Not such a big boy anymore.



* * * * *


Lunchtime.

I sit and poke at my cheese sandwich. I'm contemplating thinking about eating it.
I smell the bread. It reminds me of my mother. It's white and cheap and tasteless. My mother didn't much care for buying nice bread. My mother didn't much care for anything.
I hated my mother.
Her and her stuck up, violent son.
I walk over to the bin, toss the sandwich in.



* * * * *


You're knocking on the door. Loud, hard raps. Your knuckles are beginning to sting. But of course you cannot stop yourself, and you have to keep on knocking.
Inwardly you will the door not to open. You don't want to face what might be waiting on the other side.
Without warning, the door swings open. So forcefully that it slams into the wall behind with a heart-stopping bang. It resonates throughout the house. The doorway is empty.
You look down the dark, deserted hallway and you just want to turn and leave. To close the door and run. Run far, far away from this place. Part of you feels as though you'd rather die alone and lost in this forest than step into that hallway.
That soft, resounding laugh reminds you that you haven't really got a choice.
And something else, deep inside you, compels you to cross the threshold.
Something you can't quite place.



* * * * *


"How are you feeling today?"

It's not white here. Here it is brown and smells of musty furniture. I detest it all the same.
Dr. Rampling sits with his hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed. He's sitting in high-backed leather chair, twirling his pen in his moustache. He's looking at me searchingly through his glasses, and he isn't smiling.
His tweed jacket with suede elbow patches is far too small for him.
I wonder what secrets he keeps in his beard.

"You know, if you don't talk, I can't help you." And he twirls his moustache around his pen, serious expression unflickering.
You couldn't help me if I did talk, I think scathingly. 




Two.



A small girl with dark hair sits at her desk, chewing on a pen. She's pleased with what she has so far on her science project, and she knows Miss Weatherly will be very pleased. She writes the last few words on the page in her neat, swirly handwriting. Sits back, smiles widely at it.

"What's this then, Squirt?"
Her older brother looks at it, then snatches it off the table.

"Hey, give it back!" The girl reaches for it, he pulls it away from her.

"You want it, you're going to have to pay me for it." There's triumph in his eyes, even now.

"Give it back! Please!" The boy isn't having any of it.

"Pay me, and I'll give it back."

"You know I don't have any money, just give it!"

"You're only skint because you spend so much money on chocolate, you fat shit." He laughs.

"Shut up," says the girl. There's tears in her eyes.

"Shut up yourself, fatty."

"Give me back my science project!" There's desperation in her voice. She wants Miss Weatherly to see it, to know what a clever girl she is.

"I don't think I will," her brother says coolly. "I thought I'd just rip it up instead.

"No!" the girl screams and lashes out at him. He grabs her outstretched hand and twists it round, digging his nails deep into her palm. She screeches, he lets go, she recoils, on the verge of tears. She gazes at the nail marks in her hand, thinks wretchedly of her science project.

"This really isn't any good," he says scornfully.
And he rips it up, page by page, and at every tear the girl feels as though he's ripping through her very heart.
The boy laughs as he destroys the last sheet of paper.The intricate drawing of the inside of a flower that she spent hours perfecting, now lying in four pieces on the carpet. All her time and effort strewn carelessly across the floor. She screws up her face and starts to cry.

"I'm gonna tell Mum of you," she says tearfully, and tries to move past her brother to the door. He pushes her roughly back.

"Oh no you're not," he says, and kicks her roughly in the shin. More tears stream from her eyes.

"I can't believe you'd do that!" she cries. "I was going to get a special gold star for that!"
The boy laughs derisively.

"Well I tell you what," he says, "You can wear this instead." And his fist slams into the side of her face. His knuckles come into contact with her cheekbone, she stumbles backwards, gasping.
Laughing to himself, her brother leaves, kicking up pieces of torn science project as he goes. He doesn't even close the door behind him.

The small girl lies on the floor, humiliated, devastated, clutching at her cheek. The pain sears down the side of her face. Drawing her hand away, she sees that there is blood on her fingertips. Angrily, she swipes it across a piece of her flower drawing. A delicate petal, torn and smeared with blood.

Sitting alone on her bedroom floor, she cries and cries and cries. She sobs until her throat is tired and her face is damp and stained. She hears her brother's music pumping through the floorboards. She lets out another frustrated yelp. She hears her mother bustling around in the bathroom, then coming across the landing towards the girl's room. And walking on past.

The small girl with dark hair knows she will cry herself to sleep tonight.



* * * * *
* * * * *



The hallway is cold and gloomy. There are two coats hanging up on the wrought iron hooks.
 
"The last one's for you, Daniel." You don't move."

"Come now, Daniel, be a good boy and hang your coat on the hook."
Slowly, deliberately, you take off your coat. Hang it on the hook.

"And your shoes, Daniel. On the rack. Come on now, they haven't got all day."
You slip your shoes off. Your feet are cold, and you feel vulnerable in just your socks.

"They're waiting for you in living room, Daniel. You know which room that is, don't you?" You know which room it is, all right. You really wish you didn't.
You lightly tread your way down the hall. You pause outside the living room door. Grasp the door handle, take a deep breath. Your hands feel clammy, your throat dry. You gulp back what could possibly be vomit.

"Open the door, Daniel. You wouldn't want to keep them waiting, now would you?" The voice is so cold this time that it surprises you.
You turn the handle, push open the door.

It's cold in the living room too. The smell of it overwhelms you. Familiar. Sickening. The musty smell of old cigarette smoke and the air freshener that masks it. 
The room is empty. No one is expecting me. Nobody lives here anymore. This isn't REAL.
She laughs again.
"So young, so naive."
Suddenly you hear the door slam shut behind you. You almost laugh to yourself. How cliche.
You think you can hear the sound of weeping. Just like before.
Then you turn around, and see that the door is wide open. Your heart begins to beat faster. For a moment you think you see - no, it can't be. You cast away the thought, but it's still there, in the back of your mind. It makes you shiver just to think about it.



* * * * *


"Why do you never talk to me, Elizabeth?"

Dr. Rampling is beginning to agitate me. I especially hate it when he addresses me as Elizabeth. Such a disgusting name.

"Beth," I say.

"I'm everso sorry, Beth."
I keep my face straight, and my mouth shut.
He sighs through his beard, a long, world-weary sigh.

"I really do want to help you, you know."
I see that there's genuine concern in his eyes, but I laugh it away. Just because he's got a degree doesn't mean he can help me.

"You're not making this any easier for yourself, or for me," he says. He's trying to sound wise, but I think he just sounds like an idiot.
I shrug. He looks at me in that way they look at problem kids with attitudes. Maybe that's what I am.
Maybe I am just another problem kid with a nasty attitude.

After all, that is pretty much why I am here.



* * * * *


"Aren't you going to sit down, Daniel? It's only polite."
You feel yourself being pulled backwards onto the sofa. The back is hard, the seat is soft and flimsy. The springs never did get fixed.
You feel the cushion sink beside you. You inhale sharply, look to your side.

Nothing. Not even a crease in the sofa.

"Daniel, dear, so glad you came back." A different voice. The voice of an old woman. You recognise it. That doesn't exactly surprise you, but you can't help being terrified to the bone. You try to rise from the sofa, but the usual terrible pain tears through you.

"Not leaving already, are we, Daniel? You've only just got here, dear. Come now, you must be hungry. Have something to eat."
Almost instinctively you look at the coffee table. There's food there all right.
But just the sight of it is enough to induce vomiting. The biscuits are coated in mould, and no doubt crawling with numerous things too. The coffee is topped with frothy mould.

Somehow you're pretty sure it's gone cold by now.



* * * * *


They used to let us have coffee here. Until some woman got herself so doped up on it that she threw herself off the roof.
True story. It's laughable, really. This whole place is laughable.
We're only allowed the occasional hot chocolate now. I had it once, and it made me sick. I only drink water now. It tastes of chemicals, but it's better than nothing.

I sit sipping my watery chemicals and thinking about Dr. Rampling. It's eight o'clock in the evening and dinner finished half an hour ago. "Bedtime" is an hour away.

I don't want to see Dr. Rampling again tomorrow. I've put up with him for countless months, but now he is just a waste of my precious time. I don't know why they still send me to see him. In all the months I have been visiting Dr. Rampling in his musty little office, I’ve never told him a thing.

Sometimes he will try and while away the half an hour by going over and over things we both already know. He will relay what he thinks he knows about my life story, and all I have to do is nod or shake my head. It's the same thing every day, nothing ever changes.

I could spill out everything to the old man. I could pour out my soul onto his notepad. I could tell him of my innermost pains and fears and recite my most awful memories.
But that wouldn't change anything. That would only bring empty advice, the like of which I have heard time and again, and none of it ever helps. It wouldn't erase it or take it away or make it better.
My pain and suffering would just be put in a folder, in a filing cabinet, organized, alphabetized.
For future reference.
Cut, copied and pasted from database to database.
Colour-coded, maybe, but not solved.



* * * * *


"No, I'm fine, thank you. I'm not hungry." The words tumble out of your mouth in a disorientated muddle. You're looking at the biscuits and it is enough to make you gag.

"Now, Daniel, we can't have you going hungry, can we?"
And for a fraction of a second there's an old woman standing above you, waving a mouldy biscuit near your face. Her hand is deathly white. From the glimpse you catch of her face, your fears are confirmed.

Then you blink and she's gone, as are the biscuits and coffee. You feel your stomach churning.
You lean over the side of the sofa and vomit violently onto the carpet. It feels as if you're emptying out the entire contents of your stomach. You feel horrible. It reminds you of that time a few years ago --

"Daniel! Daniel are you alright? You stupid boy, have you been drinking again?" A different voice again, more faint and distant this time, but still sickeningly recognisable. A voice that should bring you comfort, but you find it only brings fear.

"I'm fine, mother," you find yourself saying.



Three.



"Bedtime".

Tuck me in like a baby, turn off the lights. Turn their backs to the usual night-time mutterings. The conversations held with imaginary friends, or with the other halves of themselves.

I sigh to myself. Living in this place for a day would be enough to make even the sanest person lose their mind. It's like a black hole, pulling all the loneliness and sadness and desolation from the outside world into this one room. The unhappiness has settled on the air so heavily that at times it is choking.

It's dark with the lights off.
I love the darkness. It's a sweet respite from the permanent whiteness of the daytime. It's a wordless place that keeps the most shameful secrets in its shadowy folds and hides the ugliest of mistakes.

Takes the red out of a bloodstain.



* * * * *


Ignoring the pain ripping through your body, you run to the door, just wanting more than anything to be out of this room.

"Daniel, come back here, I haven't finished with you..." The voice becomes muffled as you slam the door behind you, breathing heavily.
You lean with your back to the door, only half-connected with the terror inside you, the wondering what will happen next. The pain coursing through your body fills up your senses, draining the last traces of energy from you.
With all your remaining strength you let out a strangled cry.

"What do you want from me!?"

And for the first time sice you were eight years old, you are crying.
Really crying.
The tears slide down your cold cheeks, the salty taste touches your tongue.

It's a bitter taste, isn't it?



* * * * *


I haven't always liked it this way. I haven't always found solace in the absence of light.
There was a time when I kept myself wide awake with fear of the dark, terrified of the monsters that hid themselves in it. Terrified to open my eyes in case I should see something, yet too scared to close them lest the monsters should attack when I was not looking.

There was a time when turning off the light meant exposing myself to some of my deepest fears, but leaving it on meant making myself vulnerable to something altogether more terrifying.



* * * * *


The house is silent around you. 

Despite your frustrated cry, the voice inside your head has not even begun to speak. It has been like this for many minutes.
The tears have dried from your face, and the pain has throbbed away. For a moment you think that maybe you could just slip away, out of this house for good. Maybe "they" have forgotten about you already.
Somehow you doubt it.

Suddenly you hear something. Something like the flapping of paper. You look around, and you see it there, on the floor. It makes your heart skip a beat. Slowly, cautiously, you lean down to pick it up.
Looking at the scrap of paper, you feel something new rise in you. Something you've never felt before. Guilt.

"Give that back. It's mine." The voice of a child, soft yet chilling.

A cold hand is clamped around your wrist.



* * * * *
* * * * *


A silent house.
The refridgerator hums quietly in the kitchen, the clock ticks in the hallway.

The small girl with dark hair sits alone in her room.
She cannot cry anymore tears, but her heart is still heavy. The pieces of paper are still scattered across the floor.
She hasn't moved all evening. She didn't go down to dinner. Not that she was actually called down for it. She's hungry, but she doesn't mind so much. She is usually hungry. If she doesn't make her own dinner, she doesn't get any.
She used to get lovely dinners when Michael was around. He was a wonderful cook.
But nobody talks about Michael anymore.

The girl looks at her ruined science project on the floor.
She could have started again. She could have done it all a second time, but she knows it would never have been as good as the first one. Besides, the project was set a few weeks ago, and the deadline is tomorrow. And in her current state she doesn't think she could pull of four weeks worth of work.

She sighs.

And if that wasn't enough, the left side of her face is swollen and bruised. There's a cut just underneath her left eye. It stings like mad.
She could have gone to her mother about it, but she probably would have just been told to grow up. "He probably had a very good reason for hitting you, you stupid girl," she would have said.

Earlier this evening, she heard her brother leave the house. She hopes he will not return for a while.

She hears a noise downstairs. The familiar sound of the back door slamming. The creaky of the stairs, the sound of heavy footsteps. They reach the landing, and then stop. The girl holds her breath.
The footsteps are coming her way. She can almost guess what is coming next. She slides into bed and pulls the covers around her.
She doesn't turn out the light.

A few moments later, her door swings open.

She swallows hard.

" 'Choo doing up this late, Squirt?" Her brother's voice is loud and slurred. 
She hopes her mother will hear, and come running.
No such luck.

"What's it to you?" she says.

"You shouldn't be up this late." His voice is still barely audible.

"Neither should you."

Suddenly the boy's expression changes. All of a sudden he looks a bit more sober.

"You gonna tell Mum?"

"I should," the girl says flatly.
The boy laughs. Clumsily, he picks up a piece of science project from the floor. He sways slightly as he stands up again.

"Unless you want me to do this again, you'll keep your trap shut, y'hear?"
The girl says nothing. She's not quite sure what to say.

"I said, y'hear?!" And he steps right up to her bed, towers above her. Like a big, threatening, mindless beast.

"I won't tell Mum," the girl says.

"I don't believe you, y'little shit." He takes the skin on her arm between his finger and thuimb and squeezes hard.

"Y'wanna say that again, just so we can be sure?" There's threat in his voice.

"I promise I won't tell Mum." The girl's eyes are watering as she almost squeaks the words.
The boy sneers. "Good." Roughly he lets go of the girl's arm. "Here, have your dumb science project back." And he screws up the scrap of paper and throws it at her. It hits her in the eye.

The boy is just about to turn and leave, when he says, "Oh yeah, and have this, just to match the other side."
He smiles cruelly, raises his fist.
Throws a punch at the other side of the girl's face.
She falls backwards, her head hitting the cold wall behind her.

The boy blunders out of the room, swinging the door shut on his way.

Their mother has not even stirred.



Four.



A chill coarses through you. Your stomach turns over.
You look around, knowing that you're not going to see anything.

A pair of striking green eyes stares back into yours.

"No!" you shout, pull your arm away.
You blink, see a momentary swish of dark hair, and then she is gone.

"No! No no no!" You drop the piece of paper as if it hurts you.
In a flash of white that has disappeared too.

You turn away. You can't forget what you just saw, what you felt when you held that piece of paper.

And suddenly the thing that you thought you saw outside the living room earlier flickers through your mind. Fully-fledged terror seizes your whole body. You're too scared to move, too scared to stay still.
You don't want to stay here, but you're afraid of leaving. Too scared to turn around, too scared not to.

Your own fear has you rooted to the spot. Every part of your body is tensed, waiting for something unimaginably horrifying to pounce at any moment.

Your heart skips a beat as you hear a voice behind you.

"Thank you."
Cold, flat. Without emotion, without gratitude.

Still it rips right through you.



* * * * *


Breakfast time again.

Yesterday's breakfast could have been a year, or an hour ago, for all I know and care. Time somehow loses all meaning in this place. Between these walls it's an endless cycle of meals, therapy, pills, sleep, meals... The sky is light and then the sky is dark, but there is no night and day. There are no befores and no afters.

There is simply life. And it turns round and round and round, drives the sane insane and makes the rest so dizzy that the very idea of existence becomes obsolete.

I look at my slush. Eat a spoonful, then send the spoon clinking back into the bowl.
Drops of milk splash onto my jumper.



* * * * *


You suddenly realise how cold it is here. Your breath mists out in front of you. Still you cannot move.

“Go into the kitchen, Daniel.” The voice is back. It’s louder now, and it seems to echo around the hallway.

You look at the kitchen door. It is half-open. A light flickers on and off beyond it.

“Go, Daniel!” The voice is harsh, slicing through your numb body. You make your way towards the kitchen door, you heartbeat and pace quickening. You slip through the open door. The tiled floor is cold beneath your feet. You shiver.



* * * * *


I’m looking at my pills thoughtfully. I’m wondering whether I should throw them at a nurse.

I laugh away the idea. There really wouldn’t be any point in that. I consider walking out again, since no one really monitors me during Sweetie Time. But there really wouldn’t be any point in that either.

I’ve had my moment. I’ve had my glory. Tasted the fresh air, tasted momentary freedom. Felt the elation of victory, however short-lived.
But now I’m ready to make my peace with this place, with these people. I won’t talk to their therapists, I won’t take their pills, but I will stay here. I will serve my time.

I have something so much more powerful than pills.
I feel as if I could crush a life under my little finger. Like a sick board game where I’m in control. I’m the dice and I decide how many squares the counters move. At any moment I could snap the board shut, and end it all.


And it’s a hundred times better than Snakes and Ladders.



* * * * *
* * * * *


She watches the other children play and doesn’t want to join in. It’s lunchtime and they’re playing Snakes and Ladders like they do every day in the winter. She loves playing Snakes and Ladders with her friends, because she always wins. She always was good at board games.

But today she doesn’t think they will want her to play with them. Her face is a colourful assortment of bruises. There’s a cut underneath her left eye. She remembers the way they looked at her when she came into school this morning. The way they turned their eyes hastily away and avoided saying hello to her. They’re completely ignoring her now, too. Knowing she won’t be invited to join in their game, she goes into the toilets.

She stands in front of the mirror and looks at her face. Both her eyes are horrid and black. She’s never thought herself pretty, but now she can barely face her reflection.

She turns away. Goes into a cubicle, slams the lock across. Sits on the toilet seat and pulls at her hair. Tears are welling up in her eyes. She buries her swollen face in her hands.

She cries for a very long time. She doesn’t know how long she is in that cubicle for. As the tears die down she suddenly notices that all the noise outside in the classroom has gone. She realises with a stab of horror that Miss Weatherly is already in the classroom, taking the afternoon register.

And then she remembers about the science project. It is supposed to be handed in this afternoon. She thinks of it sitting on her desk, in goodness knows how many pieces. The tears threaten to overcome her again.

No. She can’t let that happen. She may as well go out and face Miss Weatherly. Plucking up all her courage and drying her tears on her sleeve, she leaves the cubicle, walks out of the toilets.
The door shuts silently behind her, but that doesn’t stop her being noticed. Heads turn and whispers travel in disjointed waves. Some girls giggle behind their hands.

“Beth,” says Miss Weatherly. Her voice is soft, not angry. “We’ve already taken the register.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Weatherly.” 


* * *


It’s early evening and the sky is already dark. Rain hammers loudly on the windows, muffling the sound of the crying girl on the bed. She feels as if her whole world has crashed down around her. And all because of a stupid science project.

But it had meant the world to her. She always wanted to do well in school, and it hurt so much inside her when she had to tell Miss Weatherly that she didn’t have it, and Miss Weatherly looked at her disappointedly and said, “That’s not like you, Elizabeth. Where is it then?” And she wanted to scream that her brother ripped it up, and that she hated him and thought him a horrid boy, but instead she just said dejectedly that she had lost it. And Miss Weatherly asked her how on earth could she have lost it and she said she didn’t know she just lost it, and Miss Weatherly said look again for me, dear, and she said she would.

She doesn’t know what she will do on Monday, when Miss Weatherly asks for it again.

But for now, she has the once monthly visit from Grandma to think about on top of that. She always dreads her grandma’s visit, for although her grandmother is kind and always buys her nice things, the times they spend together have never been very pleasant. Grandma is her mother’s mother, but they do not get on, and Grandma only comes to see her and her brother. Her brother always stays locked in his room for the entirety of most of the visits anyway.
The visits are usually spent sitting in an awkward silence, with the ginger biscuits untouched on the coffee table, and the coffee turning stone cold, and Grandma and Mum eying each other with disgust. They used to play games; Beth’s grandmother was the one who taught her to play games so well. But Beth’s mother no longer approves of her playing “childish games” with her Grandma. “You’re not five anymore,” she says.


She’d so much prefer playing “childish games” to being a bitter old woman like her mother.



* * * * *


I turned 17 last week.
I knew that because it said so on the cake. They sang Happy Birthday to me and I blew out the candles.
Not that they were lit in the first place.
Then I watched them eat the cake as I sat on the floor, saying I wasn’t hungry, even though my guts ached with hunger. I thought about my birthday cake and the numbers on it, and wondered how on earth I could be seventeen already. Or why on earth I was still only seventeen.
I remember being fifteen years old. I remember that horrific day when… No, I won’t think about it. I’m seventeen years and nineteen days old. That was then and this is now. At least that’s what I like to pretend.

Not that it’s really like that at all. That terrible week could have been two weeks ago. This place doesn’t let time move on. We’re all just stuck in the last moments of our normal lives, half-heartedly wishing we could turn back time and do something different. Or maybe just wishing it had worked, or that we had never been born.
Life doesn’t make sense here.

There isn’t much hope that it ever will, either.


 


(to be continued..)