Neurotica

by Cameron A. Straughan

Lying in bed, wrapped tightly for warmth, surrounded by darkness, he felt the great comfort associated with familiar surroundings. Nothing was out of place and the routine was the same every night. Any change would only make sleep more difficult.

  As usual, his thoughts turned to her. They were vivid enough to supply additional comfort, but somehow tangible enough to drive sleep further away. This quality caught him off-guard. He thought he was imagining it, but it was far too obvious and growing stronger and stronger. He lifted his head from the pillow, sniffing several times. It was definitely perfume. His nose turned slowly towards the source. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, he vaguely made out the pattern: red and white polka-dots seated in his chair, just three feet from where he lay.

  He could see her quite clearly now. She had dark wavy hair, not quite shoulder length. However, since she was facing the other way, he could not identify her. She seemed to be nodding her head, but he did not know why. It was as if she was carrying on a conversation with someone. He lifted his head higher, still wrapped tightly in the sheets. Shaking his head, he questioned his state of mind. Was he mistaken? No, it rose up again from the darkness. He strained to hear. It was definitely a man's voice, slowly becoming more audible, as if approaching from a far corner. Squinting, hoping his other senses would confirm what he heard, he saw a faint image. Was he seeing things? Considering his state of mind - exhausted, expecting sleep, senses strained - it could have been what he wanted to see. Yet, it did look like a man before her, fading in and out of view, as he paced back and forth in the darkness.

  Who was this stranger in his bedroom? He felt violated - threatened. What was the connection between the stranger and the girl?

  All thoughts quickly turned away. The movement of his bed distracted him. An antique, it was prone to creaking at the slightest movement; he had grown accustomed to it long ago. It had been jiggling for quite some time, but now it seemed someone was trying to push the bed across the floor. The legs were scrapping the tiling. Turning, he saw several solemn faces seated in chairs alongside the bed. With their backs against the wall, and the metal frame pressed to their legs, they were unable to tolerate the cramped conditions. In a group effort, they pushed him further away, as they saw fit. This allowed for more leg room, but such shenanigans made it impossible for him to pay attention, let alone sleep. Angered, he studied their faces. His eyes became accustomed - slowly, as if a dimmer switch was turning on. They all looked so weary, and unsympathetic to the fact he was trying to sleep. It was as if they were directing their anger and frustration directly at him, when it should be the other way around. They had made the intrusion on him, at such an hour; it was his room and he had every right to be upset.

  Dazed, confused, and tired, he really didn't know what to do. Slowly, he turned away from the people seated alongside the bed. The scent of perfume still floated over him, but the girl’s identity remained a complete mystery. Looking towards her, he realized his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him after all. A tall man in a gray suit was standing before her, nodding as she spoke faintly. The man looked down at him with contempt. This late night visitation stirred his curiosity. He threw back the covers, intending to set the matter straight. But he no longer felt comfortable. Lying there, exposed, his surroundings seemed strange to him.

  As the illumination within the room grew and grew, he saw guards, railings, chairs, desks, and benches. None of this was right. Where was his furniture? What happened to his personal belongings? Stranger still, his room wasn't that large. When the darkness completely receded, he realized he was before a judge, seated high atop the bench, with the jurors pressed in behind his bed. Now it was obvious: the girl was on trial before him, for some unknown reason. His curiosity reached an apex. What was her crime? How would it affect him?

  “So kind of you to finally join us,” the tall man in the gray suit said, turning away from the girl, “We apologize if we've inconvenienced you, but maybe now you'll cooperate and let justice run its course. How do you plead?”

  “What was that?” he rubbed his eyes.

  “These are very serious allegations!” the man raised his voice, shaking a finger at him. “How do you plead? Haven't you been paying attention?”

  “How is this possible?” he thought aloud, scratching his head. The realization was almost too much for him. He was the one being tried, not the girl, and the tall man in the gray suit was the prosecutor.

  “Your honour,” the prosecutor approached the judge, “this is representative of the neglect and ignorance which my client has complained of. We want to make sure that this point is taken into account and included in the records.”

  “Request granted,” the judge nodded. “Let it be known that the defendant has once again conspired against the plaintiff. Approach the bench,” the judge motioned for him to step forward. “It is necessary to brief him, under the circumstances; he's missed the opening arguments.”

  Still lying in bed, he looked dumbly on, only seeing the girl’s back and the prosecutor's cold, probing stare. Behind him, the jurors appeared equally unsympathetic.

  “Approach the bench or a bailiff will escort you!” the judge roared.

  “For once in your life, cooperate!” the prosecutor snarled, crossing his arms.

  He got up and slowly approached the bench. The tiling was cold on his bare feet and his pyjamas provided little protection against the cool breezes generated by the ceiling fans. He paused, turning to see the girl. She looked down. He shook his head. For the life of him, he did not recognize her, or have the faintest idea who she was.

  “Keep going,” the prosecutor prodded him, motioning towards the bench.

  In front of the bench, he tried to establish an impression of complete innocence, coupled with inability to stand trial. Accordingly, he rubbed his eyes again - thoroughly - and threw in some yawning for good measure. He even tried a bit of stumbling, as if dizzy or stunned. Unfortunately, all his efforts were popular tricks children play on parents, so no one seemed to buy them.

  “Since you are unaware of the charges being brought against you,” the judge began, “I will request that the court recorder read them back to you.”

  “But this is ridiculous,” he shrugged, reaching under his pyjamas to scratch his shoulder. “What significance can this have when I don't even know her - the so called plaintiff?”

  The prosecutor shook his head and smiled. The girl broke into tears and the jurors broke into fits of mumbling.

  “Silence!” the judge brought down his gavel. “This courtroom must be orderly and the defendant will remain silent until he has heard the charges against him.”

  “But how can there be charges from a woman I've never met?” he glanced at the girl, her face hidden, still staring at the floor. “And moreover, what’s more innocent than a man standing before a court in his pyjamas? I demand an explanation of all this. I'm expected at work tomorrow morning and I need my rest.”

  “Silence!” the judge brought the gavel down repeatedly. “You'll get your explanation in the form of a long list of charges against you, which may include contempt of court, if you persist with interrupting the proceedings.”

  The judge motioned to the recorder.

  “The plaintiff,” the recorder read from her notes, “who is too embarrassed to be identified, has charged the defendant, the man in the pyjamas, with several accounts of not returning phone calls, two accounts of broken dinner arrangements, one account of refusing to meet parents, and multiple accounts of general ignorance and indifference. The prosecution is calling for a life sentence, beginning with engagement and a three week honeymoon in New Zealand.”

  “How do you plead?” the judge looked down at him.

  The jury stirred.

  “This is insane,” he shook his head.

  “Answer the question,” the judge fumed. “How do you plead to the charges you've just heard?”

  “But I tell you,” he insisted, “I don't even know her; I've had only the most
general inkling she ever existed until now.”

  “Your honour,” the prosecutor stepped forward, “we have a hostile defendant!”

  The jury became quite agitated. Some of them stood up and hissed.

  “Order! Order!” the judge banged his gavel, until he was red in the face. “No more outbreaks or I'll clear the court! Now, I could have the bailiff cart you out of here right now,” he leaned over his bench, pointing a finger down at the defendant. “How do you plead?”

  “Well, where's my lawyer?” he shrugged. “I mean, everything seems to be up and running, except for the most important detail - my defence!”

  “Your lawyer was here an hour ago,” the prosecutor began. “But seeing that you were asleep, he refused to wait and left. Now answer the judge: how do you plead? Another delay and I'll see that ...”

  “NOT GUILTY!”

  The courtroom itself seemed to gasp. Jurors jumped up from their chairs. The judge banged his gavel and the bailiff rushed over to maintain order. Was it the late hour that got the jury so riled?

  “How can I be anything but not guilty?” he hollered above the commotion. “I defy her to look me in the eye and tell me that she knows me!”

  “You stay away from my client!” the prosecutor leaped in front of her. “Your honour, I recommend he be restrained.”

  “What possible threat can a man in his pyjamas pose?” he argued, looking towards the judge. “I have no weapons or bad intentions towards anyone.”

  “I don't want to hear about it,” the prosecutor waved his hand, shaking his head. “I think you're disgusting. Look, you've made her cry again. How can someone be so insensitive?”

  The jurors were in a rage. The bailiff drew his gun and waved it above their heads. Only then did they calm down.

  “Your honour,” the prosecutor approached the bench, “I'm afraid I must insist that the bailiff restrain the defendant. He should not be allowed to roam the courtroom freely.”

  “Request denied” the judge shook his head. “It's his bedroom; besides, he can't go far in his pyjamas. Let's get on with it, shall we? Are you prepared to give your defending statements?”

  “I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” he sighed, glancing around the courtroom, “given the circumstances.”

  “Proceed.”

  He paced in front of the jurors, trying to look as professional as he could, considering he was in his pyjamas. The pyjamas were a loose fit, so he had to keep pulling them up. But he wasn't about to let that get in his way.

  “As I have said already,” he began, “I do not know this woman. I do not know why she has charged me, but I am sure she is a good person who means no harm. The fact that she cannot look me in the face proves beyond a doubt she doesn't know me and her claims are false.”

  “Objection, your honour,” the prosecutor interjected. “My client will not look him in the face because she ... because she is thinking about what kind of carpeting she would like best.”

  “Objection over-ruled,” the judge sighed. “It's ridiculous and unprofessional to assume you can read your client's mind.”

  “But she is about to get married,” the prosecutor motioned to her, “and carpeting is important.”

  “Very well,” the judge sat back, “if you must persist along these lines. Miss, are you really thinking about carpeting?”

  She did not answer, aside from sobbing lightly, nor did she look up from the floor.

  “Obviously your client is being equally difficult,” the judge crossed his arms. “Objection is still over ruled. The defendant may continue.”

  “Thank you, your honour,” he nodded, eager to continue. “I think everyone here will agree that this is a complete embarrassment to me and the young lady before me. Accusations have been brought to light that have no merit whatsoever. How they came about, I don't know. But I can hardly be found guilty for not calling a person I don't even know. And while I admit that I had the faintest inkling she did exist, I cannot be found guilty of being ignorant or malicious under such circumstances. There just isn't any tangible evidence to convict me. I only hope the jury will understand the confusion and embarrassment I am suffering, and no doubt the young lady feels the same. I plead that the charges be dropped altogether.”

  “How can you stand there and say you had the faintest inkling that I exist!” she suddenly burst, looking up from the floor. “I am real and I am right here!”

  The prosecutor comforted her. She left a courtroom full of damning silence in her wake.

  “You stay back!” the prosecutor warned him, even though he remained perfectly motionless. “Haven't you done enough damage? Have you no shame? Your honour, surely it is apparent that the defendant must explain this inkling he had regarding my client's existence. I think he knows her all too well, and I am hereby charging him with contempt of court!”

  “How do you plead to this new charge,” the judge glared down at him.

  He didn't know what to say, with this new development. But he couldn't help thinking that the entire case, and the courtroom itself, was highly unorganized, because they had yet to ask him to take an oath. Regardless, he answered honestly.

  “I admit that I know her, but only under the vaguest circumstances imaginable.”

  “Explain yourself,” the prosecutor demanded.

  “I have thought of her,” he hesitated, “or at least I think it was her, because I can never be sure whether she's really there or not. Under these circumstances, however, there was never any agreement regarding telephone calls, dinner arrangements, or visiting parents, because no real relationship existed, nor could it exist. If anything, it isn't me that's being put under trial, but my thoughts.”

  The jury became puzzled. Their quiet mumbling and curious looks were testament to that.

  “I admire your attempt at confusing this court,” the prosecutor laughed; “at this late hour, it seems highly possible. But you won't get off that easily. The sword of justice is clean and cuts a neatly defined path. Your thoughts dictate your actions, and the young lady seated, crying before you, is obviously very real. You are guilty on all charges and I demand that you be sentenced accordingly!”

  Opinion was not in his favour. The jury nodded and the judge glared down at him. Even the bailiff shook his head, as if to say the defence was futile.

  “Your honour,” he took a deep breath, looking down at his feet, “may I approach the bench?”

  “You may.”

  The prosecutor followed him forward.

  “Your honour,” he began nervously, “under the circumstances, without my lawyer present and wishing to get this over with, I'm willing to plea bargain.”

  “Go ahead,” the judge nodded.

  There was a brief pause, before he had collected himself enough to speak.

  “I'm willing to plead guilty to the lesser charges of ignorance and indifference, providing that I be sentenced to dinner and a movie.”

  “Unacceptable,” the prosecutor shook his head. “Look at her over there! Look at the state she's in! I've got the jury on my side and I could convict on a lot more than that!”

  “What are your new terms?” the judge asked the prosecutor.

  “We want dinner and a movie as starters,” the prosecutor answered, “followed by six months of long walks, visits to the cottage, and possibly some theatre thrown in for good measure. Also, I recommend that the accused be placed under probation for six months, so he can't meet any other women.”

  “What kind of a person do you think I am?” he cried. “Do you really think I go chasing after women? I haven't dated in over five months and now I'm beginning to realize why! And I don't like the theatre!”

  “Comments like that will get you into court time and time again,” the judge warned him. “You've heard the reduced sentence, do you accept it?”

  “I don't know,” he rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “You've caught me at a bad time. I'm tired and I can't recall what I have planned for the next few months
. I don't have my day planner with me.”

  “Do you accept the reduced sentence?” the judge leaned over the bench.

  “It's best that you do,” the prosecutor crossed his arms.

  “Oh, all right,” he threw his arms up. “I just want to get back to bed.”

  The judge informed the jury that a decision had been made without the need for their verdict. This angered a lot of them, considering the hours they had to keep and the cramped conditions within the room. As the courtroom cleared, the bailiff led him back to bed and tucked him in.

  “You should consider yourself lucky,” the bailiff patted him on the head; “she's very attractive.”

  “Yes, she is,” he sighed. “What time do you have there?”

  “3:00 am.”

  “And I have to work tomorrow,” he turned his head, closing his eyes.

  He thought briefly of good restaurants and films. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. She was very attractive, and she used such a creative way of getting his attention. He actually became optimistic about his sentence. It filled him with a certain comfort, allowing him to relax, despite it all. Drifting off, almost dreaming, he suddenly jerked back the covers and stood up. He forgot to get her phone number.

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