by Brock, V. L.
“I go away on a business trip to land a contract so I can buy my girlfriend clothes, cosmetics, make sure she has a nice house, and extravagant meals,” by this time, he was on the opposite side of the island, mimicking my pose, yet, a contrasted mirror image––him angry, me desolate. “And I don’t even get a ‘welcome home, Liam’, or ‘Do you want a coffee, Liam’. Even better, ‘I have made you dinner, Liam’,” he hissed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His former words fell on deaf ears as I lifted my rapt stare from the handset and studied the man who was more like a stranger. His dusky blue shirt was undone at the collar, the spider’s web pulsing on the left side of his neck. A hand was removed from the wooden edge, only to be raked back through his brown hair, making it slick back before falling to the side. “Why didn’t you tell me about the phone calls? Why didn’t you tell me about the voicemails?”
I swear I saw the mist from his harsh outbreath leave his nostrils. Brow crumpled he muttered, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“My nan, Liam. Why didn’t you tell me?” My jaw was working at a million miles an hour as I dragged the words out through clenched teeth. The fury I felt in those few minutes were nothing in comparison, to how I felt that morning I accused him doing something with Liv. A stranger could have sensed that this was the calm before the storm. Pearl Harbor was about to be rivaled.
He shook his head with a dumbfounded look, which only served to stir my anger more so. “What about your nan?” He was doing a damn good job at keeping up his pretense that was for sure, nevertheless, all it did was outrage me more.
“This,” I held the handset up in my right hand. Pressing the little green button, I pulled up my voicemail and pressed call before handing it to the idiot opposite me.
Time always has a way to mock you when you try to make a point. But it was when Liam drew the handset from his right ear, looked down at it, then at me and said with a snigger, “There’s nothing there, Kady,” that time froze completely.
“What?” I glowered, my finger lifting to point at the piece of tech in his possession. “There is a voicemail from my mother on there, saying about all the messages she left, that my Nan was sick and I missed my chance to say goodbye, and that the funeral is next Thursday. I didn’t get any of those calls or messages, Liam. Now stop lying to me!” I shouted, the island taking the brunt end of my rage as I thumped the underside of my clenched fist upon its surface.
“Kady,” he freed an incredulous chuckle, which was shadowed by an even more incredulous grin as his mouth quirked. “There is nothing in this voicemail box. Here,”––the phone was handed back to me over the island––“if you don’t believe me, listen to it yourself.”
Not so steady hands reached out to seize his offering. Glaring at him with my heart threatening to explode from my chest, I redialed my mailbox and listened carefully to the robotic-like voice sounding down the speaker.
“You have no new messages…main menu, to listen to your messages, press one…”
I pressed one.
“You have no new messages…main menu, to listen to your messages, press one…”
I pressed one again and again only to have the same message relayed. I pulled it from my ear, giving it a little shake. I don’t know why, but it seemed like the right thing to do, shake some sense into it or something, I don’t know, but when I lifted it to my ear again, and pressed that damn button once more, the same message was communicated.
My frantic state on the opposing side of the kitchen was studied by Liam with an imperiling, sanctimonious smirk plastered across his face.
His expression alone spoke volumes. It revealed a notion, an act so devious I couldn’t comprehend. My heart ceased in its cavity, my veins were chilled from the ice streaming through them. He had just fucking deleted it…
“No…no, no, no,” I muttered, flailing my head. My hands were shaking, while internally, I felt every organ, every nerve tense and jitter. I knew there was a message on that thing. I listened to it myself last night, and five times during the prior four hours before Liam’s return. It was on there. It was definitely there.
I was seething. The icy blood in my veins thawed and boiled as anger stewed deep in my bones. Erratic pants were clouded by my panic, my frustrations and despair. Seeing Liam’s face carve into a blood-curdling sneer wasn’t helping.
I was breathing, I could feel my lungs filling to capacity, yet my chest wasn’t registering any air which had passed, allowing the lingering stifling sensation to sit and brew in my chest. Muffled ringing in my ears caused everything to fall away. I was dreaming. I had to be. No, not a dream, this was nothing but a nightmare, a nightmare which I could wake from, if I did something to shock myself out of it.
Dazed and provoked, I scanned the room in utter desperation; Liam’s voice was nothing but a distant hum. I don’t know why, but once again instinct took over, and I pulled one of the drawers open hastily and retrieved one of the steak knives, one that had a jagged, shiny blade. The cold wooden handle took its place between my fingers as I concentrated profusely on shocking myself enough to wake myself from this terror. Swiping against the bronzed flesh of the upper inside of my left arm, the serrated edge burned prompting a gasp to be wrenched from my throat. The warmth and trickling of the velvet, crimson fluid down my arm, was followed by another sharp slice, which brought my tears into full flow.
This had to be a dream, because Liam merely stood observing me in my hysteria. If the last incident he witnessed was anything to go by, then he wouldn’t just stand there watching, that I knew.
After the sweeping of the fourth slash and salted tears robbed me of my vision, I came to realize, I wasn’t dreaming. Lines had been crossed, deceitful, conniving lines which no human in possession of empathy and compassion would cross. Nothing was going to wake me up from this, and the part of me that accepted that knowledge, just wanted to take the knife I held in my hand and slice right into the pale blue pipe running up my wrist, and drag it upward. That was the same sorrowful part of Kady Jenson, which just wanted to watch the emotions, the anger, frustration, grief, and confusion bleed out of her in the fusion of liquid rage.
When I eventually stopped, I wailed in my desperation.
“Kady,” I was pulled back by Liam’s velvet, husky voice drawing out my name. He held out his hand, “Give me the knife, baby,” he requested as though talking to a child with a razor blade, while utmost concern and love veiled his tone.
Deadened and crushed, I inertly handed him the blade, feeling my lips wither with every conflicted, chaotic gasp that passed them. When the wooden handle was clasped in his right hand, a shudder paved its way up my spine and down my legs as I saw his features, which were concerned and cautious only a breath ago, now hardened with a demonic mask. The left corner of his mouth lifted in an evil sneer, his green and blue speckled eyes hardened in a fashion that dared to be challenged with.
“No, no, no, Liam, don’t––” I yelled out, but it was too late. The cutting edge of the knife was pressed into his left palm as he closed his fingers around the steel and sliced downwards. Blood instantly flowed from the incision to trickle and pool on the flooring, while the knife fell from his grasp and clattered to its fate.
“Kady,” he sighed with his hand open, offering an unobstructed sight of the wound. “Look what you did.”
Huh? “Wh–what, I did? Liam, I di––”
“I was only trying to help you, Kady,” his brow crumpled in his desolation, his eyes watering. “Why would you run at me like that?”
“Ru–run, I…I, didn’t do anyth––” I couldn’t string a sentence together if I tried. My jaw unceasingly dropped open like it was no longer attached to my body. During the spell of flailing my head as I strove to recall exactly what had transpired, my chest heaved. All the while as I attempted to make heads and tails of the situation, my lips were twitching.
“Kady, you’re sick. I want to help you, but this is twice you’ve attacked m
e.”
“T–twice? Atta––?” Was I missing something? I frantically perused the area as I filtered through my memory bank, striving to seek and add together these disremembered moments. But it was nothing but a cold, blank canvas.
“You’re a self-harmer, Kady baby. But you’re not only a danger to yourself anymore; you’re a danger to others…you’re a danger to me.”
“No…no…no…no…I haven’t gone for you Liam. I would never attack you. I know that message was on my phone, and––”
“Kady, you heard it yourself. There is nothing on that phone. And you just struck me because of it.” Even though his calm, collected and convincing voice traveled to my ears, my brain was frantically absorbing the words he spoke, while I untiringly hunted for the missing acts he was referring to, but the void was just that…a void.
“You’re delusional, Kady. I can’t ignore this anymore. You need actual, psychiatric help.”
Did I? I didn’t think I did, but then again, how would I know if I did? Was I blacking out? A nauseating sphere of remorse and turmoil sat and spread through my body as I peeked down at the laceration in the center of Liam’s palm.
“Liam, I…”
“I’m sorry.” He took me in his arms, held my head against his chest and softly swayed us both, his shirt damp with my tears. “You’ve been under so much stress lately. It shouldn’t have gotten this out of hand. But we’ll get you better, baby.” He planted a kiss on my head, and I swore I heard the smile in his voice as he added, “I’ll get you the best treatment and medication that money can buy.”
Three hours later, I was sitting in a ball in the corner of the living room feeling like a fragile little girl in a complete catatonic daze, while Liam and the emergency shrink sat on the couch along the way.
“So, how long as she been like this, Mr. DeLaney.”
“It’s been a few months.” He sounded like he was underwater, or I was underwater. Fuck, was I even here, or was I in a bath with my head submerged listening to him talking to me on a normal day? “She began self-harming but after a while, she began acting almost… delusional.”
“You say delusional, what do you mean exactly? Could you give me some examples?”
“Nearly two weeks ago, I surprised her with breakfast in bed…”
I listened to the muffled voices, my eyes incapable of crying anymore tears. Heat coursed through the back of my left hand as my nails grated at the flesh over my knuckles, burrowing deeply as if to remove the thing that was causing me to act this way, and bring harm to those I loved.
“She woke up convinced that she heard me and her friend talking on the phone early hours in the morning, and accused me of sleeping with her.”
“And you hadn’t been––”
“Of course not. I was having a business call. Even so, I’d never stoop that low. I wouldn’t like it if she did it to me. Anyway, the next thing I know, the tray with hot food and coffee was hurled at my head. It’s lucky I’m a fast mover.”
“And today?”
Watching the flesh of my left hand scoured by my nails, I found the changing in color, the light bronzed glow of my skin, turning white with pressure then red with burning irritation, somewhat hypnotic. I continued focusing on the mass of distant, clouded voices.
Liam sniggered. “Her grandmother has recently passed, and she just lost it. She was convinced that there was some message on her phone, when I listened, the voicemail was empty, and she flipped. She started cutting herself and when I struggled to get the knife from her, she turned on me. I held my hands up to protect myself, but it was no use. It could have been my eye she had out.”
I hung my head while relics of tears I didn’t know existed, seeped from my eyes. Was that really what happened? How come I don’t remember any of this? For God sake what is wrong with me? My God, Liam, I am so, so sorry.
“Mr. DeLaney, we all deal with grief in our own personal ways. Obviously, this is Kady’s way, and denial plays a big part in the eventual form of acceptance. Considering she has suffered…umm…unstable moments, I think it would be best, not only for her own safety, but for the individuals who she groups with, if we take her in short term for assessment. We can begin a course and observe her reactions with medication that will help relieve the tension and stable her a little. Does that sound okay with you?”
I sat in that ball, my knees pulled up against my body wanting to protest with every remaining bit of strength and perseverance that I had. Nonetheless, the voice of justification and denial told me that I had no right. It told me that this has gone too far, and that Liam was right: I did need help. Next time it could be worse.
“Yes, please, do whatever needs to be done to make her better. I’m just sorry I didn’t notice the warning signs sooner. All of this could have been avoided.”
“Mr. DeLaney, you can’t post blame on yourself, you’re getting her the help she needs now. That’s the important thing. Do you want to press charges?”
Charges? Oh, God…oh, God…
“No, that’s not necessary,” he muttered, and I found myself releasing the breath I had stored in my lungs at the mere noting of that question.
Lost in oblivion with the fiery overlay plastered to my left hand, I was pulled from my ball in the corner of the living room, and escorted out of the house, down the steps, to the sidewalk.
“Can I just say goodbye to her?” Liam asked the male shrink who must have nodded, because I was soon swallowed up in Liam’s arms, his mouth an inch from the hollow on my ear. My body shuddered at the absence of concern in his voice, which was only to be replaced with haughtiness and a somewhat scathing tone, “There’s no point in demanding that you’re not crazy. They won’t listen. All the crazy people say that they’re not.”
Feeling dead, his arms fell from around my mentally fragile body before I was folded in the car. The seatbelt was drawn across my body by the shrink while I remained motionless, totally inert, just focusing on the grating of flesh, as we pulled away from the sidewalk.
I’m not crazy…I’m not crazy…I’m not crazy…my mantra was repeated after every tree we passed along the tree lined streets.
Eventually, I sank back into the seat and rested my head against the window to my right as we journeyed to Pinewood Institute.
Who was I kidding, Liam was right: all the crazy people say that they’re not.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Days in Pinewood Institute were like reading the instructions of a shampoo bottle. Lather…rinse…repeat. Although, this was more of a: wake up. Have your pills. Have your breakfast. Sit in the dayroom. Wait for your appointment. Get summoned by the orderlies for your appointment. Talk to the shrink or in my case, sit and stare into oblivion, it’s easier that way. Nothing can be misconstrued. Words can’t get put into your mouth, and at least you remember not saying a word. Go back to the dayroom. Have your food. Take your pills. Go to bed, and repeat.
The first two days I was less than compliant. I never needed to take medication in my life, not for mental illness anyway. Mental illness…those words are like an ugly brand, a brand that divides you from the world of people. It makes you feel alien. Yet, you can walk down the street and bump into someone; you don’t know whether they’ve had a breakdown, suffered depression, acute anxiety, bipolar…delusions. I sniggered to myself, delusional…if I was on the street now and bumped into someone, I think my entire day would consist of questioning if it actually happened.
Was Liam right? Was I in fact delusional? A fixed false belief that is resistant to reason or confrontation with actual fact…he said I attacked him. He said I was the one who cut him.
For the days in which I was a patient of Pinewood, I fixated on how I felt and the events that occurred which led to that dreadful confrontation. Everything was like a dream. I was in a dream, a nightmare––a trancelike state. I remembered back to when I was seven. I had a dream where I was running, running so fast my feet would barely touch the floor, and before I knew it, I
was jumping like The Incredible Hulk all over the place. When I woke the following morning, I attempted it. Because sometimes, to realize that it was only an act of a dream, you need cold, hard evidence.
Maybe the same thing happened with Liam and me. Maybe I did attack him but dreamed I didn’t. I had to take the three inch laceration on his palm as my cold, hard evidence.
I did attack him.
I was delusional.
Despite the fact I loathed being kept prisoner by four stark white walls and the black and white checkered tiling beneath my feet, and only the sounds of mumbling and the occasional obscenity being shouted out, I was thankful to Liam for one thing: he sought the help I obviously needed, but couldn’t appreciate that I needed. It could’ve been so much worse. Liam could’ve been in the hospital, and I could have been in jail with a criminal record for assault…or even worse.
Sitting in stark white pajamas, I gazed out the window of the dayroom, silently studying a flower swaying in the breeze. Because of the strictness of daily routines, the days were vague and indistinct as they blurred into one, and I was heedless of the significance of the day…until I peeked up at the clock above the dayroom entranceway, ‘THUR’ displayed above the clock face.
I turned back to the window. The only evidence of the spring breeze was the movement of the single flower amongst the fresh, plump grass shoots of the garden.
Tears threatened, burning the bridge of my nose and my right hand unconsciously came to meet my left as it rested on the windowpane. Mining my nails into the skin, I pulled so tightly, so ferociously, I swore I felt a familiar warm liquid oozing from the indentations beneath them. A part of me hoped I did.
Only two thoughts brought me comfort in my state of despair. That breeze was my Nan’s spirit. She was watching over me, keeping me company, helping me tap into a hidden strength, and not leaving me alone in the scary surroundings like Liam had. And the fact that Walker had requested to see me.