Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  Air tightens around me and for a terrifying moment, and I feel the snake has returned. Then I realise it’s my emotion. Desperate. Well, that’s certainly how I feel here. I glance over at Bertie. He doesn’t look desperate. There’s a sadness. He can’t be lonely. He’s got me. And he talks to the orderlies.

  One of my therapists would try and get me to list words that are related. She would start off by saying a word, one that was innocent, maybe one with not a lot of meaning. Then she’d get me to say as many words as I could which came to mind once she’d said her word. I hated doing that game. I would think really hard so when she’d say a word, I would say everything that wasn’t coming to mind or basically random shit.

  One day she said swimming. I replied floating. Fish. Mermaids. Sparkles. Fun. Pretty sure she was expecting sinking, drowning, lost. They were words I could’ve said. I refused to say them aloud. I didn’t want her help. I was forced to come along. Then she would scribble the words down, and we would try another word. Space. Nothing. Planets. Dr Who. Stars. Beauty. I never said the word darkness. What was in me wasn’t like the night sky. I wouldn’t say the words that were there in the centre of my mind. It always came back to darkness. I feel that’s like what I’m doing now. But this time I keep coming back to the word desperate. I never thought of myself as desperate. I don’t like the word with its nine letters when it sits uncomfortably in my mind, on my tongue and lingers like a sour lemon.

  The knots form tighter within me. Like the knots grandma would tie when she was crocheting. She tried to teach me but I didn’t want to learn. It was more than that. I had no interest in anything like that. I didn’t want to create. I wanted to destroy. That was more in line with the fogginess in my mind and the darkness that was building in there. At least she never pressed the subject with me, and would simply let me sit there with her. She knew when not to pressure me.

  Unlike Mum and Dad. Then they had their own therapy, which helped, but they would fall back into old habits. I know it was hard for them and I don’t blame them. Having a child like me would not have been easy. Being me isn’t easy. And I’m not even fucking green. Who would’ve thought black would be a tougher colour to deal with. Though, come to think about it, the darkness started coming into my mind through the openings. It was green. Bright green, then it darkened as it thickened until it became black. Don’t think there’s something in that. I’m just avoiding thinking of what I really should be thinking about.

  How the fuck to get out of here?

  First, how do I help Bertie? If there’s desperateness within him, in that depth in his eyes that I’ve seen there, then he needs help. Though, I have no idea how the hell I’m going to do that. For once, I get an insight into how Mum and Dad would’ve felt when dealing with me. My chest tightens. I wish I’d never put them through what I did. But of course, it wasn’t as if I could turn off the darkness like a tap. If I could, I would’ve.

  Getting to this point of thinking makes me realise how bad Frank was. He was like a zombie in my mind eating away at my neurones so I couldn’t think properly. He was also a vampire sucking my blood and making me tired. Worse than that. He pretended to be someone I could trust. It’s good not to have this internal battle. What’s not so good, is that I’m still stuck in this room, and I don’t know if I’ll make it to hell, pretty sure Paul isn’t going to let me through the pearly gates of heaven. Someone like me doesn’t go that way.

  Then, I remember, there’s something in the bible about suicides going to a special place. Is that where I am? Maybe they double us up with the living, back in some other time as part of a cruel joke. It really makes no sense, other than I’m here because of the Law of Attraction. But then that means Bertie can’t be here for trying to kill himself. That’s ridiculous. There must be something else.

  For a moment I think maybe I do need Frank back. This circular thinking is going to send me off the edge, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

  I glance over at Bertie. His breathing has changed.

  ‘You awake?’ I ask hopefully. Talking is a good way to stop this sort of crazy thinking. Find someone you trust and talk to them, I’m sure somebody has given me that advice before. Probably Tanya in one of our many sessions over the years. Plus, I need to talk to Bertie. It’s the only way I’m going to have a chance of finding out more about him. If my hands were real flesh and blood, they would be sweating. I’ve never tried to find anything about anyone ever before in my life.

  I don’t know if I’m up for it.

  ‘Bertie?’

  I don’t think he’s asleep he’s just resting his eyes. He keeps them closed.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he says reluctantly.

  I pick up that he doesn’t want to talk. Bad luck. I have to find out. I don’t know how long I’m here for, and what if I suddenly reach a level, accidentally discover what I’m meant to and then bam, I’m moved on to somewhere else. I don’t even want to think about where that somewhere else might be. I’m not so sure about going to hell now. And that scares me because I’d imagine it’s all a bit too late to change my mind. Story of my life. Too late. Not the right time. Out of time. I suppress a bitter laugh building inside of me.

  ‘Tell me something about yourself.’ I cringe. My God that is a pathetic attempt to get him to open up to me. Even I know I should be able to do better than that.

  ‘Why?’ he sounds suspicious.

  ‘Tell me a childhood memory. One that sticks in your mind the most.’ I think of all the questions Tanya has asked me. That’s one we’ve worked on, the question that made me the most emotional. She didn’t quite get it though, there was so much more I should’ve told her.

  He sighs heavily as if it’s a burden to do what I’ve asked him. ‘Only if you attempt to go through the wall again.’

  I groan in pain at the thought. ‘How about I try to levitate instead? Might be an easier step for me to begin with. You know, on account that I’m resistant about walking through walls.’ I’m pleased with my offer of compromise.

  ‘Good idea, Honey Pot. I’ll keep you to your word.’

  And I know he will. It’s all right. Levitating doesn’t sound painful like walking through walls. Plus, it’s been something I thought about trying hours ago but haven’t had the guts to attempt. Who would’ve thought I’d be such a busy ghost thinking in this room. The sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

  The screams from other patients die down. The orderlies have done the rounds with the opium-based medicine. Now there are sounds of snoring and the occasional whimpering. A big improvement to the chilling screams but just as unsettling.

  ‘My father used to take me swimming,’ starts Bertie. ‘In the ocean, down at Glenelg during the summer, earlier if the weather was warm enough.’

  I sit quietly listening. The images form in my mind, Bertie as a boy, his hair a lighter shade than now, his eyes clearer without that deepness that draws me to him, and he’s as skinny as he is now.

  ‘My father loved the ocean. But I hated it. I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I would go with him, strip off and follow him into the water. The stress of working in the offices would drip off of him, and soon he would be smiling and happy. I longed for that to happen to me, but it never did. He’d tell me I shouldn’t be so stressed at my age, and what on earth could worry me. I could only shrug my shoulders. “Nothing really,” I would tell him. Then he would splash water on me, and I would laugh because I knew that’s what people did. But I wasn’t really laughing.

  ‘I couldn’t say that life weighed down on me. I had more than most people. I had parents, a younger sister, and my father had work. We had a small house near the beach, we had food, and we had new clothes when we grew out of our old ones. It was more than enough. But somehow it didn’t ease the tension that grew inside of me.

  ‘When in the water it was worse. I’d wade out deeper with my father. I’d do all the normal things a boy would do in the water, splashing, throwing jellyfish, and diving to touch the bottom
of the ocean, holding my breath underwater for as long as I could. Each time my head went under the water, the pressure would build around me, pushing down on me, crushing me with a force that I couldn’t bear.

  ‘I’d rush to the surface gasping when my head came above the water. Then it would go away, for a breath or two, and return gently. It was so hard to bear. Father didn’t notice. I didn’t think I could be as successful as he was. I struggled at school, and when I went underwater, I knew more about the pressure. Because if I could hold off from rushing to the surface and gulping at air, I could listen to the crackling of the salt in the water. Nothing else. My arms would float outwards, and I’d see a murkiness around me. Then I would sink. Like a rock thrown into the depths. That’s what scared me the most. The sinking. Because that feeling would stay with me even after I’d left the beach.’

  I don’t know what to say to him. He’s shared with me something private, and here I am stumped for words. I want to say I understand. I think that I should understand. There’s this doubt, this confusion blurring my thoughts. Bertie seems a together sort of guy, nothing about him sinking into the depths makes sense. A series of new knots forms inside of me. I’ve learnt something about Bertie, but I’m unsure what that means. I don’t know what this means for him or for me. I’m not familiar with how life works here, fuck, I don’t even know how life worked when I was living. Yet, this story now lies within me.

  In my mind, I twist a piece of white wool into crochet knots that turn back on themselves to form a circle which more stories can be built on. It can stay within me. I’m uneasy. I think of Frank. But this creation doesn’t have the feel of Frank. It’s not sucking my life or telling me bad things. Instead, I feel curious. Calm. I don’t feel like I’m going to lose who I am. Because I find with horror that I’m feeling like I’m attached with who I am. And I’m learning who I am.

  This isn’t right. This isn’t normal. At least not for me.

  Naturally, I’m confused and suspicious. Can I learn to live like this? With other people’s stories building inside of me, along with my own. Yet, the dark scenes I saw on the leather straps don’t make up this item. More rows add to this circle. A sort of mandala begins to form in my mind, which each story having a different thread of colour. Bertie’s is a gentle blue. Does the mean I can choose what I can keep? What stories I can discard? This is too much for me and my thoughts blur. I push the image of the mandala further out of reach into the back of my mind. That’s enough thinking for now.

  ‘Tell me yours.’

  It wasn’t part of the deal, but I don’t point that out to him. And I don’t stay silent. Instead, my mind opens, and I start forming the images of the first day when the darkness opened within me. I don’t know why I choose that story. It seems fitting. Like it would be something he’d like to hear.

  ‘Now for another lesson, Honey Pot,’ says Bertie. It’s still dark, but it feels like morning isn’t far away, though that, of course, can be wishful thinking on my part. ‘If you can’t move through walls let’s see if we can get you flying around this room.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I try and sound polite and friendly like how Bertie does when he answers the orderlies. It sounds like fun, but I can’t help feeling like I did in the past when Mum and Dad tried to encourage me to do things and tried to get me to be involved. A heaviness within me grows, and I feel weighed down. This isn’t something I want to do because this isn’t an action I can do. I’m the sort of person who’s worse than a blank canvas. I’m a messy canvas with colours bleeding together to make a brown mess, and there are rips and holes through me, and my picture is ruined beyond repair.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ he answers.

  Guess there’s no fooling him.

  I stand. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Tell me how you think you’re going to do this?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ That’s the truth. I only wanted to hear his story, which has now found a place within me and things are changing too fast that I’m not wanting to do anything except sit in the room and forget about this whole situation I’ve landed myself into.

  ‘I’ll help you get started.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I answer thinking he’s got no chance of helping me. I mean what the hell could he say that would motivate me or get me thinking so that I wouldn’t have any option other than to do what he’s suggested. I’ve years of experience of digging in my heels and ignoring those around me. I’m a pro.

  ‘Imagine yourself stretching upwards and as you do feel your feet lift off the ground.’

  I wasn’t expecting that. Bertie is very clever. Without me even being able to resist I’m finding myself doing exactly what he’s suggesting. I don’t know how this is even possible.

  I feel myself stretching upwards towards the ceiling.

  ‘That’s it.’

  His perception of me and my existence is amazing. The chain rattles gently between us. Maybe that’s what’s helping me. This connection. When I was able to resist in the past, now I can’t.

  The ceiling is getting closer. I look down. Shit. I forgot about my feet. I’m now stretched between the ceiling and the floor, and the sight scares me. I begin to contract. My torso slides back down to my legs. But I stay somewhat stretched like I’ve been in some medieval torture chamber.

  ‘No,’ starts Bertie. ‘You can do this. Imagine your feet lifting up.’

  I pause. Fear moves through me like a tsunami. I don’t know how I haven’t managed to snap myself back to my normal ghost size. I blame Bertie for this. He’s doing something through the chain I’m sure.

  I close my eyes. This is too much.

  I have to try. Why?

  I’ve never tried anything like this before.

  Instead of arguing with Frank I’m arguing with myself. It’s weird. Like me stretched in my ghostly form between the ceiling and the floor. I feel a giggle form inside of me. I look a very funny sight.

  ‘Now bring your feet up. Feel them coming to you.’

  Yeah right, I think. But somehow this is what begins to happen despite the fear. The sound of Bertie’s voice soothes me.

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘I have?’ I look down in surprise. I see my feet hovering above the ground. Instead of feeling excited, I’m scared, and I fall. You know that feeling when you go downwards too quickly, like on a ride at the fair, or sometimes in a lift, where your stomach is tickled by the motion. That’s what happens to me all over my body, and it stops when I crash into the floor.

  I moan in pain as it rips through my body pushing my particles that make up my essence apart, mixing them up, until they bounce back together. I’m pretty sure one of my legs has become an arm, and quite possibly my head is in my belly, and my nose on my knee. But when I inspect my form, I look like I did when I was alive. I’m still wearing the same clothes. I’m still the same size, and my hair isn’t any longer. Miracle.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks Bertie. The concern in the sound of his voice is soothing to the ache that vibrates in me.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right, get up and try it again.’

  I don’t want to. But I do. I stand up. Take a breath. I still can’t stop myself from doing this habit. I wonder if I want to keep breathing and that’s why I do this.

  Then I close my eyes. Put out my arms like they are wings. And I float upwards.

  I never realised I had the desire to fly. It was like Bertie has opened something inside of me. He’s the key to my lock that no one else has ever managed to find. I don’t even know where this lock is located in me. I never suspected it was there. I had other things to be thinking of. And I had Frank to deal with.

  It certainly helped pass the rest of the night, practising levitating up and down the room. I don’t know what Bertie thought of that. He didn’t complain. It took my mind off of the noises from the other rooms. And it helped me to forget about all the things I should’ve been thinking about, like what I should be doing to get out of here.


  Moving up and down, the room increases my curiosity level a hundredfold. I don’t mind being here so much right now. Plus, I like Bertie. The chain moves gracefully between us as I float up and down for hours, bit like how I’d imagine a skipping rope would move through water. The motion helps to clear my mind. My thoughts float in time with my movement and for a change aren’t edged with the urgency I’m used to. It’s like I’m spending a lazy Sunday afternoon if I didn’t have the snake or Frank to fill my hours. Back then I got worn down by Frank and gave in so many times. It feels a lifetime ago that I was that person. Almost like I wasn’t that person, or never had been. Almost.

  If I stop moving and feel out into my surroundings beyond the room, I can still hear the silent screams, the ones in their minds. There’s an uneasiness that floats through this building. And it’s not from me. A deeper agitation which radiates from each of the patients. The vibrations pass through the walls hang in the air, and are swept through me with the natural movements of the air, sort of like the tides of the ocean. In this form I’m hypersensitive.

  So far none of the vibrations stay within me. They just seep away, and I end up with a taste of the beat of each patient with each wave. I don’t have to spit it out, even though they taste sour and sharp, not like anything you would want to ever taste. It repels me a little. But it’s not so bad, so I keep moving, allowing the thoughts to pass through me.

  I can’t make out Bertie in these invisible waves of vibrations in the air. I’m sure he’s in there. He’s hard to make out. I think of the story he told me. It sounded so innocent and full of beauty, but somehow I don’t think that’s the real truth he told me. I don’t know why I think this. Maybe it has something to do with the vibrations that are accumulating in the air, blending together from the patients, each of them trying to imprint on their surroundings and change their situation and accommodate that they no longer have control over their lives.