Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  ‘They’re gone.’ His voice is tight and forced.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say because I don’t want to say nothing.

  ‘Once they were gone, it became even harder. My sister can look after the business, she’ll be better without me. She didn’t have this sinking feeling about life that crippled her. It sounds pathetic. Maybe I wouldn’t be here if the carriage hadn’t upturned killing my parents. If only, hey?’

  I know he’s not really asking me a question.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve gotten to meet you,’ I say. I don’t think he’s pathetic. I don’t know how I’d cope without my parents. But then again, I didn’t really cope with life even when they supported me. My thoughts tangle on each other, and I don’t get to say what I want to. I still think Bertie is the most normal man I’ve meet and doesn’t deserve to be strapped to the bed like this. But then he’s telling me things that suggest otherwise.

  ‘Just as well they were gone perhaps. What I done would’ve happened anyway.’

  ‘What did you do, Bertie?’ I ask quietly. I know I shouldn’t. I know he doesn’t want to tell me, or even think about what he’s done. About this sinking feeling he has, but I couldn’t help myself. I want to know what’s so bad that has put him in here. I can feel his heart. It’s soft. It’s beautiful. There’s not the darkness in it that I know is in me. Well, there’s a little, but I don’t mind, it doesn’t scare me.

  Bertie closes his eyes.

  The silence is heavy in the room. Just like that the conversation is ended. I won’t ask him again. I don’t like him shut off like this from me. I squirm. Shut off. I’ve heard those words before. Many times from Mum and Dad, Ashla, Bree, and even my classmates over the years. I used to pretend being shut off made the armour around me, which kept the darkness within me instead of me letting it out. It was like a badge to wear when I was told I was shut off. I was achieving what I wanted, no one could reach me, and I didn’t have to feel their emotions along with my own. Because that was too much for me. I was doing what I wanted, getting the results I wanted.

  But here, right now, I unexpectedly get an insight into what these people, especially Mum, Dad and Ashla, might have felt when I did this to them.

  Right now, if I could cry I would.

  ‘You should try again,’ encourages Bertie.

  ‘Later,’ I answer which isn’t a lie as such. I will try later. Later can be tonight, tomorrow, next week, next year, in a thousand years. I can’t imagine being a ghost for a thousand years.

  ‘Don’t put off what you can do today,’ says Bertie. There’s no cheer in his voice. He’s repeating what he’s been told.

  ‘A saying from your dad?’ I ask.

  Bertie nods his head. I know he doesn’t like talking about his dad. Or his mum. Or his younger sister. He feels he’s let them down. I can tell he’s had a tough run of events.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I ask again.

  ‘I did something very wrong,’ says Bertie.

  ‘No. You haven’t. I sense the sort of people in here. They’ve done many things wrong. Very wrong. I don’t sense that with you.’ I mean what I say.

  ‘What do you sense about me?’ He stares blankly up at the ceiling. It’s getting dark in the room. We’re not allowed any candles or gas lamps in here. It’s a pain being pre-electricity.

  I’d like to say that he’s warm like honey, but I don’t have the words in my mind to tell him something beautiful. All the words in my mind seem to evaporate as heat burns through me.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. Pathetic. I have to try harder. Bertie is the first person I’ve connected to, and I need to treat him right. I have to get him out of here so he can go and help his sister.

  I allow my mind to relax. An image forms.

  ‘You’re like a very special book which has an elaborate lock on the cover. I want to run my fingers over the embossing on the front, and I want to look inside, but I don’t have the key.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I like the way you sense me. But I can’t let you in.’

  ‘Because you’ve done something wrong.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t sense that.’

  ‘Good.’

  I’m not convinced, but I know I can’t argue with him. He’s not going to let me in. I just have to find another way.

  The next day as soon as Bertie leaves to be taken to the bathroom and then to the dayroom, I rush over to the bed. I’m going to do this. I’ve built up enough determination to sink a battleship.

  I take a moment to settle myself. A flutter of nerves ripples through me. But using the memory of breathing I still them with three slow breaths.

  I reach out quickly and pick up the leather. I brace my mind against the flood of images. I manage to hold them back. So far so good. But I don’t allow myself to get confident. There’s no room for me to get all big headed in this task as there’s too much weighing on the outcome. I have to help Bertie. Something gnaws inside of me that makes me think there’s not much time for that to happen.

  I move the leather towards the buckle. I have to concentrate hard. I feel the heat burning inside of me from my focus. I slip. The leather falls back down on the bed. Fuck it. But I try again. I pick up the end, bend it towards the brass buckle. This time it slips in.

  Excitement flitters in me. This is going well. But now the tricky part. To undo what I’ve just done.

  One thing I don’t have here is a good awareness of time. I’m worried Bertie and the orderlies will be back before I’ve mastered this.

  My fingers tremble. They blur at the edges. I suppress the panic rising within me. The leather is much harder to move back out of the brass buckle. My hands ache. My head is starting to throb from overconcentration. I can do this, I tell myself. I can’t afford not to be able to. I’ve never been driven to achieve something ever before. This is not only new for me, but I’m also persisting at something I’m sure will be helpful for Bertie.

  The leather finally moves, and I unbuckle the strap.

  Yes. I want to jump up and down and punch the air in excitement. But then I hear someone at the door.

  ‘There you go, Bertie, home sweet home,’ says Smithy.

  I glare at Smithy as I back away from the bed. It doesn’t matter now whether they strap him up, I can release Bertie. That’s what matters.

  The door closes, and the thick heavy lock slides into place with a chilling sound. I can’t wait to tell Bertie what I’ve learnt to do.

  ‘Time for another lesson, Honey Pot,’ says Bertie.

  I pause. I’ve been putting off practising going through the walls. I’m focussing on how to undo the leather straps for Bertie. And now I can help him I’m feeling very proud of myself. I’m doing really well learning all these new feelings and not pushing them away which is what I’ve typically done in the past. Or blocking them. It’s easier to do this without Frank in my mind, now his voice is silent I don’t have to deal with so much.

  ‘I reckon I can get the straps off of you,’ I say to Bertie. I can’t contain it anymore.

  Maybe I should practise again.

  What if it was a fluke that I managed to manipulate something physical?

  Too late. I’ve told him.

  Bertie looks in my direction blankly as if processing what I’ve told him.

  ‘I can take your straps off.’ I move forward ready to free his left arm. Then I pause. I’m expecting him to be excited that the straps can come off. But he’s not. Shadows crease in the wrinkles of his forehead.

  ‘I don’t have to remove them.’ My arms drop to my side. I stare at him trying to work out what I’ve done wrong. That’s how I feel like I’ve done something wrong. I don’t like it. I was just getting used to some new emotions and feelings inside of me and now this. This is why I block shit out like that and why I don’t bother making connections with other people.

  ‘Well, now if you can unbuckle the straps then you are most definitely able to walk through t
he walls,’ says Bertie. His voice sounds different.

  ‘Let me get this right you want me to walk through a wall instead of unbuckling you?’

  ‘Your world should be bigger than this room,’ he answers.

  ‘Why?’ I’m beginning to pout again. It’s been a while. I don’t know why he can get to me like this. No one else has managed it. When Mum tried it was like her words would get under my skin and lift off the top layer and poke around as if searching for something which would get me motivated to do what she wanted. I’m almost not caring about his answer because I’m so willing to try. I don’t know how he can do this when everyone else failed before. Maybe it’s this room? Perhaps I secretly want to get out? I dunno.

  ‘Because there’s hope for you,’ he answers.

  I don’t even know what he means. ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I might not be able to see you, but I can sense you. You’ve got potential, you’ve got hope.’

  ‘But I’m a ghost.’ He’s not making any sense to me. None at all, and yet here I am wanting to understand what he’s saying to me. This is even more perplexing for me because I have no intention to go through the wall. I’m willing to try, but I’m feeling a little sulky and stubborn because he won’t let me take off his straps.

  ‘Are you? Can you go back to your body?’

  How the fuck am I meant to know that? Or even try to return to my body? ‘I’ve thought of that but you know I’ve lost my body, and I’m in the wrong timeline. I’m lost. Completely utterly totally fucking lost.’ I push the images of the words towards him with an intense force.

  ‘It’s about time you were found then,’ he answers.

  ‘What and walking through the wall is going to do that?’ I don’t believe it will. It’s not like my body is lying on the other side of the wall in the room. I know there’s a man next door. He’s pretty quiet thank God, not like some of the other patients around here with their moaning and groaning at all hours. Some have taken to being loud and protesting during the day. Some even sound like they’re talking to someone else in their rooms. Maybe there’s a ghost in each room. I pause. If there are other ghosts then maybe I could work out what I’m meant to do. How I can get to hell, or the afterlife, or whatever it’s going to be called. I always figured we got the name wrong up top in the living. I mean how the fuck would we know what it’s called really. It would be like going to a new country and learning the names in the local tongue.

  ‘It might,’ says Bertie.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘You’re all sixes and sevens. You don’t know. But that’s all right because I know you can do it and I can help you.’

  My mind swirls. Now I really don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. ‘You’re talking a different language aren’t you?’

  ‘You’ve not heard about sixes and sevens?’

  ‘No. You’re making my head ache.’

  ‘If you’re all sixes and sevens it means you can’t make up your mind. You’re lost, and you’re not able to make the right decision to take positive action.’

  That sounds exactly like me. Finally, something that sounds better than saying I’m lost, even though it’s a bit of a mouthful. I can say I’m all sixes and sevens. Yeah, right. People will think I’m really nuts then. Though, I must admit I like it. Probably only because Bertie said it to me, but I don’t care why. I like it. And it describes me perfectly at the moment. I am lost. I can’t make the right decision to change my situation. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let someone else make the decision for me.

  I remain stubborn for a few hours. Bertie doesn’t push me to try and go through the wall again. He’s very clever. He allows me to sit and think. Even when my parents did this with me it never worked. Maybe Bertie understands me better than my family did.

  I go only as far as I did the time before. It’s easier this time to move deeper into the wall. And I could easily go further. But I don’t. Because I’m pissed at Bertie. And confused. Why the fuck doesn’t he want me to help him? He’s been asking for those straps off every fucking time an orderly comes into the room. I sigh. This is too confusing for me. But you know, for a change I’m going to ask him why. I pull out of the wall.

  ‘How did you go this time?’ he asks like there’s no tension between us like we didn’t just have that conversation before about the straps. It annoys me. But I don’t explode with anger or implode with it. I allow the annoyance to move through me like an army of angry ants.

  ‘No good,’ I say. I don’t care to explain about the wall. ‘We had a deal.’

  ‘We still do.’

  ‘So, why don’t you let me show you I can take the straps off?’

  ‘You haven’t thought this through,’ he answers.

  I probably haven’t. But I can’t think what I might have forgotten.

  ‘If they see me without the straps on, things will get even worse for me here,’ he answers.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I answer defiantly. ‘You’re the one being all sixes and sevens.’

  ‘I do.’ His voice is calm, the usual tone I’m used to hearing, not like before when he sounded different and unlike himself.

  ‘I can take them off then put them back on.’

  ‘What if you can’t?’

  Damn him. I was so confident I could. I’d tried when he was gone, I’m ready to show him how I can unbuckle and free him. It won’t end well at all if Smithy came in and saw him unstrapped, though.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I’m angry that Bertie won’t let me help him. I’m pissed that him rejecting my help leaves me feeling vulnerable. I try and pull out the chain that connects us, but it’s firmly attached to me. I try and push Bertie away and build up my armour around me, but he’s done something to me and I can’t. Despite his rejection of my help I still trust him. This isn’t right. This isn’t me. Something’s going terribly wrong here.

  ‘Don’t worry, Honey Pot,’ says Bertie. ‘I’ve been working on a plan to get my straps off.’

  ‘Really?’ I say bitterly. I don’t believe him. All he’s done is lay there and be compliant. To the point of being pathetic.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t.’ I don’t bother trying to. There’s nothing to understand. He doesn’t want my help, and that’s hurt me, just at a point when I’d let someone close to me. I shouldn’t have done that. I tried to push him away again. But it doesn’t work.

  ‘You have to understand how things work around here if you want to get anywhere. I’m doing what I’m told. If I keep this up, then they will take off the straps soon.’

  ‘What if they don’t take the straps off for months?’ I throw back at him. See he hasn’t thought of everything. He needs my help.

  ‘Then I wait for months. It has to be this way. I have to be compliant, I can’t fight them.’

  It’s like he’s been reading my thoughts. I better keep them in check more. I don’t know if during my intense thinking periods, or when he’s not in the room and downstairs eating or in the day room, then maybe he’s getting an accidental image or two from me. I can’t have that happen. Not when I’m so close to getting through the wall.

  ‘You can’t wait that long. What are you going to do when they take the straps off anyway?’

  ‘Prove that I’m ready to get out of here,’ Bertie answers quickly.

  ‘You can do that now if you let me take them off.’

  ‘That’s not how I’m going to get out of here. There are too many doors, and then there’s the ha-ha wall surrounding the building and grounds, keeping the patients from escaping. There’s only one way out of here for me, and I’m going to take it. I just have to be patient. I can wait for months if it means I can be free.’

  There’s a tone of conviction in his voice, which sends a shiver through me. I believe him. I’m glad he’s got a plan
. Still, I’m a little bitter he’s not letting me help him. He could have the straps off at night, take a break or something, get up and walk around, sleep under the blanket. I know he really wants this. But then again I haven’t looked right into his soul. He won’t let me. I don’t understand why he wants to do things this way. This is nothing about me being unable to make up my mind. This isn’t making a whole lot of sense. Each hour I don’t have Frank in my head, my thoughts are becoming clearer. If he’s quiet in here, they won’t come and check on him. Maybe. Though we’ll have to wait until after the late night check, and sometimes, depending who’s on duty, they will come and do another check in the early hours of the morning. I shake my head. No. I’m still annoyed Bertie won’t accept my help. I’ve never offered my help to anyone before. I’m allowed to be bitter over this I tell myself. I’m used to feeling like this, so I don’t mind as resentment eases through me.

  ‘Why doesn’t your sister come and visit?’ I ask. It’s a cheap dig on account of him bursting my bubble of excitement that I’d learnt how to manipulate physical objects. I feel like I’ve graduated from prep school, but there’s been no party for my achievement. Bummer, right? I’m having to learn by myself, so this is a big deal. I want my celebration. And if I can’t have it then I’m going to be a stubborn shit. This is my old self coming through. I’m ashamed. But I can’t stop myself.

  ‘I imagine she disowned me,’ he answers.

  I’m surprised he’s responded to me.

  ‘She’s your sister she can’t disown you,’ I say. Even my sister tried to disown me but she couldn’t. She loved me too much. Even though Ashla would get frustrated at me and annoyed that the knives had to be locked up and that she had to do her part in keeping an eye on me, she did, and she was always there when the pieces needed to be picked up after I’d reached a low point.

  ‘Maybe not as such, but Chloe can pretend I’m no longer alive. I suspect that’s what she’s doing.’ He’s surprisingly calm as he talks about Chloe. I can tell he loves her like a brother should, and he doesn’t hold it against her for not visiting.