Trapped Within

by Bradshaw, Duncan P.

  Lazy fucks, that’s why. Why the hell are we here anyway? Life is too short to be cooped up in a stuffy office taking shit from people who think they are better than you. Tell them all to go fuck themselves. Jack it in. I can’t stand this place already.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. Can’t I have just one day with you shutting up? I thought, knowing the voice would hear me. It’s just never ending. When are going to just fade away? Bugger off? My chest became tight.

  Feel that? I’m working on it.

  I clutched at my chest, screwing up my shirt into my fist. I wasn’t in pain, exactly, but I couldn’t breathe or talk, and it was not a pleasant feeling.

  And there’s more.

  As the tightness subsided the back door to the smoking area opened and a group of people who worked on our customer service hub all walked in, talking loudly and making their way back to their desks.

  “Stinky fucks, go do some work for a change.” All five people turned around angrily to see who had said it and, finding no-one else in the room, they glared at me.

  “What did you just say?” growled one of the larger blokes, walking up to me. I was dumbfounded. It had not been MY voice that had said the words, but the sound had come out of MY mouth. I opened and closed my, apparently uncontrollable, mouth like a goldfish—open, close, open, close—trying to form the syllables of an excuse.

  “I’m so sorry, I have a head injury!” It WAS my voice this time, but I couldn’t believe the excuse I had just come out with.

  “That’s the guy that got run over last week, walked straight out into the road,” mumbled one of the large man’s colleagues from somewhere behind his massive frame. I saw a little head peep round him to catch a glimpse of me—possibly before I met my inevitable end.

  “Just keep your opinions to yourself, mate, brain-dead or not.” The ‘mate’ was definitely said with a lemony acid that melted the air around it as the word formed. I didn’t get the feeling we would laugh about this over a pint at lunchtime.

  “Yes, yes. I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, scurrying past the staring eyes of five people, who now believed I had actual brain damage. This will be fun to live down at the Summer party. Still, at least it wasn’t my boss.

  I turned the corner into my office. My boss was in my office, leafing through the ton of post that had been dumped on my desk whilst I had diced with death for a second time in as many weeks. He looked up as I walked in, a concerned look on his face. I was starting to recognise this look.

  “I farmed your cases off to Gerrard and Andy in Ops.” I died a little inside. Why those guys? It would have been better if they had just been left to fester for a week until I came back.

  “It would have been better if they had just been left to fester for a week until I came back.” I almost slapped my hand across my mouth, but it was too late. That was my voice again, but not my words! Bloody hell, what was going on?

  “What?” My boss rose up immediately at my insolence “We rescued a million-pound deal for you!” I goldfished again. What the hell had happened to how glad he was to see me back?

  “Look, I think you should go home. Maybe you came back a little soon. We appreciate it but take some time. Rest yourself…”

  “Okay!” I snapped, one hand truly bitten off. Within five minutes I was on the number 86 heading back to the safety of isolation.

  On the bus the voice persisted, talking, whinging, bitching, putting me down; my sense of dress, my crappy suburban bungalow, my choice of transport. In my fragile state of mind, I couldn’t tell who it was that was talking to me. My head jerked from left to right, behind and in front of me; where did that voice come from? No-one on the bus was talking, but all who caught my eye gave me nervous smiles or annoyed what-are-you-looking-at glares. They must have all thought I was an escaped patient from St. Anne’s.

  Jeez, of all the minds in all the world, I get stuck in this one.

  I had no idea what that meant, and I didn’t want to. I was one bus stop away and then I could hide in my bungalow retreat, cowering from reality… and call a bloody doctor, because this was NOT right. The bus had barely made it past the end of my cul-de-sac as I frantically scraped my front door key all over the door aiming for the lock, like a frustrated noob trying to putt a golf ball into the hole just two inches away, and failing every time. Once in, I reached for the address book next to the phone, found the number for the surgery and dialled. When the old receptionist lady picked up the phone she began to introduce herself and was cut short by my interjection. “I think I’ve gone mad! I had a hit to the head, you see? Can I see someone today?!”

  An hour later I was in the waiting room. The duty doctor saw me very quickly. I imagined that the poor old receptionist lady had highlighted my plight to him in advance, i.e. I was mad, but an hour-long chat later and I was on my way home with a prescription for sleeping pills, some patronising ‘You have to allow yourself time to recover fully’ wisdom, and a sick note for a few more weeks.

  I went home and popped two pills, swilling them down with some left-over wine I found in place of the milk in the fridge door, and went to bed.

  Where the fuck are you going? Why the fuck have you taken those? I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want…

  The words faded as the effect of the drugs took hold. Sleep was peaceful, deep and uninterrupted. When Chess came home, she brought me a glass of water and smoothed my forehead until I was awake. I told her what had happened; she didn’t believe me. Just like the doc, she thought I just needed sleep and time.

  No more fucking sleep!

  My life went on like this. I woke up in the morning, said goodbye to Chess. The voice would start the moment I awoke. It hated Chess, it hated me, it especially did not like to sleep. I would drink a glass of water, take some more pills, fall asleep and wake up when Chess came home. The voice would start its rhetoric of hate, I would eat a little, drink a little, make my excuses to Chess and go back to bed, pills already slipping chemically down my throat. I visited the doctor again, and he referred me to a specialist. The specialist referred me back to the doctor who, in turn, referred me to another specialist. They all had their theories, but most revolved around the hit to the head I had sustained in the accident, the stress from my job, my past, or a massive combination of all of it that would require years of therapy in one form or another. I eventually agreed with the depression diagnosis and let them all believe that I was another case solved. It just wasn’t worth it and the more I tried to explain myself the crazier even I thought I sounded.

  The voice continued to wear me down, berating and insulting me. Frustrated at its lack of control, the mental pressure increased. Psychologically, I was breaking. I began to lose weight. The voice became angrier, stronger and louder. The doctors continued to treat the symptoms and sign me off from work. I festered in my house day-to-day, alone but never alone.

  Six weeks or so after the accident, I had taken my usual two pills and slunk back into bed, waiting for the peaceful darkness to take me once again—but nothing. I looked at the clock: 8.30am. I was usually feeling drowsy by now. I shifted myself back up to a sitting position, adjusting my pillows, and grabbed the sleeping pills from the bedside table, retrieved the leaflet inside and started to skim-read the side-effects section, musing that if insomnia was a rare side-effect, it would be just my luck that I would suffer from it.

  You can’t keep me down? Think I can be contained, that you are winning?!

  Why? Why are you still here? The words filled my mind like a child shouting ‘echo’ into a void. The word ‘why’ repeating over and over. I scrutinised the leaflet a little harder, “Does it say I can’t take more than two at a time?”

  Don’t you dare.

  Hmmm, no, I don’t think it does. Let’s try shall we? I squeezed another two tablets from their foil pouches and chucked them back dry; I meant business. I gagged a little at the metallic, unnatural taste they left in my mouth and throat, but I didn’t care. Five minutes later, all of them
filled with swearing and a story about how I was going to ‘be sorry’, I plummeted into my desired silent slumber.

  “Baby, what happened?” I was woken with a gentle shake of my shoulder… and the dog licking my face. Chess was kneeling next to me, her hand on my forehead in a way that almost made her look like she knew what she was doing. She may have found an actual temperature if she knew that’s why people did it. I looked around me. The clock on the wall, gently ticking away, declared the time to be 18.25.

  ‘Hang on—that’s the lounge clock, isn’t it?’ I focussed. The realisation of lying on the floor of the lounge crept up on me like a child playing peek-a-boo. I knew where I was, but the surprise of being there was no less than if I had remembered being in the hospital last, or work, but I hadn’t been there… had I?

  “Er…” the sound of sheer intelligence must have dripped from the syllable of confusion. “I… must have walked down here in my sleep. I guess.” It was the best I could do on the spot. Chess was still looking at me intently. she may not have blinked for a full minute.

  “Sleep-walking? That’s new.” She didn’t sound convinced but I guess, for lack of any better, common-sense-filled reason, she had to believe me. She was probably wondering why I didn’t just fess up to falling asleep on the lounge floor. Perhaps I should have said that instead of being slow witted.

  Hahaha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

  The first peal of laughter from the voice was almost uncontrollable, but the proceeding ‘ha’s’ were slow and deliberate.

  I did say that I was working on it, that there was more. You like? I’m pretty happy with my efforts so far. You walking around helps, things light up in here. I can see where I need to interfere with these electric pulse thingies, and I just copy that. Seems to work pretty well.

  “You fucking…” I stopped myself again. No, no… not out loud this time.

  “What?” Chess was helping me onto the sofa when I blurted out the swears. She was the only person in the room, of course she was going to think I was talking to her.

  “You fucking amazing woman!” I was going to get at least one sentence right today, quickly finishing the proclamation. Chess didn’t look impressed; she hated swearing.

  “Language! What is wrong with you? Ever since you hit your head. Seriously, baby, please, tone it down.” She plumped up the pillow. “Right, do you have a headache? Should I call the doctor? Did they say anything about sleep walking? Do you want to go back to bed? Can I get you anything? Do you want tea? I saw Terry today, he looks well doesn’t he, being married suits him…” The questions continued as she walked out of the room. I could still hear her, though. There was no pause for breath.

  Shut up! Shut the fuck up woman. Shut. Up. It’s enough to tip you over the edge, incessant drivel. Blah, fucking, blah. Tell her to shut up, man.

  No, I responded in my head, why would I be deliberately rude to her, and why the hell should he tell me what to do anyway. Although I didn’t speak the last thought in my mind, I suddenly got the distinct impression he had heard me anyway. It. Not he. It, dammit.

  If you don’t shut her up, I will.

  This was too much. You shut up. How about you just shut up for a change. I wasn’t usually an out-with-it sort of guy, but this was rapidly changing in my mind. My mind? This was becoming an interesting subject for debate.

  Right. Fine, have it your way.

  I have heard this line before—in movies. Bad things usually follow that were blatantly anticipated by the viewer but, for some strange and unknown reason, do not seem to be considered by the person rejecting whatever thing or resisting whatever change is upon them. I think I may also have heard Chess say it once at the start of our relationship, and, as I recall, the outcome was not in my favour.

  I proceeded to stand up. Only, I didn’t. At least, what I mean is, it wasn’t ME that stood myself up. As I rose the gravity of what was happening began hitting me like a Luton Truck hitting a butterfly at 70mph—much faster than it should have been, yet I should have seen it coming a mile off. I had never, in my apparently sheltered and easy life, experienced such a sensation; it was like that feeling you get in your stomach when you are on a rollercoaster that does a ‘gravity’ drop from a spectacular height, twinned with the weird unconnected, and almost outer-body, feeling you get when you have been sat down for too long and your foot goes numb. You know it’s your foot because it’s connected to your leg, but when you touch your foot you can’t feel the sensation. Your brain does a ‘WHAT?’ and makes you believe you are touching someone else’s foot, but then the feeling comes back and reality, and pins and needles, bite! That numbness of ‘whose body is this?’ with the weird stomach thing… that was how it felt.

  For a brief moment, I lost myself in the feeling. The weightlessness, the sense of calm and peace. I had no cares in the world, I had no body, no real life—no work. Ah, no work. No boss, no Gerrard and Andy. However, this brief moment didn’t last and only worked against me. My guard was down, I was musing an alternative existence, and all I remember was, what I can only describe as a pop. A bit like when you pop your ears when you get to the top of a hill, or when a plane takes off. I, no, my body began to walk towards the kitchen, where Chess was humming away to herself whilst whirl-pooling a teabag and daydreaming out the kitchen window to the garden. It was in full spring bloom and, to this day, I am grateful it was one of the last things she saw. My hand reached towards her neck, her back still to me, and as I watched my fingers stretch out to grab her the sunlight caught the edge of a knife sat next to the sink. I suddenly changed my mind—ugh, no—my mind suddenly changed itself, and my hand darted towards the knife.

  No! No, god no!

  Holy shit! That was my voice, but it hadn’t come out of my mouth. My own voice box had not screamed the pleas of a desperate man, howling like a wild animal caged for the very first time. That was my voice, in my mind. My mind? His mind?

  It’s not the best feeling, is it? he taunted inwardly as my fingers curled around the hilt of the knife. No, his fingers. Good god, this body was no longer mine!

  I tried to regain control of my limbs; I had no idea what to do, of course, I just ‘closed’ my eyes, even though I had none, and tensed. But nothing. No! No, come on. Try again. My weak pulse of energy became a little more intense, but the moment was fleeting and gone. I tried to hold my breath, but I couldn’t; it wasn’t mine to hold any longer. I was weak, I was less than weak. I was purely spirit. Consciousness only.

  “What are you trying to do? You are nothing, you are useless. I get to live, you get to exist, for now.” His now familiar voice ripped my vocal cords, detuning them to his own gravelly tones. His laughter was a roar of victorious glee and murderous delight. I knew what he intended to do in that same moment. I was powerless to stop it and powerless to turn away from it.

  Chess had pivoted around on her heel at his words, a little startled. I imagine she had thought there was an intruder; the voice was a lot deeper than mine and it had a strange accent, not my local accent.

  “Wha…? Oh it’s you! What the heck are you doing, you scar…” she said as she looked up at me/him. “Baby?” Her beautiful eyes gazed into mine. We had done this so many times, but I had never realised the different hazels and browns in her eyes. Her beautiful eyes that were always so kind. Her deep, loving, naïve eyes that were now wide and consumed with terror as he raised the knife, in slow motion, above her head. She raised her hands, glancing towards her steely demise and then looking back at me. Those beautiful eyes now empty, tear-filled tunnels that I looked into. Her soul crying, her heart had already begun to break; my own soul tried to reach out to hers, to tell her it wasn’t me.

  Please, no. Chess, it’s not me, please believe me! Please hear me. I love you, Chess, dear God, I love you. NO!

  “She can’t hear you… yet!”

  “Nooo, baby, plea…” The words gargled in her throat, blood pouring from her gasping mouth as he plunged and turned the blade, pushing it de
ep into her neck. As he withdrew the knife, licking his lips, her body lifelessly fell to his feet, her right arm awkwardly bent underneath her unnaturally arched back, her left hand still clutching at her ripped throat. And they were his feet now, not mine. He shuffled them to nudge her off.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for years.” He gave a coarse ‘Ha’ and let go of the knife, which dropped onto her chest and slid down to rest on the floor next to her, where a crimson pool was rapidly forming around and in-between his toes. I could feel the warmth and wanted to feel sick, but it was no longer possible. He looked down at her. She was still.

  I tried to sob. I was enraged. How could I possibly let this happen? I wanted to kill him, like he had killer her. I wanted him to suffer. How, how could I do it?! Why years? No, fucking just no. Fuck. The anger was like nothing I had ever felt before and it was stirring me.

  You fucking wanker. I’ll fucking kill you.

  “Whatever,” he said, and, kicking Chess’s body out his way, he turned and walked out the kitchen into the hallway, bloody footprints tracking his slow and confident pace. I could feel him, his thoughts and feelings. I couldn’t feel his soul, I couldn’t feel his conscience. All I could feel was black; darkness. And the hottest anger I had ever known.

  I reached out as he passed the phone in the hallway. It was one of those stupid 1950’s rotary jobs, with the big dial on the front that you would have to use to choose one number at a time. Chess loved this kinda stuff, saying it was ‘cute’ and that ‘kitsch is all the rage, you know’. It’s funny the things that go through your head at times like this. I never would have imagined when she bought this telephone how it would be put to its final use.

  I tensed, summoning all the energy as my consciousness could. Much to my surprise my arm, momentarily MY arm, responded and reached out, my hand grabbing the heavy square black object. ‘They sure made things to last in those days,’ was another thought that crossed my mind, right before I swung the phone swiftly up and, as hard as I could, smacked myself on the forehead.