Coma

by Emmy Ellis

  I think, I think. Shut the fuck up, Scott.

  Mags left the room, but Scott still sat there.

  “Wayne. I know you can hear me, you little shit,” he said, his voice full of loathing.

  The clouds, they were so fluffy.

  “Okay, whatever. Pretend you’re not listening. Just so you know—well, I love your mother. I wouldn’t have come here with her every day for fifteen years if I didn’t. I don’t know what the hell is going on in your mind, and I don’t know what was going through your mind all those years ago, either, but let me tell you, if this therapist doesn’t work, if you don’t start talking, I’ll make sure your mother never comes here again. Do you hear me? You’re nothing but an overgrown kid. A child in a man’s body, spitting all the time, pissing the bed and all sorts. You make me sick, you fucking retard.”

  The clouds were darkening now, gathering speed. They were grey, laden with rain, and any minute now, that rain was going to come down.

  Down like a torrent.

  “Wayne.”

  The clouds were nearly black. They were so heavy, holding so much rain.

  Rain and pain.

  “Wayne.”

  I moved my watery eyes to meet Scott’s.

  “Remember the peas, Wayne?”

  * * * *

  I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell this woman in front of me what I knew. If I tried hard enough, maybe she’d understand what I was saying, even though my tongue was thick and my brain hurt.

  She was pretty. Reminded me of Nicola. You know, the one with the dogs.

  Words tantalized my tongue. I wanted to ask her a question.

  Do you want to see the darkness, to know what I feel? Come on, take a walk through my mind. Stand there at the beginning and look at the pictures, experience my emotions. Walk with me.

  Instead, the words faded, leaving me with nothing but frustration. So I stared at her, trying to convey my story to her through my eyes. Could she see the images rolling inside my head? Was she watching it like on an old-fashioned film machine?

  See him? He’s coming towards me, hand raised. His name is Scott. Can you feel my heart thunder? I hope you know the fear that runs through me. See me. I’m just a kid, a fucking kid, my hair tousled from interrupted slumber, nightmares plaguing my rest. Pyjamas crusted with dirt. My body stinks. Can’t you smell it?

  Imagine. Imagine being me, just for the fleeting second it takes for his hand to swipe down, sting my cheek, my ear. Understand the havoc wreaked, know my desire for safety, security. Know that I wanted my dad but knew I couldn’t have him because he was dead. Understand that I got stuck with this freak instead, this bloke called Scott.

  Then walk with me. Walk farther into the chasm. See Mags? She’s standing there swaying. Riddled with intoxication, fumes emanating, devouring me. See her there ready to strike? Watch as I try to skirt around her. Feel the sweat on my brow, the pain in my chest. She’s next to him now; they’re a duo of menace.

  Panic—do you sense it in me? Can you see it all as you take quiet steps through my subconscious? Can you see me lunge at him because I’d had enough? I didn’t see any other way out. There was nowhere to run to because the ones who cared about me lived in Cairns, hundreds of miles away.

  Him there! Watch out for him. Looks can be deceiving, but go on, walk forward to greet him and listen to what he says. Did it shock you? I see your mouth open in a silent circle. Didn’t you know some children get called that? He’s called me nasty names for years, years!

  Laughter. It’s a harsh sound, isn’t it? But there he is, laughing his head off because he had control.

  Those steps of yours, they’re getting faster. You don’t like it here, do you? Think about what it’s like to live in this cavern forever. I tried to run away into my imagination, but I got stuck, they tripped me over, and my feet won’t move now.

  So you walk through my head, retracing, reversing, but you find yourself always pulled back, don’t you? Like my mind, always going back. Then something happens to set me off, and I get these images and thoughts; I think things have happened when they really haven’t. I dream I have a job and live in the pebble-dash house, that I’m not here in this shithole.

  Now, he has a new face, ages older, but the same person. He’s still the same. Him, Scott, hiding behind that door. See his eye through the keyhole? He’s been spying on me all this time, waiting for me to die, hoping I’ll never speak and tell someone this is all his fucking fault.

  He’s watching you, licking his lips. Can you smell the dirtiness about him? Can you see what he is? Ah, again, you didn’t know. Didn’t realise. Didn’t think he was like that. He appears as such a fine, upstanding citizen, visiting his stepson for years on end in this hellhole. Well, wake up. Go on. Wake up and walk forward. Yeah, I do mean down there. Go on, take a deep breath and surge on. We’re still at the start—such a long way to go yet.

  And she’s got her hands around your neck, dirty breath in your face. You can’t breathe, you can’t fucking breathe. You’re fifteen, and you’re struggling against her, but she won’t let go. You’ve stabbed her man, and she’s gone crazy.

  Your hair—my hair—stands on end, greasy and unwashed. Torso un-hugged, lined with old and new welts, bruises painful to the touch. You feel that? You feeling me now?

  Go limp. Relax. I promise she’ll let go if she thinks you’re dead. I promise.

  See? I was right. She’s gone, but hey, watch the walls as you walk on because they have eyes. This corridor is a long white one. That’s right, glance behind you, take a look at what’s being left. You could run—would run—except you don’t know what’s ahead or what’s coming. Me, I couldn’t run because I had to stay here, didn’t I?

  Can you feel the relief that it’s over? That you think it’s over? That you’ve seen him crumple to the floor in a heap, the blood flowing from the stab wound, and you think: I’ve got rid of him.

  Ah. Them in the white coats. There they are, looking at you, looking at me like we’re cute, sorrow in their eyes. Such a shame. What a pity. Oh, the sympathy! Bask in it, lap it up, because this taste is all you’re going to get.

  Then there’s a hand upon your back, urging you to them.

  Arms embrace. Then the door closes, and demeanours change. They’re not so caring now, these doctors and nurses. Some of them think I’m just some dumb-ass. Just another retard who needs to be spoon-fed and have his arse wiped. Barb didn’t treat me like that. She was a nice nurse and she cared for me, but she was moved away to another ward.

  She left me.

  Us insane people are here for an eternity, or for what feels like forever, the years stretching ahead. I don’t speak, so therefore, you think my brain doesn’t work properly and that I have no real thought processes. I didn’t think for years, but when they fucked with my medication, everything went screwy, and thoughts came rushing in that made no sense. Things were in my head I wouldn’t dream of when I was normal.

  Let us pray. Let us be grateful for the food on the plate. Don’t you know how many people are starving out there? Eat the offerings of his body. Stuff. Eat his stuff. If you don’t, if you make yourself sick, he’ll Sellotape your mouth shut so you nearly choke. As for her, she’ll tell him to stop in case you die, and he’ll rip the Sellotape off, and your lips bleed. Then when your mother leaves the house to visit the shops, he’ll whip your sorry arse and do things you never thought possible. He’ll make you go crazy by telling you he’ll always be there and no one will ever believe you if you tell on him.

  What? You don’t want to hear any more?

  There’s urine on the floor. Don’t forget it’s there. It’s always there.

  Enough? You’ve had enough now? Time is up, right? Tasting that meal was what did it. Had you gagging and retching your guts up, didn’t it? Try tasting, smelling it forever. Try walking round in my head for eternity. What…you don’t want to? You don’t think you can take me on, do your job? Analyse me, make me better?

&n
bsp; Me neither.

  But I didn’t say all that. Couldn’t, could I? All I had was my mind playing me up, my dribbling mouth, watery eyes, and arms that didn’t work properly. Let’s not forget this stupid wheelchair I couldn’t even move around.

  See, my mind was coherent. Well, to a degree. Yet part of it must have switched off for a while, me sending myself into a sort of coma. I didn’t even know how old I was anymore.

  “Wayne. Hello,” my new therapist said.

  She had a nice smile, like Nicola with the dogs.

  “Would you like to try to talk to me, Wayne?”

  She smiled again. Like Nicola with the dogs.

  “Wayne. Would that be nice? To talk? Try to get things off your chest?”

  I wanted to smile at her, but my lips wouldn’t stretch that far.

  His face was wrinkly, and the skin bunched up around the eyes. He didn’t look like my dad anymore, but I couldn’t say the truth, otherwise Mags would have given me one of her looks. Dad resembled one of those really old people they showed on the news who had been beaten up. He had bruises on his face from the steering wheel when the car hit the wall.

  “Wayne. Let’s take it easy, okay? Just try to say something. Anything at all.”

  I didn’t like this. I wanted to go back to where it was safe.

  See, she was there on that bench. I saw her through the window of the coffee shop I was sitting in. I had this nasty coffee in front of me that tasted bitter even with sugar.

  “Wayne. It’s okay. I won’t pressure you. We’ll just sit here if you like. Would you like that?”

  Actually, no, I wouldn’t like it. I wanted to see Barb, live at home.

  But you think I want to just sit here?

  “I’ll talk if you’d like me to, Wayne. Let’s see, what shall I say?”

  Why are you fucking asking me that when you know damn well I won’t answer? Can’t answer. Can’t answer you! Can’t answer you!

  I willed myself to speak.

  She smiled at me. “Before I start, would you like a drink, Wayne?”

  I willed myself to speak.

  She smiled at me again, wider this time. Like Nicola, you know, the girl with the dogs. With the dark sunglasses and the blonde hair that blew in the wind.

  “Wayne, what would you like to drink?”

  I willed myself to speak.

  She looked at me.

  I recalled how I’d felt when Dad went. How I’d been left with Mags because Dad couldn’t cope with her anymore. About six months after she’d started that fucking new job, he’d walked out. I’d heard them rowing about some bloke she’d got friendly with, how Dad felt it didn’t help that she’d showed off her legs to all and sundry, and that this guy probably read the signs she’d been giving him.

  “Wayne? Would. You. Like. A. Drink?”

  She sounded far away, as if her voice was travelling through a tunnel and taking ages to reach me.

  I’M FUCKING WILLING MYSELF TO SPEAK.

  And I did.

  “Ribena.”

  PART TWO

  Name: Wayne Richards

  Gender: Male

  Age: Adult

  Height: 5’10”

  Weight: 186lbs

  Eyes: Brown

  Hair: Brown

  Distinguishing Characteristics: Long scar on cheek.

  Mental Stability: Unknown. No obvious threat to humanity.

  Physical Stability: Wheelchair-bound. Physiotherapy recommended to encourage free mobility.

  Brief Case Study:

  Upon waking from a coma, Wayne Richards came to me for therapy. This has been offered in an attempt to stabilise his mind. He was electively mute. I finally managed to coax Wayne into speech, although he isn’t willing to divulge any of his past. We only discuss mundane life matters.

  Before his treatment begins, I suggest Wayne is given the opportunity to learn to trust a therapist at The Klinter Institute. In these circumstances, I feel he will become susceptible to the idea of sharing his past, as here at the hospital he seems distrustful, unsettled, and disorientated. A new location may help him overcome these problems.

  Wayne has endearing qualities. I do not feel Wayne is a threat to other patients or any members of staff. He is an adult struggling to come to terms that he is such, since entering a coma from a severe bang to the head, age seventeen.

  With support and encouragement, I am confident Wayne will get well. It is on this basis that I hope he is given the chance to stay at The Klinter Institute with the opportunity for rehabilitation elsewhere in the future.

  Kind regards,

  Joy Hope

  Chapter Eleven

  More words came easily once I’d spoken that first one. Especially after I’d moved to The Klinter Institute. It was a long slog, I’ll say that much. Struggling to get the syllables to sound as they should had me feeling like one of those weird people. I suppose I was one of those weird people, but when you’re in the same situation as they are, you don’t see yourself as such. Couldn’t be happening to you, see.

  My therapist, Jen, sat and waited for me to finish what I’d just attempted to say, then answered me as if five damn minutes hadn’t just passed.

  I remembered one such time when the words had come a little faster, and my mind had learned to slow down to the pace of the words and not the other way round. Jen sat behind her desk in her big leather chair. I sat opposite in my wheelchair.

  “So, Wayne. It’s obvious you have things locked inside, things you need to say to enable you to move on. Do you trust me enough now to talk about them?”

  Did I trust her? I fucking loved her. I’d been lucky. I’d had Barb, too. She’d cared for me. But then she’d left me. No. Rephrase that. Barb had finished her nurse’s training and had been placed elsewhere. She’d had no choice but to leave me, I accepted that now.

  Back in the hospital, when I’d slept, I’d made myself a little world of my own. In my head, I wanted Barb for myself. The reason? She cared for me, and that was a big thing; no other fucker had ever truly cared for me before Harmony had come into my life. With no other way to make her mine, I’d taken her into my world of slumber.

  I blinked, forced myself out of the past.

  Did I trust Jen? Jen, with the short blonde hair, the pixie features, the slight build.

  “I trust you, yes, Jen,” I said, annoyed I still had a lisp.

  Jen seemed to light up before me. A tickle of excitement bubbled inside me at making her so happy. Her eyes, they widened, and her cheeks flushed slightly, and she looked young and vulnerable and beautiful all at the same time.

  “Well, Wayne. That’s just wonderful. Truly wonderful. I’m so happy that you trust me. I would love to become great friends with you during our time together. We’ll get you all better, you’ll see.”

  “Better, yes, Jen. Then I can go home.”

  Jen smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, her lips just did the motions. “I don’t think you’ll be going home, Wayne. Not to the home you knew, anyway.” She straightened and leaned back in her chair, placed her hands over her stomach. “Wouldn’t you prefer to make your own home? Why would you even want to go back there?”

  Did I prefer to make my own home?

  Jen smiled, and this time it did reach her eyes. Blue as the sea, complete with the reflection of the sun on their surfaces.

  “Of course,” she went on, “despite having your own apartment, it would be warden-controlled. You’d be able to go down to the communal room in your apartment block and make friends. And the warden would look after you.”

  I’d have to make friends? Shit, I wasn’t sure I could do that.

  “I’m scared of making new friends.”

  Jen’s sea-eyes flooded, and she sniffed. “I know, Wayne. But you’ll be fine.” She lurched forward and tidied up some already tidy papers on her desk. “Right, then. Let’s get some talking done, shall we? Show Them Upstairs I’m earning my wages, hmm?”

  The thought of ma
king Jen proud of me had starbursts dancing inside my chest. We’d show Them Upstairs.

  I thought of Mags. I’d need to talk about her. Of Scott and the tainted peas he’d forced me to eat. Of Dad, dead in his grave. I decided that yes…yes, it was time. I’d open up and let it all tumble out instead of keeping everything in my head, where it festered and grew, an unruly fungus fed by my hatred.

  I’d have to battle to keep my insane ramblings to a minimum. No way could I risk letting my mind wander and lose the chance of getting out of here.

  Jen cleared her throat. “Would you like a carton of Ribena? I’ll make myself a coffee, and we can begin. We have three hours this morning, plenty of time.”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  She got up from behind her desk and walked over to the small fridge where she kept various soft drinks, cartons of Kia-Ora placed in regimented rows next to the purple Ribena.

  She placed the Ribena on the edge of my chair arm. “Think you can manage to open that by yourself?”

  “Yes. I’ll try anyway.”

  I picked up the carton and manipulated the straw from its transparent outer casing, prepared to stab the straw into the little silver hole in the top. I listened to Jen’s movements, the swish of her skirt as she busied herself at her coffee percolator. I poked the straw through the silver hole—a moon in a purple sky—and juice squirted up and hit me in the eye.

  “Ouch.”

  “Did it go in your eye again, Wayne?”

  “Yes. Dumb fuck!”

  “You’re not a dumb fuck. These things will take time to master again.”

  I sucked some Ribena through the straw, mind transported back to childhood every time I tasted the blackcurrant juice. Jen sat behind her desk, steam from her coffee rising and swirling, a mini fog.