Edward cracked his knuckles, releasing all the pent-up nervous energy he’d developed over the past hour. Surely this session is meant to be calming me?
“Cause or consequence, you are not, and were not, at fault. Tell me you understand that.”
“I didn’t do anything to help stop it happening. Whatsoever,” he said, exaggerating the final word in a silly mimicking voice.
“Go on. Tell me what more you could have done.”
“I dunno. I should have stopped behaving like a dickhead for a start. I could have told them I loved them.” He wrung his hands together and bit his lip until it drained of all colour.
“It’s natural to feel powerless at times like these. But I often tell clients they’re in control of their own life. As humans though, there is only ever going to be so much we can do. Stuff will always happen that’s beyond our individual control.”
Edward struggled to regulate his breathing. His chest heaved in spasms and he gripped the cushioned chair until his knuckles too became white from restricted circulation.
“Breathe with me Edward. In slowly, hold for a count of two, out through the mouth slowly. You’ll feel better once the—”
“How can you make things better when my mum and dad are dead!” What was a very pleasant little office in a quaint Victorian terrace building, set among pretty surroundings, was now unquestionably the worst conceivable place in the world. “Can you fix them? Can you bring them back for me?”
Without saying a thing, the doctor plucked some tissues from a box on the table between them. She handed them to Edward at arm’s length. He rubbed his face and sniffed.
“You didn’t have to come into this appointment on your own. I usually insist on children your age bringing someone into the room for support,” Dr Wells said. “You would have refused to see me if I made you bring along someone else. I’ve taken a chance, a chance that we can work together on this. Given what you’ve been through, you are exceptionally brave, yes?”
“No one understands me. You’re qualified, so you’re probably my best hope.”
“Best hope of what?”
“Dunno, curing me of all these feelings inside me.”
Dr Wells smiled. “I can’t make guarantees this early on, but we will make progress for sure.”
“I’m glad you’re finding this great entertainment.” His right arm twinged and he clamped his other hand around the scars that now burned, an aggravating pain welling up beneath his skin.
Dr Wells picked up on this and quizzed him about it.
“I broke my arm in three places. It’s hurting more at the minute. Lucky I’m a leftie,” he snapped.
“That’s not really a good trade-off is it? You hurt yourself really badly in a crash twelve months ago, but it’s OK because you can still write,” Dr Wells said sympathetically.
“Writing’s important to me.”
“And what do you write about?”
“Whatever’s in my head each day,” he replied. Dr Wells pressed him to elaborate. “The other day was the one-year anniversary of the crash. It all came back to me,” he said through dewy eyes and snotty intakes of breath.
“Has your arm hurt like that on other occasions?” Dr Wells queried.
Edward admitted that it was not the first time. “If I’m having a bad day, it plays up.”
“What does a bad day look like?”
“Things happen, like dropping my phone or walking into a lamp post or getting picked on by Simon at school.” He found he was on a roll. “Or if I forget my homework, or get told off for not paying attention in class. Or missing an easy tackle in football.”
Dr Wells nodded with each example that Edward could think of. “Do these all tend to happen on the same ‘bad days’?”
Edward shrugged. “Usually a lot of little things happen on one day. It adds up.”
“And your arm hurts, to top it all off. That’s sad, and it must be hard to handle. How do you cope?” Dr Wells asked. “Painkillers?”
“They don’t work much.”
“Do you take them as Dr Robson tells you?”
“If I have them with me, and I hurt, then I take one or two. But mainly, to take my mind off it, I write.”
“In your diary?”
“Scrapbook for memories and photos. Journal for thoughts,” Edward stated.
“Sounds like a cheaper, more easily accessible substitute for me,” Dr Wells suggested light-heartedly. Edward remained ashen faced. “Anything in particular that these bad ‘things’ you mentioned have in common?”
The natural flow of conversation slowed. Edward needed time to think about it. Then he shuddered, his body trembled. He blanked Dr Wells’ follow-up questions and her concerned face did not register. He was entranced by horrors from within.
“Nooo,” he whimpered, almost squeaking. He struggled to control his breathing. He felt trapped. The events of that day flooded back to him with a vengeance.
He had looked up and turned his head at the same moment that the monstrous, metallic behemoth bore down.
It was so big. It was so fast.
It was so fucking fatal.
“Focus on me, Edward. Don’t let this win. Focus on your breaths. With me now. In for a count of four, hold and out for a count of four.”
“I don’t want to die,” Edward whimpered through a stream of tears. His mind swam and his eyes darted erratically from one feature of the room to another. He again blurted out “I don’t want to die!” in resignation of his inevitable fate, that ultimate common destiny shared by every mortal.
“Look at me, Edward. Breathe in with me, through the mouth—” which Edward obeyed, “—and out with me, through the nose.” She repeated this several times until Edward emerged on the other side, drained from the obscene physical manifestation of his mental pollution.
“My arm hurts,” Edward moaned. He gripped it tightly. “Again, like before, only more painful this time.”
“What type of pain is it?”
“It burns.”
“I’ll fetch ice for you now.” She went to her desk and pulled out a first-aid kit, comprising amongst other assorted bits and pieces two gel packs. “Keep breathing, concentrate on your breathing here, in the present. If it speeds up, hold it. Control it.”
She smacked the two gel packs together and applied them to Edward’s arm. It was riddled with scars and traces of metal from pins, screws and staples that held his tissues together.
“I didn’t like that,” Edward said. His pulse was not quite tamed and his hyper-ventilating hadn’t yet subsided. Even so, the helpless feeling of his imminent demise – which had rattled him to the extent that no words can do justice – abated.
“No one would have found it pleasant. With all that in mind, I think we have a link between your absent-mindedness, your bad days and your sore arm. I think that the connection is a fear of dying.”
Edward reined in his breathing. His cheeks itched from where the tears had dried and he still felt bleary from the panic attack. Dr Wells brought him a cup of water from the dispenser outside her room. Edward was half-tempted to launch this over himself to cool off, but decided to stick with convention and drink it.
“I keep having nightmares as well,” he said through protracted gasps. “I dream I’m about to die.”
“So your sleep’s affected?”
Edward nodded. “I wake up and scream, or something. I sometimes wet the bed.” At this, he clamped his mouth shut, having just divulged to a stranger (a female stranger, no less) that he pees himself in his sleep.
Dr Wells passed no obvious judgement. “How long have these night terrors lasted?”
“They got worse since I moved in with Helen and Michael.”
“Do you not like living with them?”
“I do, kinda, but the dreams sort of keep happening.”
“What do they do about your bad dreams?”
“I tell them it’s all OK. It’s just one of those things that happens.”
“And they don’t believe you?” To this, Edward agreed. “Good. They shouldn’t dismiss it.”
“Why shouldn’t they? Everyone at school takes the piss.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” She remained motionless and upright, even while talking. Her posture was flawless and her fair face gleamed in the light. “And your friend Tom. Does he also make fun?”
“No, that’s why he’s my friend. We’re going to take up boxing together.”
Dr Wells raised a little smile, then maintained a neutral composure. Only her chest and shoulders, set straight against the back of her chair and covered by a woollen shawl, moved up and down with each breath. She twiddled her pen in the crook between two fingers, in a rhythm that matched the beats of those breaths.
“We’ve done well for our first appointment.” She picked up Edward’s drawing from her lap. “May I keep this?”
“Are you going to frame it?”
“What I’m going to do instead is keep it in a special file that I have. It’s like a big report on everything we discuss. For future reference.”
“But you won’t tell anyone else, right?”
“Your GP and parents might need to know in the future, Edward.”
Edward scoffed. “But they’re not even my parents!”
“OK, it’s OK Edward. I told you earlier. You’re in control of your life. I’ll give it back to you or bin it if you prefer.”
“Helen and Michael will find out anyway. I don’t care.”
Dr Wells left the drawing on the coffee table. Edward did not touch it.
Tucked in the back of her notebook was a separate pad of green paper. She tore off a sheet and went to her desk. Edward watched as her delicate fingers danced on the keyboard. Sounds of clacking keys were superseded by the printer whirring into life.
“I’m writing you a prescription. The medicine I’m asking you to take will help you feel less anxious. It’ll lift your mood.”
“You’re giving me happy pills.”
“It’s called sertraline. It’s a common antidepressant.”
“And of course you’ll snitch to Helen and Michael. What if I refuse to take them?”
“Not ‘snitch’, keep them informed.”
Edward rose and snatched the prescription she handed to him. Before making his way to the door, he took in the scenery beyond the windows.
“Our next appointments will look at longer-term coping techniques that you can use. Remember, if there’s more on your mind for us to discuss Edward, we can talk then. You can call me if it’s urgent,” Dr Wells assured him. “Talking is often the best solution to most of the world’s problems.”
“Except when it isn’t,” Edward murmured when his back was turned.
He made his way out of the building and trekked across the fields. From the vantage point at her first-floor office window, the concerned doctor tracked him.
IX
Edward thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and tramped across the field. He pulled a scrunched piece of coloured paper out of one pocket and tossed it onto the ground. In the mid-distance stood a copse of austere conifers that skirted the edge of the greensward. He strayed from the footpath, heading in its general direction.
Ahead of him stood a flower bed. An island flush with rich hues of blue and complex shades of red, it was set amid a monotonous open sea of grass and weeds. The flowers swooned in the breeze, boasting of their splendour. A testament to hope, where even in the depths of autumn, under clouds laden with rain, there can still be beauty in the world. And Edward, with his cumbersome footsteps, bore down on the snowdrops and the bluebells, rendering them useless and violated, crushed into the very soil that had given them life.
Countless thoughts eddied of their own accord, swirling like flotsam on an unruly current. His brain did not take the rigid structure of other organs. Rather, it was a malleable, fluid construct that dictated his prevailing mood. Besides his rage, he shuddered at its capacity to bring to life vivid imaginations. One sound stood out as an outlier amongst the white noise of anger. This, a woman’s voice – specifically, his psychiatrist’s – calling his name. It was eerie how real it sounded. Distant, yet real.
Edward. Edward.
Edward.
“Edward, wait.”
Edward had reached the cusp of the wood. He turned and scowled as Dr Wells closed the gap between them. In one hand, she clasped her smart heeled shoes. Her other hand was clenched into a fist. In moments she too had encroached the tree line where Edward lingered.
“Don’t you have other patients to see?” he said.
Dr Wells was barely out of breath, which impressed Edward given how ungainly she was dressed for running. “Your home is on the other side of town. Why go this way if you live near Newton Bridge?” she asked.
“I’m stopping round Tom’s house. He lives in Sadlers Common.” He smirked, amused by the psychiatrist’s messy hair and muddy tights.
“Then why go through the woods? There’s a footpath that cuts along the grass.”
“This is a short cut to the bus stop. I’m not a fan of them running around over there either.” He pointed at a group of dogs chasing and sniffing each other in the middle of the recreation ground. “What did you think I was getting up to here anyway?”
“I was worried, Edward. You muttered something as you left the room and here—” She opened her fist to reveal the green sheet of paper in her palm. “I picked this up on the grass back there.”
“Sorry for littering,” Edward huffed. He had assumed a seat on a truncated tree stump, where he swung his legs through the loose dirt.
“Why get rid of your prescription? Don’t you want to give this a fighting chance?” Dr Wells stepped a few paces deeper into the forest. She turned her head so only her profile was visible to Edward. She ran her fingers through her hair and flung her head backward, loosening her bob.
Edward was adamant. “I don't wanna take more pills.”
“You don't trust the medicines, don't think they'll work. Maybe there is one thing I can suggest that might be almost as useful as anything I can prescribe.”
Edward’s curiosity blossomed.
“I want you to do something for me each morning, when you’re in front of the bathroom mirror before doing your teeth.”
Edward sat still as a totem. It was the first time since his appointment had begun where she commanded his utmost attention.
“Only when your breathing is perfectly calm and there is nothing playing on your mind, you are to say out loud: ‘I am not to blame.’ Don’t stop telling yourself that, until you truly believe it. When you at last do believe it, then repeat it once more, with a smile.”
The totem-boy stirred, unsure as to the significance of what she had instructed him to do each day. “Is this a trick you play with all your patients? Who’s getting billed for this time?” he joked.
“The thing is, medicine and therapy are tools to help ease your anxiety and control your fears. That’s until we can talk things through next time, in full.”
Edward said nothing. Instead he smiled, jumped off the trunk and walked off.
“Stay safe Edward,” Dr Wells called after him.
“I’ll bring energy drinks next time, in case you want to race me home,” Edward shouted without looking back.
◆◆◆
Later that day, in Tom’s bedroom, the boys laughed as they competed in a popular football computer game. In the month or thereabouts since they’d met, a strong friendship had been forged.
“Come on, I told you to hold ‘A’ to shoot! You’re not even trying.” Tom despaired at Edward’s incompetence.
“My arm’s screwed, I keep telling you,” Edward insisted. “Literally, screwed.”
“What have you done with your free time since the crash?” mocked Edward’s host. “Don’t make me select ‘amateur’ difficulty next time, please.”
Edward half longed for them to return to their homework, strewn w
ith gay abandon across Tom’s desk.
“I think you’re just making me win so that you can see me pull my pants down to celebrate. Perv,” Tom joked.
“Excuse me, I did actually score three goals in that match,” Edward hit back.
“Shame I had to go and score six, wasn’t it?”
Tired of throwing a small tantrum after each defeat, Edward admitted, “No, you beat me fair and square. Again. Please though, don’t pull your jeans down.”
Duly, Tom did just that and no sooner had he zipped his fly up, his mother called them to supper.
“Race you!” Edward called out, taking advantage of his head-start to try and thrash his friend in a sprint to the dining room table. He had to restore some pride. Even in this contest, he still managed to lose, although his physical handicap afforded him an obvious excuse here.
They ate and settled back upstairs for one more round of matches. When the final whistle blew, Edward was euphoric. Humility flew out of the window as he sought to give Tom a taste of his own medicine. Tom was unimpressed by the showboating and threw what seemed to be an innocuous punch into Edward’s right flank.
“Oh god, ow!” cried the stricken boy.
“It’s what you get for being such a shit winner,” Tom glowered.
“No, oh god, ow!” whimpered Edward, who by now had buckled over in agony. All colour drained from his face.
“Are you serious? What’s wrong with you?” Tom looked at his friend’s shirt and saw it spotted with blood. One glance at Edward’s demeanour told him now was not the time for mockery.
“I…I feel…no,” was all Edward could say. His rosy complexion was replaced with an icy pallor. The burgundy stain kept growing on his blue T-shirt.
Tom suggested water, pillows – everything except the most obvious solution.
“Get help. Now!” implored Edward as he buckled to his knees and rolled onto his left side. Tunnel vision consumed his field of view as his breathing laboured.
Tom summoned his mother and an ambulance was called. This was despite his denials of culpability. “I didn’t even touch him, really,” and “He started it, I swear!” followed by, “I didn’t know!”
Screams of Thy Neighbour Page 6