NaNoWriMo sjjh 2007

Banter unknown chapter number twenty-two

[Later than uc12.]

 

 

“Hello everybody, I’d like you to meet Emily.”

Emily scanned the lounge. Tatty chairs, cheap and clean coffee tables, a television, half a dozen people. They’re probably all mad, she thought. Not like me, not any more.

People turned to face her then turned back to the television.

“I expect you’ll get acquainted soon.”

Emily looked Nurse Palmer in the eyes.

“Yes,” Emily said to the man. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get you settled into your room.”

He led her down a corridor.

Emily stared at the metal number seven screwed onto the door.

Palmer unlocked the door and opened it wide.

“It may not look like much now, but you’ll see,” he said. “Put a few personal items on the shelves and it’ll be just like home.”

Or just like a prison cell, thought Emily.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He swung her funky overnight bag onto the bed.

Emily listened as the door closed behind him. No turning of a key this time, she noted. I could walk out if I wanted, although only as far as the TV room.

She opened the door to look at the number again. Her fingers brushed the metal. The heads of the screws were rough. There was paint on the edges. Light green, same as the door.

It pushed closed easily. Emily turned the knob on the inside of the door, producing an oily smooth clunk. Like a seatbelt, she thought. She pressed herself against the inside of the door. She felt contact at her palms, left cheek, breasts, thighs and the tips of her toes.

Flat like a fantasy, she thought. You went through life thinking it was three dimensional. Then something happened and the film ended and you got to see who had done the CG. Usually Avid. What had been reality was revealed to be just a projection. On a flat screen.

A screen to display the images, the same screen to protect you from reality. That was real three-dimensional stuff, reality. It was deep, raw, and terrifying, that’s three. And ultimately it was undeniable no matter what your analyst tried to tell you.

But the screen, thought Emily, this door. Not just to protect me from reality but also to protect reality from me.

She peeled herself from it.

The bright orange patterns on her overnight bag caught her eye. She unzipped the shiny case. Upside down, the logo on the side was the same. Clothes rained out and scattered on the clean pastel bed.

Just the best of my designer wear, she reckoned. Matt, she snorted. He had packed all the wrong stuff. The yellow corner of an envelope stuck out from under a sparkly vest top. Emily dropped the case and seized the envelope.

Nothing should be in here from out there, she thought. She turned it over in her hands. Her name was written in red on one side in a flowing hand-italic. Emily remembered the italic pen that Matt kept on his desk.

I could push it out under the door, she thought. Best to make sure first though. Make sure it’s from Matt. She opened the envelope with her fingernails.

Inside was a handwritten letter.

 

 

Yo Emily,

 

 

They said we can’t visit you (unhappy face). I’d have texted but your phone is here on your desk. Thanks for letting me dress you for hospital. The doctor said something comfortable and practical. Well, I know what makes you comfortable, Mil. Enjoy the clothes. I bet you’ll run a catwalk party in your ward!!! With scars showing and everything!?!?! Let us know if you do, and where they’re treating you. We’ll visit and let you know all the goss.

 

 

Kisses, Matt

 

 

Emily checked the back. There was a crude drawing of stick figures. Two were standing on what she supposed was meant to be a bed. Others were lined on either side. One had a square and a circle in its hands, a camera Emily guessed. Across the top was written “Emily catwalk queen!”

Emily the sheet of paper in two, then four, then eight. She wadded it, kissed it, and looked around for a bin. It was plastic, oblong and next to a desk. She dropped the paper and the crumpled envelope into the bin, a square and a circle.

She lay down on her designer clothes and looked at her feet. Safe? None of the factions could find her here. She had been very careful to accept all aspects of doctor patient confidentiality that had been offered her.

She was an adult. She could be taken to a hospital without her parents being told. She could be isolated, if certain signatures were obtained. What if she wanted to be isolated? That was different.

I got away, she thought. I had to get away from where the so-called reality that every body knew about was being mixed up with the real reality that only a few people knew about.

Here I can think, get it all straight.

I can even get hypnotherapy, they told me. I think that might help me remember what happened. Before I bit off the thumb of the woman with the cactus. When I bit something else and the men were chanting kill, kill, kill.

I guess I killed. But, it doesn’t seem to count. If I can’t remember it, I’m not a killer. I don’t feel like a killer, somebody who has killed. And who could kill again.

Where did that come from? Could I kill again? I think I want to be capable, just in case. Three-dimensional reality is dangerous.

Cactus woman was from this reality. She never pressed charges and she discharged herself from hospital just about as soon as she could hold a pen again. I thought it was funny at the time but now, now I realise. Flat reality just isn’t that interesting when you’ve seen that it’s just CG.

Sounds like I’m deciding not to go back. Emily rolled over onto her front. Her boss used to say something like that in meetings.

“Sounds like we’re deciding to withdraw the premium product.”

Emily wondered if she’d ever see him again. Probably not. He was a flat guy from the screen reality.

I need that hypnotherapy, she thought. That is the reason I’m here. Get the therapy, get the keys to the first bite. Then I’ll be free.

Right now, thought Emily, it’s like somebody else made me do that and then took it away from me. They trapped me in the flat reality. I’m going to get out of here, and get into their reality, and get them back.

But first, Emily thought, I need therapy. That’s decided.

She breathed in, then exhaled with a vocal “ha”. She got up, straightened herself, no mirror, and unlocked her door.

 

 

“Emily, come in.” Doctor Freeman’s voice had the same crafted modulation as ever. “Sit down.”

Emily sat.

“So, this is to tell you the results of Doctor Wade’s analysis.”

“I thought it might be,” said Emily.

“I have spoken and compared notes with Doctor Wade and we sum up as follows.” Freeman opened a folder and cleared his throat.

“So, patient Emily Spence requested analysis of possible conditioned suppression of memory. Interview completed by Doctor Wade at this hospital on this date. Interview included Rorschach tests, questioning, and examination. Analysis completed with Doctor Freeman, patient’s consulting. No indicators for conditioned suppression present. Some indicators for auto-suppression present.”

Freeman closed the folder.

“Do you understand that Emily?”

“No,” said Emily.

“So, condition suppression is when another person makes you stop remembering something that happened. Is that clear?”

“Yes, I got that part.”

“So, we didn’t find any indicators of that, which means we don’t have any evidence that this happened to you.”

“You’re saying my memory was not suppressed?”

“Not exactly. We’re saying that your memory was not suppressed by somebody else.”

“So, what, I suppressed it myself?”

“It can happen, Emily.”

“Why?”

“There isn’t any one reason. Different people have suppressed for different reasons, and in different ways.”

“So I must have suppressed it myself?”

“Or,” said Freeman.

“Or?”

“Or, Emily, remember what we talked about?”

It’d be funny to say that I’ve suppressed the memory of our conversations, thought Emily. No, now’s not the time.

“We’ve talked about a lot of stuff.”

“Please don’t evade, Emily.”

“I’ve forgotten what you were asking now.”

“Other than suppressing it yourself, what is another explanation of why you can’t recall the incident?”

Capital T, capital I, thought Emily.

“Oh,” she said. “That it never happened.”

“Well done, Emily. I’m very pleased that you have been able to say that.”

Freeman smiled and Emily smiled back.

“Emily, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s about visitors.”

“I haven’t had any visitors,” said Emily.

Or had she?

“Has somebody been trying to see me?” she said. “Asking about me?”

Freeman breathed in and leant back in his chair.

“What would think about that?”

“I’d be pretty surprised because nobody knows I’m here.”

“Surprised, you say,” said Freeman.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“I have difficulty in saying that your reaction was surprise,” said Freeman. “What other word could I use?”

“Use any word you like.”

“What if I were to use the word … afraid?” said Freeman.

“As in afraid of somebody looking for me?”

“Hmm,” said Freeman. “Yes, Emily. Of whom are you afraid that might be looking for you?”

“Nobody.” Pesky analyst, thought Emily.

“Nobody,” said Freeman. “But when I suggested the word afraid, you said that somebody might be looking for you.”

“I had to say something.”

“You didn’t have to,” said Freeman. “But even if you had, you might have said that you were afraid of being visited. I don’t know, you might be worried what people would think if they saw you here.”

Make it stop, thought Emily. What is his problem? Always trying to work me out. Why can’t he just get me what I need? So far all he’s done is say that I’m suppressing the memory myself, that’s if it happened. Well, I know it happened. That means … that means …

“Okay,” said Freeman. “You don’t want to talk about that. Today. That’s fine.”

“Okay, good,” said Emily.

“Did you have any other questions for me about Doctor Wade’s analysis?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“So, I think that’s all we needed to cover today.” Freeman stood. “See you same time Friday.”

Emily slipped off the couch.

“Oh one last thing,” said Freeman. “Could I take your picture?”

“Sure.” Emily raked her hands through her hair to make it big.

 

 

Back in her room she locked the door and pressed herself against it.

Did I suppress the memory myself, she wondered. Why would a person do such a thing?

There was a knock on the door. Emily jerked back. Then stepped away.

“Who is it?” she said.

“It’s Trish.”

Emily opened the door. Her new friend, a fellow patient, was standing there.

“Hi Trish,” she said.

“Hi Mil,” said Trish. “The gallery door’s open.”

“Let’s go,” said Emily.

They walked down the corridor, through the television room and into another corridor.

Emily looked over at Trish. The woman had befriended her on her first day. She had told Emily about the gallery door on the second day. It was supposed to be kept closed all the time, locked. But sometimes the cleaners left it open by accident. Sometimes like today.

At the end of the corridor was the gallery door. Emily looked back to check nobody was watching.

“Okay,” she said.

Emily slipped through the door after Trish. She found herself on a balcony.

“See,” said Trish. “It’s a gallery.”

It was true. Emily could see that the balcony ran for a short distance and ended in another door.

“We’re at the back of the building,” said Trish. “They’re not supposed to let us out here because of that.”

Trish pointed to a small cluster of low buildings surrounded by a wire mesh fence.

“What is it?”

“The disturbed ward,” said Trish. “Where the nutcases are.”

The buildings were plain, square. All windows had blinds lowered. Emily shivered.

“Cold?” Trish shifted next to her, touching.

“Just thinking about who’s in there,” said Emily.

“They’re dangerous, I think.”

Trish was shivering too, Emily realised.

“Shall we go back in?” said Emily.

“No,” said Trish. “I like standing out here, when I can. And when I’m with somebody like you.”

Best not to ask, thought Emily. Cooped up in here you find yourself forgetting about all the people out there. I wonder who she was before, if she had anybody special.

“You can say what you like out here,” said Trish. “There’s only those disturbed people to hear you. And nobody would listen to them if they told.”

“That’s true,” said Emily.

“How’s your treatment going?” said Trish.

That’s the first time another patient has even mentioned treatment, thought Emily.

“Not so well,” said Emily. “So far he doesn’t believe me.”

“Doctor Freeman? I suppose he’s giving you hypnotherapy?”

Trish’s body gave a more violent shiver. Emily’s head snapped round to see the other woman’s face. Her eyes were open wide and her mouth was set.

“No,” said Emily. “Why did you say hypnotherapy?”

“He gave me loads of it,” said Trish. “And loads of pills to help with the episodes.”

“Episodes?”

“Part of the hypnotherapy,” said Trish. “Like dreams or something. Episodes they call them.”

“What were – Hey.”

Trish, arms crossed over her chest, had pressed herself against Emily. Emily recoiled for a moment then realised that Trish was sobbing. She put her arms around the girl’s quaking shoulders.

“There, there, Trish. I’m here.”

“Episodes,” snivelled the girl. “Horrible, horrible episodes.”

Emily hugged Trish. This is getting a bit insane, Emily thought. A bit near the knuckle. I can’t get sucked into this, can’t share her pain. This girl isn’t normal or she wouldn’t be in here. She needs professional help not a shoulder to cry on. Should I get a nurse? They could sedate her, I think that’s what they call it.

“Thanks Mil.” Trish’s teary red face looked up at Emily.

Emily opened her arms and Trish backed off. Still holding her shoulders, Emily looked into the girl’s eyes.

“Are you OK?” she said. “You’re not having … an episode?”

“Oh no, I don’t have them any more.” Trish wiped her eyes. “Not since I switched to Doctor Croft. He doesn’t do hypno.”

“So, hypnotherapy’s just not a good colour on you then?”

Trish sniffed and smiled.

“My bum looks big in hypnotherapy.”

They both laughed.

Best not to tell her that I want hypnotherapy to unlock my head, thought Emily.

“Do you want to go back in now?” said Trish.

“No,” said Emily. “Let’s stay out here but not say anything for a while.”

“Good.” Trish rested her head on Emily’s shoulder.

Emily found that it felt kind of nice.

Poor Trish, she thought. She’ll never get out of here. Unless she goes over there to the disturbed compound. Mad Camp they should call it, like Fat Camp.

But what about me, Emily thought. Will I ever get out of here? What would happen if Doc Freeman works out that I’m faking? He’d have to throw me out I guess, but then he’d be at fault too, for not spotting it earlier. I wonder if he would try to cover it up? Prescribe me a load of sedatives and … no.

That’s paranoid. Doctors don’t do that.

Funny how being stuck in here can make you mad though, thought Emily. I only just caught myself there. I’ve got to get to that moment soon. Otherwise I’ll end up like Trish here. Or over there.

For a moment the buildings of the disturbed ward looked like a face, staring up out of the pit of Hell. Emily shut her eyes.

The face moved, it was angry and it was shouting. Emily opened her eyes.

Just buildings again. There was something about a pit, she realised, in her suppressed memory.

Emily recalled what she could. The way the shouting voices sounded. Kill, kill, kill. There was definitely a slight echo.