Slippers
‘Give me my slippers!’
She stands in the middle of the canteen. I don’t remember seeing her before, but she feels like home.
I grab something. Dry crumbles fill my mouth. Rocky bits bounce around, grinding against my tongue and cheeks and up into my throat. Probably a biscuit, let’s say it’s a biscuit. At twenty-two you don’t care about food; it all tastes the same.
‘Give them to me!’ Her voice sounds raspy—of hand-rolled cigarettes. A strand of hair falls over her pale blue eyes, a flicker of determination sparkles through.
The woman from behind the counter keeps a calm voice, ‘Do you want a cup of tea, love?’
‘What?’ Her voice raises. ‘No. I want my slippers.’
It strikes me as funny, so I laugh once, an odd sort of grating, gravelly chuckle. Everyone else in the canteen is frozen—mouths halfway open, holding their breath, wide eyes staring. Clocks tick unnervingly; the sharp sound of seconds snapping away. And music—there must be music in the background as well, as there’s always music on in the background now.
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman behind the counter says. ‘It’s not—’
‘Give them to me!’ She grabs a porcelain teacup from one of the grey trays on the counter and throws it onto the floor. She doesn’t just drop it, she throws it as hard as she can. A loud clattering noise rings as the cup smashes to pieces. Tea splashes across the floor and up against the magnolia wall.
I gasp. The sudden excitement makes my heart burn. Everyone else in the canteen starts to get uncomfortable—jittery voices fill the air, eyebrows raise, legs nervously shuffle on the red plastic chairs. She is causing quite a row now, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she does notice but she just doesn’t care. Yelling, pacing, wearing stained clothes. She is wearing this purple... this purple... What’s it called? I don’t know. A fresh brown stain from the tea that spilled down it. Her breasts bounce up and down.
‘I want my slippers,’ she screams. ‘Give me my bloody slippers, you stupid cunt!’
She sets my world on fire.
***
A beige carpet.
A plant in the corner.
A grey switch on the wall with a red label above it that reads, Lights off.
Oh, I’m here again.
A clock on the wall.
Child-proof latches on the cabinets and drawers.
A sticker on the door that reads, What am I doing this week?
I can’t go outside and go to a shop or anything. I’m stuck on the second floor of a three-storey brick building located on a side street of some major motorway. They keep me in. They say it’s too dangerous for me to be out there. I don’t remember being dangerous. But then again, I seem to have trouble remembering a lot of things.
A white door.
A silver door handle.
A single, sheet metal screw with a high-profile head keeping the handle on.
Three things I remember for sure: (1) My name is Christopher Edward Wright, (2) I’m twenty-two years old, and (3) I’m being kept here against my will.
***
I get up and shuffle to the door. The door leads to a corridor. I hear voices in the distance; I don’t know who all the voices belong to. There is clattering, a telephone ringing, buzzing, footsteps, humming. By the time I come out, I have forgotten which room is mine. I am just lost. I stand there and freeze for a second.
Maybe if I keep walking down the corridor someone will come out and say hello or notice something is wrong. Or maybe I will be able to focus for a few minutes, at least till however long it will take for the fog to clear.
It is a long, narrow corridor, like a square tunnel, with lots of doors on both sides. The floors are carpeted with a pattern designed to hide stains. Some walls are wallpapered, others painted. Large wooden handrails line the walls. Doors on each side. Hm, doors. Doors lead into rooms.
A blue door. I go through the blue door because that is the only door that has a word printed on it – Toilet. When I look at the word, the letters just fall off, drift down. Is this even real?
A safety frame.
A raised seat.
A grab bar near the toilet.
Why am I here? Do I need to go to the toilet? I can’t remember. I can’t seem to be able to concentrate on one thing for very long. I might as well go since I’m here. I fiddle with the zipper. My hands feel clumsy, hard to bend, as if my fingers are taped together. Finally, I get my fly down and take a leak. My urine smells like sour milk.
I stay in there for what seems like forever, but it could have been just three minutes, and after that time, it is suddenly as if the fog is clearing, like the mist is lifting.
I step back into the corridor. One of the doors of the rooms stands wide open. The room is small—a bed, a nightstand, and an armchair are wedged in. As I walk in, I see someone sitting on the bed facing towards me. It is her. She is wearing this purple... this purple... A round brown stain on it. Her eyebrows raise in a cheeky sort of way as she points at my crotch and laughs. When I look down, I notice my package is still hanging out—sausage and potatoes and all.
‘Hi,’ I say and grin sheepishly. ‘I’m Christopher.’
‘—Mr Wright!’ A man in a blue uniform rushes into the room.
‘Eh...’
‘Mr Wright,’ the man in the blue uniform says. ‘This is Mrs Thompson’s room. I’m just going to help you get back to your room, so we can get you dressed again. Is that okay? If you could just put your arm out for me.’
When I look behind as he takes me away, she smiles. When I reach the door, I hear a quiet ‘I love you’.
***
Why is it dark? I don’t remember going to bed. That used to scare me so much when things like this happened. It makes your heart thump, let’s put it like that. Not so much now. Just remember, if I wait and keep calm, things will come back properly.
‘Mr Wright? This is Mrs Thompson’s room.’
‘Hi there, Mr Wright. It’s time to go to bed.’
‘Come on Mr Wright, let’s get you back to your room, back to bed.’
They try to keep me away from her. I don’t know why. They’ve told me. I don’t remember the conversation, but I remember how it made me feel. It wasn’t a good feeling.
***
‘This is outrageous!’
An instant jabbering, a clamour of noise. Loud voices buzz up against the magnolia walls. As I peek from the doorway of my room, I can see three people standing in the corridor: a man in a blue uniform is talking to a middle-aged couple—a man dressed in shorts and a woman wearing sunglasses on top of her head. July— It must be July then. Could it be August?
‘How do you think this makes my father feel?’ the woman says. ‘How it makes me feel!’
‘Try uh…’ The man in shorts coughs. ‘Hey, remember Liz, don’t get flustered.’
‘Don’t tell me to stay calm! Imagine if it was your mother!’
‘Well, that isn’t—’
‘I need you to take better care,’ the woman says. ‘This is already painful enough as it is—My mother, I hope, knows that I love her very much and that the reasons that I’m doing this are to keep her safe and… I hope she remembers that. She doesn’t realize the vulnerability of her situation. Can’t you just put this man… I don’t know, somewhere else or—’
‘Liz—’
‘No!’ she snaps. ‘Dad is devastated. It’s extremely upsetting seeing her unable to recognize us, let alone to find her… her snuggling up against some stranger—No, you need to do a better job at keeping them apart!’
What are they talking about? I’m hearing all this stuff and I can’t turn it off. A sharp pain tightens around my chest.
‘Miss Thompson,’ the man in the blue uniform holds a calm voice. ‘I can assure you, we’re doing everything we can. Their condition, it severely affects their behaviour, it makes—they might react differently, instinctively, respond to urges that normally… I understand this must be—’
‘You understand?’ The sunglasses teeter on top of her head. ‘Really?’
‘We can’t prevent your mother—’
‘She’s married! To my father!’
‘We’ll certainly try everything to—'
***
A tree.
A breeze.
Pale pink petals flutter down.
The calendar says it’s Sunday now. I’m as happy as I can be. I guess this is my favourite place, sitting here, over by the window, looking out at the garden
A wave of flowering branches.
An explosion of soft pink blossoms.
A cloud of petals clothe the ground.
My hands… Look at my hands. Wrinkled hands scattered with lines and sunspots.
I’ve been thinking lately, reflecting upon what it’s like. And, I suppose the honest answer is, it’s up and down. Some days it’s clear and sunshine, other days the fogs descend. You try to remember things, but you can’t. Your brain switches off—broken. A kaleidoscope of memories that has been dropped, leaving behind only shattered images. It’s frustrating, extremely frustrating. It makes me angry as well. Wake up and don’t know where you are. You’ll be greeted by a seemingly friendly face. They’ll take you to the bathroom. They’ll wash you. They’ll help you put on your clothes, brush your teeth, do your hair. They’ll smile at you in the mirror. You see an old face staring back. You don’t realize it is yours.
‘I love you,’ a quiet voice says.
A small white-haired woman sits down in the brown armchair beside me. Her trembling hands fidget with the hemline of a purple skirt. Pale blue eyes meet mine.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
Her face creases; soft sobs escape thin lips.
‘What is it, darling?’
‘I…’ Her raspy breath stutters. ‘I’m a bit confused.’
‘Do you mind being confused?’ I ask.
Her rounded shoulders shudder.
‘If I’m confused, I just do something else.’ I point out the window. ‘What are we looking at?’
‘Eh… eh…’
‘It’s a beautiful tree.’ I smile. ‘And look, it’s the sun; it’s setting now.’
‘Sun, sun… yes.’
‘But you remember what it is now.’
‘Yes.’ She sniffles.
‘What is it we’re looking at?’ I ask.
‘We’re looking at a… It’s… it’s a… argh.’
‘It’s the sunset, isn’t it?’
‘Sun, yes.’
I gaze at the glowing red ball, at the tangerine rays, at the pink sky—fleeting colours dipping below the horizon. I want to keep going and I don’t want to stop. An orb of amber, a speckle of purple, a fiery crimson. This is it. This is my life now. No more than sit down here and be washed, be fed, sleep. Why am I here? I know who I am—What place is this place?
I feel a soft touch—powdery fingers wrap around mine. She grabs my hand and I squeeze hers.
It’s still me, it’s still me.