PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (28 page)

“How
would you know that?  We have never spoken about it.”  At least I think we
haven't.

“You
left a note.”

“What!” 

“A
suicide note.”

“I
want to read it.  I have to read it.”  This will tell me.  This will tell me
that last thing that I knew.  The collections of apple cores, the receipts, the
rose petals, the photographs, the rows of tablets, the piles of chewed
fingernails, the magazines, and even the small pill box that contains fallen
eyelashes which I have gathered to help me never forget anything ever again
would pale in comparison to this one chance.  My final thoughts before I was
supposed never to return to life.  The last thoughts of a woman who believed it
was over.  I will finally understand and I will answer my own questions and Ishiko
can be silenced.  The fear, the pain, they will all be gone, replaced by the clarity
of a diamond.

“You
can’t.”

“No,
Gregory,” I say as I stand up, the crockery on the table rattling as I knock it
with my thighs.  “You don’t understand.  I
have
to read it.”

“You
can’t, Charlotte.  It doesn’t exist.  I burnt it.”  I sit, or rather sort of
collapse into the chair and he reaches over and grabs my hand again.  I don’t
feel it, I just see him doing it.  That’s how I know what is happening.  I see
without any sense of feeling.  “You said it was my fault that you couldn’t have
children.  That it was my doing.”

“You
burnt it.”

“I
had to.  You hated me in those moments.  I couldn’t keep it.”

“You
burnt the truth.  You took it from me.”  Now he is on his knees, holding my
face.

“This
is exactly what Dr. Abrams meant,” he says, talking to nobody, not looking at
anything.  “Charlotte, focus.”  I can feel my head spinning and racing.  I am
gripping the edge of the table trying to hold on to the last moments before I am
lost.  I can feel the heat of the flames on that day, the dizziness from the
vodka and the tablets.  I can smell the petrol.  I can smell the vomit right
before I slithered over the edge of the boat into the cold blackness of nothing
but deep water.  But then something strikes me, hard on the face.  It is
Gregory.  He is standing over me and he has slapped me.  I let go of the table
and hold my stinging cheek.  “Stay with me, Charlotte.  Focus.”  He is holding
my other hand close to his chest and I feel his heart racing and I realise that
he is as scared in this moment as I am.

“Why
did you burn it?  It could have helped me.  It could have helped me
understand.”

“I
did it because I couldn’t stand it to be there, lying on top of the piano where
you left it.  I couldn’t know it existed.  There was such hate, Charlotte.  You
wanted anything but me.  Even death was a better option.  You blamed me for
everything, but nothing more so than us not having a child.  I was trying.  I
really was.”  He is close to tears.  I can see them welling up in his eyes
which have tinged pink like blood mixed with milk.  My throat hurts.  I feel
pity for him in this moment, and see that the pain of my intended death doesn’t
live on only with me.  It might be the first time I have ever considered this.

“That
seems very unfair of me,” I say, trying to offer him a degree of understanding.

“You
weren’t thinking straight, Charlotte.  That’s all,” he says as he strokes my
hair away from my face.  He brushes past the head wound, tries to take a look,
but on the basis that it has really started to hurt, and smell, I stop him.  I
blamed him.  I told him that everything was his fault.  Was I right?  Was I
fair?

“I
have to see Dr. Abrams.”

“Why?”

“Why?” 
I can’t believe his question.  “You have been begging me to see Dr. Abrams.  I
need to.  I have to remember the past.  I have to know who I was so that I can
be somebody different.”

“You
just have to be you.”

“But
I can’t be because I don’t know who I am.”  I stand up and he gets up from his
knees.  He has to hear me so I grab him by the arms and turn him to towards me. 
He has to really understand.  “I don’t know what the truth is, I can’t remember
it.  I can’t remember anything.  She was right.”

“You
do know, wait,” he looks suspicious, “who was right?” 

“I
have to see him.”  He touches my face again, brings our eyes in line, but mine
are still darting about all over the place and I know this because I see trees
and mountains and bricks and a used dining table all within the space of a few
seconds.

“Wait,
Charlotte.  Who was right?  Who have you been talking to?”

“Ishiko. 
She told me.  She told me I have to remember.”

“When
did she tell you this?  When Charlotte?”  His grip tightens, his hands on my wrists. 
“What else did she say?”  Part of me wants to tell him everything, and tell him
that I know he has failed me.  Again.  But the other part of me wants to
protect him because I am thankful that he has shown me some of my past.  And
also because I feel guilt.  I have blamed him for my intended death.  Can I
blame him again?  The version of me who wanted a child in the past seems like a
woman I do not know.  A different me that I believe I could have liked. 
Perhaps I was not always so hard and empty.  If he knows more, he could help
me.  He could be the difference now.  His knowledge could be the difference
between a future of something or nothing.

“I
can’t remember,” I say.

“Unbelievable. 
Unbelievable,” he says loosening his grip on me and turning away, one hand on
his hip and the other over his mouth.  He turns back to me, his finger pointing
at my face.  “You don’t need to remember anything, OK?  I will help you.”

“And
Dr. Abrams will help me.”

“No,
no,” he stammers, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?
 I don’t understand.  You have always pushed me to see him.”

“I
don’t think it’s a good idea anymore.  Bringing up the past is obviously difficult
for you.  This proves it.”  He reaches down and clutches my hands, tries to
appeal to logic and sense, which I never really believed he thought I had. 
“It’s me and you now.  And the baby.  We have to move forwards, not backwards.”

“Dr.
Abrams told me that understanding the past helps me move forward.”

“Shhhhsh.” 
He holds a finger up to my lips.  “It’s just us now, nobody else.”

He
leads me inside the hotel and up to the suite that he has reserved especially,
the one that looks over the town.  The room is nice, but a bit tired in the
same way that I am.  I see that he has had somebody scatter the petals on the
bed and on the floor around it.  There is a bath already filled, bubbles
creeping over the sides.  There are two glasses of champagne.  He still isn’t
really thinking of the baby.

I
take a bath.  After a while he comes into the bathroom and sits on the side of
the tub.  I hear Beethoven’s
Für
Elise dancing through the speakers, his idea of romance.  Wildly
different to mine.  The fresh wounds that score my body tingle until I get used
to the pain.  When I made the cuts there was a moment of weakness which I
didn’t mention earlier.  Briefly I took the knife away from my skin, almost
changing my mind.  I have forgiven myself for my hesitations now, and so feel able
to admit to it. 

When
he decides I have finished my bath he holds a robe up for me in true genteel
fashion so that he doesn’t see me as I step from the water.  I am covered and
thankful, not wanting to explain why.  He takes my hand and he sits me on the
bed, scoops my feet up so that I lie back.  He removes his clothes methodically,
folding each item whilst a ridiculous smirk creeps onto his lips.  He stares at
my legs as the robe slips open, my skin wet and glistening.  He tries to remove
it, but I hold onto it, and he accepts this with deference.  He does what he
wants to do to me and I act appropriately.  There is a crack on the ceiling,
and a small fly has landed near the light.  There is a bird singing outside, or
maybe it is a crow cawing.  When there are no more details nearby to distract
me I think about Stephen’s hands and the weight that his body would create if
it were on top of me and as a result I believe that I do take some pleasure out
of what is happening.  I smile and stroke Gregory's hair afterwards, pretending
that I am thankful.  I wait for him to fall asleep which takes only minutes,
before getting up, showering, and partially dressing.  I inspect the wounds and
find that they are not as deep as I had originally believed, which disappoints
me.  I find a small knife in the minibar and re-cut them whilst I bite on a
flannel, pressing the tip of the knife so far into my skin that I have to stop
to wipe the flow of blood from beneath my navel.  I smile when I realise that my
white belly is topped with a little blob of red, like a cupcake with a cherry
on top.  My head wound, even though it hurts and I am sure that it smells,
appears to have healed.  I jab the tip of the knife into it just in case I am
right.

The
room is large, and there is a small sitting area.  I take a seat, my mind on
the earlier conversation of how I always wanted a child.  I wonder if this
person which he describes is really me, or just an imagined version that he
thinks suitable for our new situation.  I wonder if his distance has been a
desperate effort to try to find a way to cope with me, and this creation, the
maternal version of Charlotte Astor that he offers me now is a chance to force
me in the direction of motherhood.  Safe and cautious and controlled.

You
might think my unwillingness to believe in this new perfect version of my
husband or my aversion to give him another chance is a pity.  That I am being
unfair.  But how can I trust him when I have spent the last two months feeling
more alone than ever before.  I have even wondered if the thing growing inside
me might even
be
the reason that he no longer wants me.  I have sat as
he has groped me, only to be rewarded by the sight of him pleasuring himself in
the shower.  I have requested a pregnancy friendly menu for my birthday only to
return home to find that we are having sushi.  I have watched him fuck Ishiko
whilst he thought I was in the shower.

I
am left with no other option than to wonder if there is anything real about him
anymore.  Perhaps there is nothing more real about him than there is me.  His
new version of me, a maternal and loving wife haunted by her inability to have
a child for which she cruelly blames her husband seems a self-indulgent
offering on his behalf.  Even in my attempted death he was misunderstood and
blamed without fair cause.  Could I really have been so unfair?  I have to
wonder if he just wishes to remind me of my past mistakes in a way that makes
him appear blameless or wronged. 

I
open the drawer of the table in front of me and find a Japanese magazine.  I
pull it out and leaf through it without really paying any attention to the
contents.  I am not the first woman to sit in this chair or lie on the bed from
which I can hear his snoring.  I finish dressing and put on my coat and gloves
and count to 3547 whilst staring at the magazine in order to control the anger
that slid over me like molten lava from a volcanic explosion at the sight of the
colourful cover.  The crow still caws outside the window, interrupted only by
the sound of Gregory sleeping.  I put the magazine in my handbag along with the
knife and realise that his revelation today changes nothing.

Two
days pass under conditions that would appear as relative normality to an
outsider.  It was only me, and perhaps the others involved who realised that
there was nothing remotely normal about the situation.

The
household has been quiet.  Gregory has stuck to me since we left the hotel,
blissfully happy in the knowledge that he has now decided that our life
together is one worth saving.  I might be more inclined to feel the same way if
I didn’t believe that most of what he told me was a pack of lies so transparent
that the truth was almost visible.  Almost.  In order to take my measurements I
have been forced to resort to stepping into the bathroom under the guise of
needing the toilet, which is a task I know he would never wish to join me in. 
I have been forced to work quickly, and have therefore been storing the measurement
chart under the sink behind the pedestal.  It is no longer possible to remove
the drawer by my bed.  This has complicated matters with the tablets.  I am
sure at the last count it was forty nine, but then at times I wonder if it was
fifty.  I am waiting for him to leave the house so that I may get back in there
without fear of his lurking over my shoulder.  You might ask why I don’t just
lock the door, but he is so closely attuned to my actions that it is
impossible.  He has even started watching me take the tablets again so I must
first put one in my mouth, manoeuvre it under my tongue before removing it once
the lights go out.  There are three tablets between the mattress and the bed
itself waiting for me as soon as I get a chance to store them correctly.

Whilst
I haven’t had to tolerate his spidery fingers creeping over me in the night, fidgeting
their way into my curves and creases, a surgical procedure couldn’t have attached
him any closer to me.  But this is simultaneously his problem.  For it is not
just me that he wishes to be close to.  He is also desperately trying to catch
a moment with Ishiko.  I can tell because I watch him watching her movements. 
It is easily done because her movements are predictable, for she has taken to
spending most of her time in her bedroom.  The changes that occurred over the
past few days have been a giant setback for her.  She is doing her best not to
talk to either of us, because it seems she cannot work out who is burdened with
the larger portion of blame for the change in her circumstances.  Me because I got
pregnant when I wasn’t supposed to, or him because he has forgotten their
agreement.  She was doing very well prior to this weekend, and I felt her
success of my gradual eradication from Gregory’s favour.  But now her plans,
whatever they might have been, have been shattered, smashed into dust which is
settling like the late winter snow that fell on the ground last night.  The temperature
feels better, but we have all been largely confined to the house which has been
an unfortunate development, and has without doubt made matters worse.    

When
she emerges from her room before dinner time his interests are raised.  He
watches the corridor from behind the newspaper which he pretends to read.  I
was surprised to feel a degree of sympathy for her, because for all of her
efforts she could surely never have seen the turn of events coming.  She must
have watched us for days, weeks, months.  Watched how our relationship was
falling apart, and from the pieces scattered at our feet she collected those
which suited her and began building her own.  His actions have taken nothing of
this effort into consideration, and because of this sympathetic awareness I did
try to talk to her.  She muttered something in Japanese which I couldn’t
understand.  But what I did understand was her lack of eye contact and the tone
in which she said it.  It told me without any space for confusion that my
concern was lost on her, and so I have since kept it in check.   Afterwards I
felt foolish for trying to speak to her and so I sat and picked the wounds on
my hand and head until they bled, and I felt better.

At
one point, I announced that I was going to take a shower.  I went upstairs and
opened and closed my bedroom door without going in.  Instead I sat on the top
of the stairs, and as I suspected within a couple of minutes I heard the
shuffle of the newspaper and the patter of feet as he began his approach.   I knew
Ishiko to be in her room, and it didn’t take long before he came to find her,
his feet as slow and cautious as a father’s on Christmas Eve.  He found me atop
the stairs, and of course he looked startled with no prepared excuse to offer
me.  How predictable of him to take the first opportunity to try to get near
her.  He needed only one chance to prove to me that everything he says is
bullshit.  He stuttered something out asking why I wasn’t in the shower.  I
told him I had changed my mind and decided instead to take a breather, to look
at the view through the landing window.  He turned and returned to his seat,
the newspaper soon back in his hands.  I sat and watched the whiteness of the
sky, the unchanging vista of winter uninterrupted by bird or plane, thinking
about how he is a liar of necessity rather than desire.

You
see, I believe that to be a good liar you have to put some effort in, some
conscious and fore planned thought.  To his credit, I believe that John Wexley
is exactly this type of liar.  Beyond any reasonable doubt he has most
certainly lied his way through his marriage to Mary, and has the forethought,
and consideration no less, to realise that at times he will be caught out.  He
has managed to creep his way back into the house, and so it seems for John that
the only lie he has to peddle in order to rectify his situation is one of
togetherness because he is already back and life goes on.  I guess he was lucky
that the mother died.  Priorities changed, and what he did suddenly became less
serious.  Mary can pretend, just like Gregory, that everything is alright as long
as there is togetherness.  It doesn’t matter how fake or transitory it might
be, as long as she can pretend.

Throughout
the morning my main thought is the meeting that I have planned with Dr.
Abrams.  Gregory has decided that meeting with my therapist is pointless and
that we should focus on the future.  I can see his point, and it is true that
in the moments of reflection on the past I do seem altogether worse.  But I am
still avoiding looking at the lake through my own windows.  When I lie my head
back at night and the rest of the house is quiet I still listen out to see if I
can hear the water lapping against the edges of the boats, and I can still feel
it pooling in my lungs.  I still know it is there.  I can still feel it.  Its
heart is still beating beneath the surface and I still know that until I die
there it will not leave me alone.  I belong to it.

I
hope that once there is a child in the house it could deaden the sound of it. 
The cry and the shrill screech of a baby’s screams could suffocate my sense of my
own fate.  The screams could write me a new destiny.  But equally I do worry
that I could stay the same and that I might still feel the urge to die there,
just like my own father did, leaving my child behind to a life of this.  Of
Gregory.

It
was Gregory who announced that he had an urgent appointment that he must
attend.  This appointment appeared to arise from thin air, and he certainly had
not told me about anything before.  A stroke of good luck was that his
appointment was an hour before my appointment with Dr. Abrams, and so I smiled,
told him it was no problem, and that I would be fine at home alone.

As
a by note, I have washed my hands nine times and picked my head three times
already today.  There is still a minimal amount of green slime-like fluid that
comes out of the wound, and less blood than normal.  I have grown by three millimetres
in all directions.  I am wearing a pair of latex gloves.  The windows are locked,
and on the front of last week’s newspaper there is a story about the weather
and how it is likely it is to snow.