PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (32 page)

And
then it is there in the room with me staring at me and I see it because Ishiko
let it in with Dana but perhaps she couldn’t see it and I wonder if I am now
being haunted by a cruel trick of fate that I didn’t know anything about and
that maybe if you murder somebody they stay with you and that is why I can
still sometimes hear my father's voice because I always knew that it was me
who.....

“I
killed you!” I say getting onto my feet and backing away before repeating, “I
killed you!” and then both Marianne and Dana stand there speechless and I
realise that Dana can still see it and they both look frightened as they wonder
which one of them should be more frightened because they don’t know who I am
talking about so.....

“I’m
right here, Charlotte.  Don’t worry.  You didn’t kill me,” Marianne says as she
takes a step towards me and she tries to reach out a hand and perhaps if she
was closer stroke my head and Gregory doesn’t try to push her away so I push
myself out from his grip against his struggles to hold me and I crawl over the
bed like a wild animal and I back as far away as possible reaching out behind
me into the corner of the room until I make contact with the wall and I
shout.....

“I
killed you.  I killed you because you are his whore,” I scream at her and my
words are shrill and tear filled and I turn to Gregory and ask him, “Gregory
can you see it?” but I don’t wait for his answer because I turn back to the
thing that walks and appears as Marianne and say, “He made you nothing and I
set you free.  You shouldn’t be here anymore,” and I feel so alarmed by its
presence that my breath is shaky and my words stutter through like a scared
little child who doesn’t know what to do because she is alone and the oar is.....

“I’m
right here, Charlotte.”  It is speaking softly, how one might speak to a baby who
wakes in the middle of the night and when waking them further from their sleep
would be the worst thing to happen and I know that it doesn’t want to disturb
me further and as I look towards Gregory I see that he is at the bedside table
and I can see that he is still crying with Dana next to him and his head is
resting in his hands and Dana is speaking to him and ruffling his hair up and I
think for a second he looks like the crazy one but then he reaches into the
cupboard and says.....

“Why,
Charlotte?  Why haven’t you been taking them?”

“Gregory,
don’t you believe it.  Don’t believe that thing,” I say pointing at Marianne
and then say, “I did it.  I really did it,” trying to convince them that I
killed Marianne and that she should be lying in bed stiff as a rock with a
bloody lip but I can feel my words are breaking up because they are interrupted
by the static of my vibrating outstretched hand towards Gregory again as my
eyes flit between him and the dead thing walking in my bedroom and I see that
he is holding..... 

“What’s
this?”  He looks towards Marianne as he pulls out a pearl bracelet which I know
wasn’t there yesterday and so I say.....

“Somebody
has put that there. 
You
put that there,” I say pointing at the imposter
filling Marianne’s form and then say, “I left it there for her to find and
you
took it!” and I see Gregory holding it out to Marianne and I see a drop of
blood on one of the otherwise shiny pearls and he says.....

“Marianne,
is this yours?”  She nods and he looks back at me and asks, “Why did you take
it?” and I scream.....

“I
left it there on the bedside table.  I DID! I left it there on HER bedside
table.  Not
yours
.  HERS!”  Gregory has pulled out a knife which is a bloody
mixture of silver and red as if it were berries on a platter and I am surprised
by the sight of the blood because I would never put something so filthy in.....

“Charlotte,
what have you tried to do to yourself?”  He climbs over the bed and is standing
at my side.  “What did you do?”  He pulls off my latex glove and I scream but I
do nothing to resist because I have no fight left as my hand is gripped so
tight that the skin splits further and I see blood trickle from the wound on my
hand but he finds no evidence of any other wounds and so he pulls up my sleeves
and pulls at my jumper until eventually he reveals the engravings that I have
made to document my growth and he says, “What are these?” crying and looking
anywhere but at me and Marianne walks towards him telling him everything will
be alright but she doesn’t even look like she believes it so I tell him again
calm this time, almost whispering, “I left that bracelet in Mary’s house.”

“Marianne,
Charlotte.  This is Marianne,” he says, his lips curled up and his face watery
and flushed.  Marianne is right next to us now, at least what looks like
Marianne. 

“Marianne
is dead,” I say, almost a whisper.  “I put my tablets in her water."  I am
crying, I think.  My voice is squeaky like a tiny little bird.  "The
capsules are in my pocket.  In my coat.  Go on,” I dare, pointing at Marianne, defying
her to prove that she is alive, “have a look in that coat pocket.”  I point at
the coat that hangs on the back of the door.  She picks up my coat and pushes her
hand into the pocket.  She pulls out a handful of capsules and a key.  The capsules
are whole and she holds them up for us all to see.  She puts them all on the
dressing table, along with the key.  Gregory is at my side again.  Dana comes
back into the room and I realise that I didn’t see her leave but she announces
that Dr. Abrams is on his way.  She has been crying too.

“But
I did it,” I say, looking at Gregory, desperate for his support, for him to
tell me that he believes me.  But he is looking at Marianne and Dana.  He is
telling them that he should never have stopped me seeing Dr. Abrams.  My head
is throbbing and I reach up to try to release the overwhelming pressure and the
pain of an impending seizure but he holds my arms down.  He is telling them it
was all too much for me, especially with the pregnancy.  They nod, as if they
already know.  “Gregory,” I say, aware that I am no longer part of what is
happening around me.

“It’s
OK, Charlotte.  Don’t speak now, just rest.”  I realise that I am on the floor,
resting against Gregory.  Dana is crouched at my side, and Ishiko has brought
them all drinks like they are hanging around during the intermission at a
theatre.  Marianne crouches in front of me.  It opens her mouth to speak.

“Don’t
worry, Charlotte.  Everything will be alright.  You’ll see.”

I
hear her false words, the words of the dead spoken as if they are real and as
if she is really there.  I tell her.  I tell it what I promised myself would
happen.  “I’m going to tell Mary.  I will tell her that you are there in her
house.  That you are trying to take her life.”  Marianne looks at Dana who
looks at Gregory who looks at me.  I look back at all of them, but mainly at Marianne.

“Charlotte,
dear.  Mary died over a year ago.”

Gregory
holds my head, pulling it into his chest and now all I see is the crease of his
elbow and the soft smell of sweat from the night before.  Somewhere in the
background I hear Dr. Abrams, and somebody says something about my confusion
and a twin sister, but I am already lost to the pull of the sedation, and the
voices are just a background irritation before I am taken by some sort of sleep.

My
first thought, at least the one that I can remember was one of roundness.  I
remember that I woke up one morning and the light was trickling through the
curtains like when the earliest waves tease the shore, when they just sort of
trickle in as if there is no effort behind them.  Rather than think about what
was wrong with the world I thought how nice it was to wake up with the sun on
my face.  I could feel a little bit of heat, and the light crept into my eyes,
welcoming them open.  The noises of the household were all around me.  There was
water rushing through pipes, and the radiator was knocking as the heating
kicked in.  I could hear plates rattling, and early voices.  I turned over and
looked at my clock.  It was a Saturday.  Three days after the last thing that I
could remember.

Gregory
met me in the kitchen, a smile on his face wider than a tomcat.  Ishiko was
behind him, rustling up breakfast, and she too turned around and smiled.  She
was the first to speak.  A quiet and cheerful good morning.  Gregory came close
to me, cupped my face in his hands and kissed my cheek.  He didn’t feel so
cold, and his hands felt stronger than I imaged they would in the moment before
he touched me.

“You
are awake.  Welcome back.  We missed you.”

The
next week was different.  I was under supervision.  Dr. Abrams called at the
house three times, because Gregory had told him that under no circumstances
would he be taking me anywhere outside.  I heard him on the telephone, telling
him how lucky he was that he was still even my doctor, especially after he had
heard about the homework assignments to visit the lake.  I didn’t try and
defend Dr. Abrams.  I didn’t see the point.  Or the need.

Medication
time was different too.  Gregory didn’t see fit to trust me to take my tablets
anymore, and so he stood with me in the bathroom each day, watching me lift my
tongue and poke it out left and right like an antenna searching for sanity.  He
permitted my count of thirty with the water in my mouth.  He didn’t rush me.  Checking
that I hadn’t kept my tablet under my tongue like this made me feel
institutionalised, but with the tablets doing their job, I didn’t care so much,
and I admit I quite liked the attention.

It
was two weeks before I went outside.  The snow had melted without a trace by
that point and it was as if spring had taken over.  There were daffodils in the
garden, and the croci that had withered under the snow had been replaced by
those that had been sensible enough to continue their hibernation a little
longer.  They were blooming, a carpet of purple, white, and the odd splash of
yellow.  My first trip was a supervised walk in the garden, and it was Gregory who
accompanied me.  We talked about the flowers which would bloom over the coming
weeks, and the new patio furniture he was thinking about getting.  He told me
he wanted me to choose it, and this idea extended to a refit in the house as
well, once I was up to it.  Any changes I liked.  He used the phrase "just
in case" a lot during these days to justify being close to me, and I think
it was his honest way of reasoning with me.  He didn’t go to the hotel once.  It
was his way to make me understand his need to be near me, and for my need to be
incapacitated.  Because I was, no matter whether either of us liked it or not. 

The
week before, we cleared out some of my cupboards.  We found many things which
Gregory described as unexpected.  We found newspapers that dated back to two
years previously.  There was a shoebox which was full, nearly at least, of used
tissues, each scrunched into a tiny ball and set hard by its contents.  Some of
them were bloody.  There was a pile of envelopes, all used with their stamps
and postmarks and dating back from before I moved in.  I must have brought them
with me, Gregory said, which I found a disappointment because it meant that I
had been storing these items since before I knew Gregory.  It was harder to
blame him for my problems when faced with the truth.  The most bizarre item
seemed to be fruit seeds.  He found the apple cores as well.  There were many
more, much older ones in the wardrobe, all sealed in Ziploc bags.  Some of the
contents were unidentifiable and so we just made a good guess at what it was.  He
seemed most disturbed by the food.  We found them late on in the search, near
the back of the cupboard, and by this point I was struggling, shaking, and
nearly crying.  When he asked me why I had wanted to keep them, my answer was
fairly simple.

“Just
in case.”

“Just
in case what?” was his reply, to which I didn’t say anything.  By this point,
the medication was already working, and I was at least aware that some of my
answers were less than rational.  I think this is why he used the same phrase
with me.  My own logic used against me.

If
I had answered honestly I would have told him that it was because I needed to
have them there.  Because if I had decided to throw them away it would have meant
that they were in the rubbish bin, and Ishiko would have put this outside and
it would have been taken and I would have lost these things forever.  At least
in the cupboard they were safe, in case I needed them.  In case I forgot
everything and had to relearn everything all over again.  News stories I had
read, envelopes from where I knew people in the world, the germs I had
suffered, the tastes I had enjoyed.  I had kept all this information just in
case, stored in varies piles which now formed the haul of insanity.   Now, a
few weeks after the clearout, I am starting to care less and less for the
things that I have lost.

A
few days ago, through a joint decision that was encouraged by Dr. Abrams, I was
granted permission to venture out alone.  I dressed well, perhaps overdressed
for the milder weather, and I chose to walk to Dana’s house.  I knocked the
door, half willing her not to open, but she did, and greeted me with a smile. 
She welcomed me in, offered me a coffee which I accepted, and which she checked
was going to be alright with my medication.  We discussed how I was feeling and
I told her
well
, and
better
.  I offered her an apology which she
batted away with a quick shake of the hand.  She said it wasn’t necessary.  She
asked me about the baby and if we were excited.  I told her we had discussed
painting Ishiko’s room yellow when she leaves, and that we would turn it into a
nursery.  I told her that Gregory had suggested he might paint it himself.  She
seemed excited for me, and it was nice to see what that might feel like to somebody
capable of such a feeling.

This
is what I mean by roundness.  I am the centre of all emotions now.  Imagine a
square, and then draw lines inside of it to round off the edges so that when
you erase the corners you have a perfect complete circle.  This is what they
have done to me.  There is no edge, no beginning, and no end.  When you start
at the centre, you cannot possibly know the furthest point away, because every
distance is equal.  I have lost my corners.  My extremes.  I am now equal in
all directions.  One corner was happy, another angry, confused, and excited. 
There is nothing deep about my emotions anymore.  I don’t know yet if I prefer
it this way, even though I recognise the obvious benefits.

Seeing
Marianne will be difficult.  She happened to knock the door whilst I was at
Dana’s.  She chose not to come in.  Dana told me that she couldn’t spare the
time, but there didn’t seem to be any great reason for her visit other than
company.  I guess it will take longer with Marianne.  I know she is wondering
why it was her I imagined that I had killed.  I think she wonders if I stop
taking my tablets again whether I will really do it.  I am sure she makes some
extra effort to lock the door and check the windows now, which at least gives
her some insight into how I was feeling.  It is strange that I never knew about
Mary’s twin sister, or that I do not remember her death.  Dr. Abrams told me
that in time it would be appropriate to send my condolences to John Wexley for the
death of Mary’s mother, but that it probably wasn't the right time just yet. 
Margaret, Mary’s sister hasn’t been back to the house since.  Dr. Abrams also
told me that Wexley having the same name as my father could have been a
relevant factor in the development of my delusions, but that we shouldn’t talk
about it too much.  Not yet, anyway.  He seems warier of me now.

Ishiko’s
departure was decided upon whilst I was in my own world.  It was a mutual
decision, I was told, but part of me thinks she may have chosen to leave.  She
has decided to return to Japan for a while, or so she says.  Maybe she is just
telling me so I don’t try to find her.  I can’t really blame her.  Please don’t
believe that I don’t feel some regret for the accusations that I made.  I do
feel bad, at least some sense of guilt.  Gregory appears to have forgiven me,
and has offered me an explanation for most of the events.  The magazine in the
hotel room for example.  She hung out there on her rare days off.  He gave her
use of the swimming pool, a free lunch, and a chance to kick back for a few
hours in her own suite.  The dancing he tells me was an effort to cheer him up,
help him forget about his marital problems.  I have to admit that since I have
been taking the Prozac regularly she seems much nicer, much kinder.  I suppose it
was all in my mind, like the night I caught them in her room.  She tells me
that it never happened.  Gregory confirmed it.  I see now that the floorboards
don’t even creak.  She doesn’t even like lavender, apparently.

Today
is the final day of Ishiko’s presence in our house.  I am five months pregnant
now and my stomach has rounded nicely.  I meet with Dr. Abrams once a week, and
take my tablets under unnecessary supervision.  I have accepted what Dr. Abrams
says, and realise that my lack of compliance was what caused my problems to
manifest.  Discontinuation Syndrome he called it.  Because I stopped taking
them too quickly.  So I take them regularly now, without fail.  Sometimes I
even have to remind Gregory that it is time, and he comes and watches me.  In
time I think he will start to trust me to take them on my own again. 

Ishiko
agreed to stay until we were stable, and so I suppose today is a celebration. 
I decided to look around my bedroom, have a hunt through the cupboards,
drawers, see if there was anything left that I might gift to her.  I thought it
would be a nice gesture, considering I took her photograph, ruined it, and
lusted after her death.  In the process I found a key.  It has a small brown
tag on it and I remember it from work.  It is the key to my obstetrician’s
house.  The final viewing that I did.  He will be living there now and so I
slip it in my pocket and decide to continue the search for a gift later on. 

Downstairs
Gregory is reading last Sunday’s newspaper.  Ishiko is packing the last of her
bags in the room that will become a nursery.

“Gregory,
I am going to go out for a walk.”  He folds the paper in half and peers at me
over the top of it.  He has taken to wearing a tweed jacket in the house, and
always appears to be assessing me.  I think his latest role is that of a not so
modern day version of Lucian Freud.  He wears his glasses all the time, but
they stay on the tip of his nose because he doesn’t need to use them, and he seems
to be in a constant state of psychological assessment.  I think he would like
to get me on a couch and talk about my childhood.  We don’t make love anymore. 
Therapists are not supposed to sleep with their clients.

“Where
are you planning to go?”

“I
just want to walk into town.  I haven’t been out of this road on my own in
weeks.  We are on our own as of tonight.  I have to face it.”  I chose not to
tell him about the key.  He still doesn’t think visiting the past is a good
plan.  I only do that with Dr. Abrams, and even he seems reluctant.  Instead he
says something about focussing on what’s happening in my life now.  Perhaps
even he is scared to talk about the lake this time around.

“Ok.” 
He re-opens the paper, and I know that his air of confidence is all about
experimentation.  If we were in hospital, this would be the first time I would
be allowed day privileges.    

The
first view that I get of the lake doesn’t make me feel anxious.  I see that
there is a child pulling along a toy boat, and another family feeding the
ducks.  Perhaps I will be able to do this, in a year or so.  The very idea I
could be stood at the water’s edge enjoying time with Gregory and a child of my
own is quite a magical thought.  I think it would be something special. 
Something unexpected, if I could do that.  I walk along the edge of the water
wobbling as the gravel displaces under my feet with a small smile on my face,
thinking about how Dr. Abrams would be proud of me.  He says behavioural
changes are a good idea, if we do them slowly.  He says they will help my self
esteem, and that I will feel better about who I am.  Next Wednesday I will tell
him about this morning.  Another success.

Walking
up the hill to my old office is even harder now as my stomach grows.  The measurement
lines have all but disappeared, healing remarkably well because the cuts were
never very deep.  But it doesn’t matter.  That’s what I tell myself.  Dr.
Jenkinson has arranged for me to go to the maternity department once a week,
the day before my therapy sessions to have my measurements taken.  It was Dr.
Abrams' idea.  It is working.  I don’t really think about the size of my
stomach anymore, and have just enjoyed watching it grow, like a normal person. 
I have even enjoyed the drive with Gregory who talks about
when the baby is
here,
and
the baby’s first
this and that.  I am still wearing his
love heart necklace.  He hasn’t taken any photographs of me growing yet.  Maybe
he will nearer the birth.