Slated (6 page)

Even though I used the wrong hand.

I am in a small space, alone. Wood surrounds me. It is dark, but I hold a torch in my right hand.

Cross-legged on the floor, I’m hungry and it is cold and damp. My legs are stiff and there is no room to stretch out, but I don’t care. The pages lie across my knees, kept flat by a piece of wood underneath. The pencil flies across the paper, a dance of magic that is mine alone. Creating an imaginary place so far from this one, in distance and in time: a place I long to be.

So absorbed, that at first, I don’t hear the footsteps, coming down the stairs over my head. I turn off the torch and hold my breath.

They stop at the bottom; pause. Then they start again, coming closer and closer to my secret place. I should do something, hide my drawings, anything, but I am fixed like stone.

A light switches on in my face. Blinding me.

‘There you are.’

I say nothing. He can see it all; the drawings, the pencil. The hand that holds it.

‘Get up!’ he snaps.

I scramble out, the light still dazzling my eyes.

‘You know the reasons; you know how important this is. Yet still you disobey.’

‘I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I won’t. I promise!’

‘Enough of your promises. You can’t be trusted.’

His voice is full of regret; sadness, even.

‘Give me your left hand,’ he says, and when I don’t, he grabs it.

‘You have to learn. I’m sorry.’

And I almost believe he means it, as he smashes my fingers, one by one, with a brick.

Agony stabs my eyes, twisting like the blade of a knife.

There is a metallic, bitter taste under my tongue. I cough.

‘She’s coming around.’

A male voice. Who?

I try to open my eyes, but they burn as if the sun has fallen from the sky. I groan.

‘Kyla?’ A hand touches mine. Amy.

‘Turn out the lights,’ she says. The light drops, and I squint between my lids.

‘There you are,’ she says, and smiles.

I’m on the floor. I try to sit up.

‘Don’t move yet,’ the male voice says again, and I turn my eyes to the source. A paramedic? And another. Mum, white-faced, stands in the doorway.

They lift me back into bed while Amy holds up an IV bag. One of them fixes it up, the other injects something into it and warmth slides into my veins, starts to take the pain away. My eyes close.

Voices mix and fade.

A nightmare did
that
? Disbelief.

She could have died…

Keep in bed for a day or two…

Pain management…

If Amy hadn’t woken when she hit the floor, she would have died…

Last Chance.

‘Can I at least have a book?’

‘No. You’re supposed to be resting,’ Mum says, and crosses her arms.

‘I can rest, and read.’

‘No.’

‘They would let me in hospital,’ I lie.

‘You’re not in hospital, you’re on my watch, and you are resting. Go to sleep,’ she says, and leaves again, shooing Sebastian out and shutting the door.

I can convince myself she means well. But it is hard to rest with someone sneaking up on you every two minutes to make sure you are resting.

I close my eyes. My head still feels like it is being crushed in a vice, though it is better than this morning, when even the sound of Sebastian purring vibrated through my skull like drums, and I’d asked for him to be kept out. But I’m afraid to sleep. Afraid that dream will find me again. Now the injection has worn off,
anything
could happen.

My nightmares in hospital were terrifying, but vague. Most of the time I couldn’t remember much of what happened; I just woke up screaming. Often running from something, without knowing what it was.

But this one was different. I remember it as vividly in my mind as if it is happening on replay before my eyes, right now, over and over again. I can feel the pain, see my broken, bloody fingers. It is so real.

Real like a memory etched within, stark and clear; the kind so horrible you can never forget, no matter how hard you try. But memories are one thing I am not supposed to have. Nothing from before being Slated. It is almost like drawing with my left hand yesterday brought it back, from some hidden place, up to the surface.

Who is he? Is he real, or just some nightmare creature that inhabits my mind? In the dream I never see his face. First the light dazzles my eyes, then I can’t see through the pain and tears. But my dream self knew him, even recognised his footsteps.

One thing is certain and sure. If he is real, I don’t want to know.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Sorry. Did I wake you?’ Amy.

I was actually asleep; in a black and silent place, dreamless and still. Maybe the drugs haven’t worn off.

‘It’s okay. I’m sick of being in bed. Can I get up?’

Amy shakes her head. ‘She’ll never let you. They said you were to stay in bed all day. Mum always follows the letter, whether she believes it, or not.’

‘I’m so bored.’

‘Poor you. How is your head?’

‘Not great.’

‘Can I get you anything? Are you hungry yet?’

‘No.’

Amy turns to go.

‘Wait. There is one thing you could do for me.’

‘Yes?’

‘My sketch pad. She took it away so I can’t draw.’

She hesitates. Goes into her room and comes back. ‘Is this any good?’ She holds out a small blank notebook and pencil.

‘Perfect. Thanks.’

‘Keep it hidden.’ She winks.

I prop myself upright on pillows, and turn away from the door so my body shields the notebook. Listening carefully for any little creak that might be Mum sneaking up the stairs.

But with the comforting scratch of pencil on paper, I get more and more absorbed. Escaping from myself, the dream; everything.

I am somebody else.

‘Lucky that was me.’

I jump.

Amy shuts the door and puts a tray with soup on the table next to me.

‘What are you drawing?’

I show her. Half-Mum, half-dragon. In a variety of poses. Breathing fire; flying over the house.

She laughs. ‘Oh, God. Don’t let her see those. We’ll have to hide this away, and—’

She stops and frowns, looking at my hand. My left hand, holding the pencil. Dread trickles into my stomach.

‘I thought you were right-handed. When you drew me, you used your right hand.’

‘I am! I was drawing with my right hand. I just shifted it across to pass you the notebook.’

‘Oh. Sorry; of course,’ she says and smiles again.

My Levo vibrates: 4.6.

‘Chocolate?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘Sebastian.’

She opens the door and moments later returns carrying Sebastian, and dumps him on my lap. He meows, indignant at being kept out all day. I pet him and he flops down, purring. His paws knead against my side through the quilt, claws in and out.

‘Will you eat a little?’ Amy says.

‘In a while.’

Once my levels get back to 5 she leaves to watch TV downstairs. I wrap myself so tight around Sebastian, that he squirms and protests until I loosen my arms.

Why did I lie?

In that moment, I was afraid. Of Amy? This is insane. But the fear was there, it was real. As if Amy could be another one wielding a brick.

I hold up my left hand. Turn it side to side. The fingers are whole and perfect; there are no scars. I can almost convince myself it never happened, that my subconscious mind made it all up. That realising I could draw better with my left hand somehow triggered the dream. It can’t be a memory. I’m Slated; I don’t have memories.

But somehow a sick certainty sits like a crushing weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Every instinct of self-preservation screams inside and won’t be ignored.

No one must know.

‘Everyone, we’ve got somebody new today!’ Nurse Penny says, her voice almost bright enough to match the yellow jumper she wears.

Everyone is a dozen or so Slateds like me, gathered from surrounding villages near and far, sitting in a loose circle in a draughty high-ceilinged hall.

Nurse Penny gives me a push. ‘Go on. Introduce yourself, and grab a chair.’

‘Hi. I’m Kyla,’ I say, and find a chair in a corner, pull it into the circle.

The others smile at me and each other, most years younger. Except one girl, about my age, sitting with her arms crossed and looking out the window into the darkness.

Oh, joy. First day at Group. Just what I need with this blackout headache still heavy behind my eyes. They usually take two to three days to go. Mum had said maybe I could leave this until next week, but then I decided I felt well enough to come tonight. At least this way I finally get out of the house. Besides, there is no point putting it off: it will be every Thursday at seven until further notice. Amy doesn’t have to go any more so I’m assuming ‘further notice’ is until they are convinced you don’t need constant monitoring.

We had Group at hospital also, so I know the story. We’re supposed to talk about our feelings in a ‘supportive non-judgemental atmosphere’, but it usually seems to me that they tell us what we are supposed to be feeling.

Penny crosses her arms. ‘Does anyone remember what you need to do now?’

They look at each other.

This is painful.

Until finally the older girl turns away from the window, and rolls her eyes. ‘You lot are like watching paint dry. Introduce yourselves before we all die of old age.’

I feel my eyes widen along with everyone else in the circle. She was saying, out loud, the kind of stuff I say in my head. How did she dare?

Penny frowns. ‘Thank you for setting us straight. Perhaps you’d care to begin?’

‘Sure. Greetings dear Kyla; I am Tori. Welcome to our happy Group.’

The others begin to chime in with their names, one after another. Smiling. Unaware that Tori’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. All that is, except for Penny, who still frowns at Tori.

Once the introductions are over, Penny glances at the clock: ten past seven. ‘Well, I suppose we had better…’