Schiz

Two days back. Two. And not a single incident. Good. Geraldine knew they must have exorcised the place. Oh, they wouldn’t say and she wouldn’t ask but she knew. She knew. They had finally believed her but wouldn’t want it advertised by admitting to it. Well, maybe they didn’t all believe but certainly her sister Beatrice did. Anyhow they just went ahead and cast the demons out. Good. She wasn’t about to make a fuss over it, just so long as those things didn’t come back.

She poured piping hot water slowly in the cup where it infused the green tea bag. The aroma of ginger and honey from this special blend lifted her spirits even higher. Ahhh . . . such comfort in enjoying something so simple as a cup of tea while listening to some Mozart. They wouldn’t allow it at the hospital. Too dangerous . . . the piping hot tea, not the Mozart. She wasn’t a thrower. Others were, she wasn’t. If a thrower got a hold of the tea and launched it, it could be dangerous. She understood that. Eight months without listening to Mozart while sipping a nice hot tea was too long. She never wanted to go back there.

Geraldine left the kitchen and stepped into the living room. As she set the tea on the small coffee table, careful to prevent the slightest clink of the cup from interfering with the beautiful moaning of the violin, the corner lamp flickered. Her eyes shot up. She straightened slowly, her hands coming up to cover her mouth as though to repress herself from telling a secret, eyes never leaving the lamp. Not good. Not good all. She waited. Nothing. Not bad after all. Probably just an electrical fluctuation from the power grid. Beatrice said it happened often. Bea and Dr. Michaud had tried to convince Geraldine that was what happened all the time before she was hospitalized. It’s possible. But that didn’t explain the rest.

She pushed her hands up, running her fingers through her close cropped salt and pepper hair. She was only twenty-eight but had salt and pepper hair. And it was short. It used to be long and flowing but now it was short. At the hospital, long was too dangerous. She wasn’t a puller. Others were, she wasn’t. If a puller got a hold of long hair and heaved, it could be dangerous. She understood that. Yet, she couldn’t help longing for her hair. It was so beautiful. She never wanted to go back to that place where she had to keep her hair short.

She heard a whir and a clique behind her. She spun around and the voice of Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma floated out of the speakers. It was just the cd player changing records.  Why wasn’t Beatrice home yet? Another flicker. This time through the bathroom door, halfway down the hall. She quickly picked up the tea cup and, eyes clamped shut, breathed in. She wanted to cleanse her mind with honey and ginger. She wanted to go back to that safe place. The kitchen. She had to get back to the kitchen.

Forcing her eyes into a reluctant squint so as to find her way, another flicker came from the bathroom and frightened them all the way open. She dropped the tea cup to allow her hands to smack her mouth and hold back a scream. The crash of the cup on the table and the splattering hot tea made her jump back. She waited, terrified, eyes locked on the bathroom entrance. Occasional flickers came through.

“. . . Ma il mio mistero e chiuso in me!. . . ”, sang Pavaroti. But my mystery is locked within me.

“This isn’t happening. . .,” Geraldine whispered, breathless. “. . . not again.”

She gathered her courage and started for the bathroom. Another flicker. She hesitated, wishing mightily to fall back, yet needing to move on and quell the fear. It was probably nothing and she needed to reassure herself. Needed to? Had to. At the hospital, alone was too dangerous. At the hospital, you were never alone unless it was for your own good. Then they would lock you up, totally restrained, so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. Geraldine didn’t like that. She liked being alone, but not tied up. Not . . . tied up . . . ‘cause . . . She never wanted to see him again

She reached the side of the bathroom entrance. Small flickers danced about within. She took a deep breath and threw a quick peek. A candle. It was a candle. She had forgotten that she had lit a candle on the wash basin and drew a bath. At the hospital, lighting candles was too dangerous. Never allowed. Yeah, all she wanted was to take a nice long bath, listen to her favorite music while sipping a wonderful tea by candlelight.

A nervous laugh escaped her. She stepped into the room and went to the bath to check the warmth of the water. Satisfied she turned to go back to the living room and clean up the mess when she was stopped in her tracks as she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Staring back at her was another her. Not the one that had spent eight months in a psychiatric ward. The other one, just before that. The one with long flowing black hair.

“ Il nome suo nessun sapra!... ” continued Pavarotti.  “ e noi dovrem, ahime, morir!” No-one shall know his name, and we, alas, shall die!

She approached the mirror, reaching up with her hand, perplexed at what she saw. As her fingers touched those reflected a sound came from outside the room. She turned her attention toward the noise. A doorknob. Someone was at the door of the appartment. ‘Probably Bea’, thought Geraldine as she returned her gaze back to the mirror. The other her was staring at her. Not just the reflection of a look. No. Looking at her with a grin on the lips that didn’t transmit to the eyes.

“Welcome back, slut!”, it said as it’s arm raced out of the mirror, it’s hand reached behind Geraldine’s head and grab hold of her hair.

Beatrice opened the appartment door and heard a crack of shattering glass as she stepped in. Then again. Momentarily stunned she finally pulled herself together when the sound came once more. She hurried to the bathroom and when she entered, there was Geraldine slamming her head against the now pulverized mirror, shouting “STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT . . .”.

Quickly, from behind, Bea wrapped her arms around her sister’s body and pulled her out of the bathroom. Pinning Geraldine down, keeping her revulsion in check at the sight of her sister’s bloody face, she pulled out her cell phone and dialled 911. Then she called Dr. Michaud.

“Meet me at the hospital”, she said.

“Already?”, asked Michaud.

“I told you it was too soon”, replied Beatrice.

“You know we didn’t have a choice.”,  said Michaud, “It’s the Health Ministry’s policy.”

“Yeah, well, there should be warning labels on the side effects of those policies.”, answered Beatrice as she hung up and cradled Geraldine while waiting for the  ambulance.