(In)sane
An excerpt from the novel by Heather Lawver
Copyright 2003 - Steal it and die
Please, please, let me know what you
think. I'm eager for feedback.
Chapter One
'I had dreamt of France at night.
My nanny would tell me stories of Paris. The cook spoke French. I was nine
when I figured out I lived there.'
Devon Barlow sat back against the shingles
of the sharply pitched roof, looking out across the water of the Loire. He
always enjoyed sunrises, especially from four storeys above the ground.
Clad in white linen pajamas, Devon rested
his feet against a stone gutter, waiting for that moment when Earth met first
light. That moment when he could watch the prisms of light swim across the
delicately rolling waves. He believed that the roof was indeed the only place
a person could really experience the event properly. In surround sound,
widescreen, and deluxe technicolor, your entire being attacked by a cataclysm
of life anew.
Devon believed that this should be
experienced at least once a week, if not every day. He understood the deeper
meaning to all of it, the need for such emotional and physical renewal. However,
the psychiatrists who ran the mental hospital -- which Devon was now sitting
upon -- did not see the point in such daring acrobatics for the sake of what
Devon thought of as his Genesis. To the psychiatrists, "new beginnings" shouldn't
entail the risk of falling from the roof of a large white building.
Despite the protests from the psychiatrists,
whenever the opportunity would present itself, Devon would repeat this cycle
of sneaking out of his room and climb to the roof. No one knew quite how
he accomplished it; at that time in the morning, all the windows and doors
were supposedly locked and protected by alarms. He'd evade the precautionary
and security measures every week, thus beginning his habitual adventure.
'Animals migrate, why not me?'
All the hassle of getting to the roof in time for Mother Nature's vibrant
display of the abilities of her alarm clock was worth it to Devon. Life inside
a mental hospital could become rather drab, and often was. There were the
occasional nut-jobs that sparked things up a bit: biters, kickers, and all
around violently insane patients. But, they were locked away the moment an
outburst was even slightly suspected.
Life was indeed dull, but it was the
only life Devon knew, apart from his books. These vicious circles of
psychological rebirth added some zing to the every-day routine. And, if nothing
else, it gave the hospital workers exercise, what with all the running around
they did trying to get Devon down again.
'Funny the way they look so much like ants from up here. So speedy, so
small. I wonder what I'd look like if I were an ant...'
Devon made it a point to let his mind
wander on Genesis days. He did enough serious thinking on every other day
of the week, anyway. His mind would roam from one seemingly childish subject
to the next, pondering ordinary things such as ice cream, snails, or furry
animals.
But today was different.
The sunrise was the same as always, the
rooftop was as it always had been, but not once, in all the years he had
been a patient at the Institute, had something occurred as strangely as this.
Shortly after the sun rose, when pink was about to become blue, when Devon
usually made the most important decision of the week, the front gate opened
and a large black car drove onto the long road leading to the circular drive
in front of the majestic hospital building.
It could have been a hearse, or maybe
a limousine. Devon couldn't tell the difference. Even with all the thinking
he did, he never once pondered automobiles.
It drove to the front of the building
and slowed to a halt.
Devon leaned forward so he could see
what was going on. He watched silently from the rooftop as three men piled
out of the car, each wearing gray tweed, three-piece suits. These were rich
ants.
After the three men were out and they
had collected themselves, they walked to one side of the car and opened the
rear passenger door. One of them reached in, shuffled around a bit, then
appeared again. But this time, he was holding someone in his arms; a woman.
'She's obviously the queen of the ants.'
Her body lulled backwards in his arms, as if her body were lifeless. Perhaps
the three-pieced soldiers had killed their queen. Devon had seen that happen
in the backyard once, they knocked the queen's head clear off when carrying
her into one of their tunnels.
The front doors of the building opened
and five more ants came out, four in white jumpsuits, the fifth in a lab
coat.
This woman must be the queen, she's obviously
important. The head of the Institution doesn't come out to greet every patient
that arrives, especially not this early in the morning.
A fourth man got out of the car, out the same door as the queen. He was dressed
solemnly in a black suit, and a black fedora hat was perched on his perfectly
combed hair. He held a petite white handkerchief to his nose and mouth. Not
once did his gaze move from the queen.
'Did ants have kings?' Devon couldn't remember.
Perhaps they had killed the queen, and now she smelled so poorly that the
man had to block his senses from the pungent scent of death. Very odd, those
ants. Dev never could quite understand them.
Another white worker ant came out of the building, pushing a hospital bed
on wheels. The queen was gently placed on the bed, and the men surrounded
her bedside.
Devon got a good look at her this time.
Her skin was fairer than cream, and even from four storeys above, he could
see she had brilliantly pink lips. Her hair was of such a color that it seemed
as if it reflected the very copper hue similar to Mother Nature's alarm clock;
deep red-brown, curling locks that surrounded her head in a halo as she lay
on her back.
Why anyone would want to hurt the queen
was beyond comprehension for Devon. She was so pretty underneath all those
blue and purple bruises. Her eyes were blackened, there was a cut above her
right cheekbone, and a great gash on her forehead, right along the hairline.
Her bare arms were also bruised and mangled in a manner very unbecoming of
royalty. It seemed as if her skin was naturally the color of a rotten eggplant,
splotched with a few delicate patches of cream. It seemed a true calamity
that such a creature was treated like that. She must have been a true beauty
at one point, but someone had robbed her of that.
She suddenly opened her eyes, meeting Devon's gaze dead on.
'Could ants read minds, too?'
They looked straight into each others eyes for what seemed like ages... and
then she was gone, pushed away by that worker in white.
'Bloody ants,' he thought as he
shifted his feet against the stone gutter.
The gray-suited soldiers followed their wounded queen inside, along with
the solemn king, leaving three hospital workers outside. Devon continued
leaning over the edge of the rooftop, begging for another glance of the unlucky
queen. Something in her eyes caught him and wouldn't let go.
"Oh no, not again," some of the ants were talking down below.
"What is it?"
"Barlow's at it again," said the first
ant, pointing upward, straight at Devon who was still perched on the gutter
like an overgrown bird. "Look."
"Aw, crap," moaned the second ant. "I
did not need this today, not now... I'll go get Dr. Alexander, he'll handle
this."
Devon's privacy was about to come crashing
down again. It always happened like this. They'd bark, holler, cajole, call
the fire brigade, whatever it took to get him down.
Dev always thought this was all terribly
ironic. If they'd just leave him be, he'd come down on his own. Of course,
he wouldn't be alive after a fall like that, but that was the point. Life
was boring anyway. Why not end it all after the most exquisite time of day?
End on a high note, he always thought. But the workers didn't understand
that, they never did. They had great luck, always happening to catch him
in the act before that climactic moment of decision.
There was always next week. He'd most
likely spend the next few days in solitary confinement, or just get an extra
assortment of brightly colored candy with breakfast, if he was lucky. He
liked the red ones best; they were so bright and cheerful, and gave him the
most delightful buzz as they went down. He seemed to remember their name
started with Z, but he couldn't remember.
He'd be given candy with breakfast for a few days, then he'd start all over
again. Such was life.
*****
'Have you ever watched water fall? It's amazing, really… could be so
purifying, yet with some time, it'll wash away the biggest rocks on the
earth…'
Gabriel watched the water flowing from
the tap of the bathroom sink as words echoed through his head. Devon used
to come up with the strangest thoughts out of the blue. Comments about space,
the theory of relativity, etc. The oddest of things had the best opportunity
to be released through Dev, someone with an ordinarily still mouth.
Gabriel dipped his hands under the water,
bending slightly for his face to meet with his cupped, water-filled hands.
He splashed the water against his face as he straightened back upright. He
held his hands to his face, the cold water dripping between his fingers,
and trickling down his cheeks.
From behind his hands, he stared out at the mirror before him. He'd changed
so much in the past year. He didn't even look himself anymore, despite how
many times people recognized him on the streets. He wasn't the same person;
he knew that, why couldn't anyone else see it? His once soft face had become
pale, gaunt, almost lifeless in expression. His hands had been reduced to
nothing more than bones. And the scars... delicate lines of radiant pink
threw themselves against the undersides of Gabriel's wrists, surrounded with
putrid shades of purple and red; the leftovers of newly healed wounds. His
fingernails were stained with blues, purples, and reds. He had been painting
a lot lately, mostly in those shades. He just couldn't bring himself to paint
in any other colors. They were too bright and cheery for him. Colors didn't
have the right to be that happy in such miserable circumstances.
Gabriel grabbed a hand towel off the ring beside the mirror and threw it
against his face. That was enough looking at himself for one day. He dried
off his face then went back through the door to his bedroom. It was so bleak.
Nothing but white walls, a white bed with white sheets, a white dresser,
white floor... It was a crime for colors to be happy, but it was even worse
if they were nonexistent.
There was a touch of redemption at his
window, a small palette of soft hues and warm light. Gabriel turned his back
on the monochromatic room and looked out the window. France was a pleasant
change for him. England's surroundings had proven to be too delicate, and
too firm a reminder of what had happened... He couldn't let his mind wander
back there, not now. He was supposed to be healing, not hashing up all the
old wounds. Picking at emotional scabs would not be tolerated, not today.
The sun was rising across the banks of the river. Elegant bands of color
leapt through the cloud-filled sky, beautifully lined by an opulent blanket
of treetops. She would have liked a sunrise like this...
His mind was wandering backward again. He began to turn away from the window,
trying to stop the cavalcade of self-pity that was calling for his attention.
He hadn't gotten so far as a quarter turn when something caught his eye;
a black car. Might have been a Mercedes, or perhaps even a Bentley. Not too
surprising, considering what it was driving up to.
It sailed past the rows of Cyprus trees
that stood at attention along the path that led up to the Institution. It
drove counter-clockwise around the circle drive and stopped at the door.
Gabriel had his head pressed against the bullet-proof plexi-glass, trying
to get a good look at the car.
Vintage Bentley, all the way. Stark black,
and in mint condition.
Three men got out of the front seat of the car and proceeded to the back
passenger door. One of the gentlemen opened the door, reached in, and reappeared
holding a very frail looking woman. There was something familiar about her,
but Gabriel couldn't quite explain it. He couldn't see her features too clearly,
due to the distance and the terrible discoloration of her skin. Perhaps it
was the hair, the rich copper curls seemed to catch his attention, but for
what purpose he didn't know.
Another man came out of the same car
door. Dressed in an exquisite black suit, a black fedora atop his head, and
holding a single white handkerchief. The unlucky angle of viewing, and the
shade from the brim of the man's hat, obstructed Gabriel's view of the man's
features. The whole party seemed quite distinguished; they must be horribly
important. Gabriel was beginning to feel truly out of the loop, it seemed
something in high society had taken place and he didn't know about it. After
being so involved in it, albeit reluctantly, it was a shock to his system
to be outside the fence and looking in for a change.
The group of five walked closer to the building, leaving Gabriel with a very
unforgiving and impossible angle to follow them inside. Curiosity jolted
Gabriel's legs, making him walk sprightly out his bedroom door. The curls
on that woman's head were stuck in his mind, teasing his recollection. He
hurried toward the main staircase, his bare feet feeling the stinging cold
of the marble floors. As he reached the head of the stairs, he paused for
a moment, remembering what happened the last time he ran down a staircase
with hope in his heart. He took a deep breath, grabbed the handrail, and
proceeded slowly.
As Gabriel reached the fifth step, he
heard voices echoing up the stairs coming from the main entrance hall.
"Take Mrs. Henge upstairs to her room," said the unfortunately familiar voice
of the head psychiatrist.
Gabriel paused. He heard the footsteps of the aids on the stairs. They were
bringing that unfortunate creature up his staircase, toward the reserved
ward. High society, indeed. He took two very cautious steps and peered around
the curve of the staircase. The parade came into view; two aids dressed in
white, carrying a bed up the stairs.
"Out of the way, Riordan," barked the
first aid. Gabriel clambered to the side of the stairs, making way for the
threesome. As they passed, Gabriel couldn't help but stare at the woman.
Her face turned and her eyes stared at him. She was so blank, as if she weren't
there at all. She was looking through a window no one else could see, something
that removed her from this earth. All Gabriel was seeing was a shadow, an
echo of something that was once there inside the woman, but had been beaten
out of her. A spirit he was once familiar with.
Within an instant, she was gone. The aids reached the top of the stairs and
carried her onward. Gabriel didn't risk following her; he had no right to
ask questions. He continued downstairs as if his destination were below him.
When he reached the base of the stairs he saw a small party exiting through
the doors into the arboretum. Gabriel's favorite room in the hospital was
an octagonal shaped, three-storey tall room in the very center of the
Institution. It had been filled with flowers, greenery, and a few small trees.
Contained, controllable nature, the doctors believed, was safer for the more
volatile patients. Gabriel adored the room for its scents, mist, and color.
The light that poured in from the stained glass ceiling shed a strange hue
on the plants. He promised himself that if he ever felt up to painting cheerful
colors, he'd paint the arboretum first.
Gabriel decided not to follow the party. He wasn't particularly fond of Dr.
Alexander, he didn't want to risk a confrontation. Any group led by Dr. Alexander
can't be a happy one. After all, he is the man responsible for group therapy
sessions.
*****
"Strap him in tight this time, we can't have him running off again."
"Yes, sir,"
Devon hated it when they'd bring him
down. It was always the wheelchair for him then. They'd force him into a
straight jacket, tie up his arms so tightly he could barely breathe, and
then strap him to a ridiculously degrading metal chair with wheels. They
said it was for his own good, but he didn't believe them. If they knew what
was best for him, they'd leave him alone on Rebirth Days.
He was wheeled into the hospital through a side door, walked him through
a long white corridor past hundreds of doors. He was in a ward this time,
but he could never remember which ward was which. All of them looked the
same with their bleached white walls, tiled with plain ceramic that looked
as if they were in the world's largest shower stall.
'Could ants breathe underwater if
you held them down long enough?'
"Where are we going to take him?" There were ants behind him, pushing him
along. Two, he thought, but he didn't care to look. He was losing interest
in the ants.
They were too annoying to bother with.
"I dunno… what did Dr. Mayer say?"
"He told me to take Barlow to the
Socialization Center, but I don't know if that's such a good idea… last
time we left him in there… never mind, you don't want to know."
"He's all tied up, Mick, what's he gonna
do?"
"I suppose you're right."
They wheeled him along the hall, through
a set of large double doors, and into the main, circular lobby. The interior
of the hospital was quite impressive; no expense was sparred in the construction
of it. All the floors were marble or hardwood. Elegant skylights decorated
the ceilings wherever possible.
Soon enough, Devon found himself sitting in front of a large bay window in
the largest room in the hospital. Known as the "Socialization Center" it
was basically a room full of chairs, couches, and tables, set up for the
patients to interact with each other. Very rarely were there any actual
interactions of consequence. Most of the time it was empty, except for Devon
who was often parked there, strapped into his wheelchair, left alone to gaze
out the window at the people outside in the backyard. He felt that in a situation
like this, he could fully understand what it was like to be a fish in a bowl:
confined in its own mind, left to stare at a world it would never be able
to communicate with.
Devon was looking out the window, contemplating the sunrise he had witnessed
not long ago. But even more intriguing was the young woman that arrived:
the queen of the ants. He could not take his mind off of her. He had seen
true beauty behind those scars, and it fascinated him. It boggled the mind
to decipher why such a creature would need to live here. This wasn't a hospital
for bumps and bruises of the body, what would a psychiatrist do for her?
"They caught you again, didn't they?"
Devon turned his head to the main door
of the giant room, and saw a sickly man standing, gazing at him. He was
relatively tall, with handsome dark hair. Had Devon not been familiar with
him, this man might appear somewhat frightening; he was so thin it was almost
inhuman, his face was gaunt, pale, and pained. He walked over to Devon with
his hands in the pockets of his uniform white pajamas.
Devon nodded in reply.
The man's sad eyes contemplated Devon's
face for a moment. "You know, one of these days, they won't catch you in
time."
He nodded again, tears beginning to well
up in his eyes. He knew his purpose for climbing to the roof was only to
jump off. He was ashamed, even though he thought he wanted it.
"You know why I want to do it, Gabriel,"
whispered Devon, fighting the tears, continuing to gaze out the window. "Surely,
you of all people would understand." His eyes turned and met with Gabriel's.
"I'm sorry," Devon mouthed, breaking
the gaze with his one and only friend, and looking down, ashamed of what
he had become.
"You can't say you're sorry, Dev," demanded
Gabriel defiantly. "Remember, I forbade you to ever say that word. Take it
back."
"Gabriel," pleaded Devon, but his friend
wouldn't hear of it.
"Take it back!"
"Fine," muttered Dev. "I take it back."
He knew Gabriel meant well, but he forgot so easily not to say he was sorry.
It had become an instinct to him. Every minute, a hospital worker or therapist
would snap at him that he'd done something wrong, he'd immediately respond
with a quiet and piteous 'sorry'. In all his years, this had happened so
many times, whenever anyone addressed him that was the only word he could
remember: "sorry." Pretty soon, that was the only word he could remember
to say at all. "What's your name?" "Sorry" he'd reply. "Where do you live?"
"Sorry," the only word he could ever remember. Except when Gabriel was around.
There was something in Gabriel's eyes that told Devon he could be trusted.
Those dark, deep, commanding green eyes. They would have been captivatingly
beautiful were it not for the emotions of remarkable pain behind them.
"Next time you go up there," said Gabriel after a moment's silence. "Take
me with you."
Devon's eyes went wide, and he shook
his head. When he did this, Gabriel couldn't help but think he looked like
an overgrown two-year-old.
"Why not?" asked Gabriel. "If you can
do it, so can I. What's so special about you?"
Dev just continued to shake his head.
"Sorry… sorry… sorry…" he couldn't control it now. It was
a reflex. He sat in his chair, his arms tied and bound; shaking his head
so violently the wheelchair began to shake. All he could mutter was "sorry."
Gabriel rolled his eyes and grabbed the
back of the wheelchair. "I'm not going to die, Dev," he said, pushing his
friend out the doors and into the main lobby. Devon looked back at his friend's
hands, which were gripping the handles of his wheelchair. He saw massive
scars that were slightly purple on both sides of Gabriel's wrists, and up
his forearm. He knew Gabriel had tried his own kind of Rebirth Days before
he came to the
Institution, but he preferred not to
think about it. To him, Gabriel was perfect; he was the real doctor, not
those other idiots in the lab coats.
"I already tried dying a few times and
it doesn't work out as everyone expects it to," continued Gabriel, pushing
Devon along into the dining room. "And don't say that word anymore, you
promised."
Chapter Two
"Checkmate…" yawned Devon; he was
quite exhausted. Of course, it could have been the funny pills they'd given
him with breakfast. He hadn't had a blue one in a very long time… he
couldn't remember if they made him tired.
Gabriel looked back and forth from the
chessboard, up to Devon's nonplussed face, then back to the board.
"How in the name of heaven did you do
that? I was moving the pieces for you, how could I have missed that?"
Dev shrugged his shoulders as best he
could, considering his arms were still trapped in the straight jacket. Devoid
of any other ideas of what to do after lunch, Gabriel brought Devon into
the giant Socialization room again for a good game of chess, hoping against
hope he'd win this time. Dev always won, and it bugged the crap out of Gabriel.
They'd sat there for an hour, Dev telling
Gabriel where he wanted his pawn, or his bishop. Gabriel felt luck was on
his side that day. Devon seemed distracted and distant. Something was on
his mind, and Gabriel knew it. And yet, Dev, looking out the window that
was beyond Gabriel, not even looking at the board, he methodically gave the
orders, moving his ivory troops into battle, and led them right on to
victory… for the umpti-umpth time.
"Remind me never to play this with you again…" muttered Gabriel as he
put the pieces back into place. "Do you want to be white this time? I'm sensing
bad vibes coming from those pastey idiots."
"You mean," whispered Devon in his same,
quiet, shy tone, "you're still going to play with me?"
"Of course!" exclaimed Gabriel, his thick
south London accent at its most pleasing degree of thickness. "I was only
kidding, and besides, there isn't much else to do. I'm out of acrylics again
and they won't deliver any more until Monday."
"You go through those really fast, don't
you?" sighed Devon.
"Hmm? What?" Gabriel wasn't paying attention.
He was trying to remember if the Queen went to the left or the right of the
King.
"Acrylics."
"Oh, them… yeah… they're good
for textures, you know, textures in the paint."
"Yes, I know; you told me."
"Mmm," cooed Gabriel, his mind still
on setting up the board. "Have I? Do I talk about paints that much?"
"Sometimes…"
Gabriel placed the King sharply on his
square, and glared up at Devon with a loving, yet thoroughly concerned look
on his face. "What has gotten into you today? You love chess! It's all you
talk about when we're playing! Why are you so bloody interested in my acrylics?"
Devon's lower lip curled into a pout,
his eyes went downward again, and he began rocking gently back and forth
in his chair.
"Sorry… sorry… sorry…"
Gabriel sighed and pushed the chess table
out of the way. He pulled Dev toward him, grabbed him by the chin, and lifted
his tear-streaked face up so they were eye to eye. "Do… not… say…
you're… sorry."
Suddenly, the tears stopped rolling down
Devon's cheeks, and he looked at Gabriel's forlorn face. He nodded slightly
and then stared at the chess table.
"Are you ready to play again?" asked
Gabriel, noticing where Devon's eyes had gone.
Dev nodded.
"Will you tell me what has you so
preoccupied?" pleaded Gabriel in a very monochromatic tone.
Dev shook his head.
"Then I'm not playing…" Gabriel stood up and started to walk away.
Devon's mind raced. He began rocking
back and forth so violently until finally the wheelchair could do longer
withstand the force of Dev's muscular thrashings. The chair tipped over sideways
and Devon was trapped on the floor, still strapped onto the chair by his
legs and around his chest.
Gabriel pretended he hadn't heard any
of it and continued walking away. Dev whimpered after Gabriel, but whimpering
wasn't what Gabriel wanted.
There's a reason you have to walk away, he reminded himself. He burned to
go back, pick his friend upright again, and massage the bruises that would
surely come on his shoulders. He has to learn how to talk normally again
and that's all there is to it.
He had almost made it to the large double
doors that led to the main lobby, right before he was about to turn around,
forget about Barlow not talking, who cared? He was stuck on the floor like
a turtle on its back, and it killed Gabriel to think about it. But, then
he heard it.
"Gabriel…"
It was soft and quiet at first, but it
was enough to make Gabriel stop. He waited for a moment, but there wasn't
anything more. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Hmm, must have been the
wind…"
"It wasn't the wind… I'm hurt. You're
walking away and I'm hurt."
Gabriel would have smiled if he were
still capable of it. There, a little louder than
Devon's normal barely audible tone, Dev
had asked for help. True, he didn't come out and say 'help me,' but Gabriel
got the message. He turned around and jogged back to Devon, who was tangled
up with a metal chair, looking stunned.
"You shouldn't shake like that," sighed
Gabriel, using all the strength left in his starved arms to lift the chair
upright again. "Maybe next time I won't be here, and then what are you going
to do?"
Dev looked down once more, shame written
all over his face. "I'll try not to do it again."
"Good," said Gabriel, sitting down and
rubbing his arms. "You can be white this time," he said, pulling the chess
table in between them again. "'Because the black knight always triumphs.'"
*****
"To your right, just outside those doors, are the grounds. At the base of
that slope just beyond the veranda there's a pond where the patients enjoy
feeding the ducks in the shade of the giant oak tree,"
"Hmm," Bennett was being led on a more
in-depth tour of the hospital facilities by the Head psychiatrist and owner
of the Institution, Dr. Morris Alexander. Ben had been on a tour much like
this one the week before, but he barely remembered it. After the accident
a month and a half ago, Bennett was on auto-pilot, relying on his friends
and colleagues for direction. One of them, Brian Taggart, the head of the
technical department at Ben's company, suggested he bring Emma to Dr. Alexander's
institution. He gave him a very detailed history of how Alexander was the
most respected psychiatrist in Europe. Some CEO in the States heard about
him, and hired him to join the Institution in southern France. Taggart
immediately set up the appointment, and the rest was taken care of by the
lawyers. All Ben cared about was that his wife would be comfortable, well
cared for, and be left in the hands of someone who might help her recover.
Bennett was assured by those around him that Alexander was the man for the
job. Even if it meant moving from their main home in London, if it meant
Emma would be in the right place, Bennett didn't care.
"Are you sure you want to do this today,
Mr. Henge?" asked Dr. Alexander, stopping in front of the large double doors
that led to the grounds. Sunlight poured into the room, creating a soft halo
around the two personages.
"Better now than later," replied Ben,
fingering the fedora hat he held in his hands. "Even if I'm only half here,
I'll pick it all up eventually. I plan on visiting a lot…" his voice
trailed off as his eyes turned to the glass doors and he peered out at the
utmost branches of the oak tree that were peaking up over the top of the
hill.
"Is there a tree fort in there?" wondered
Ben aloud.
"Pardon?"
"A fort," mused Bennett. "You know, planks
of wood, a ladder, a bucket on a string to hoist supplies to the top."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Henge," said the
doctor, growing all the more concerned over the man before him. "Why do you
ask?"
"Emma used to love tree forts…"
his eyes darted slightly, following the swaying movement of the branches
shuffling in the breeze outside. "We built one outside our home in
Yorkshire…" he turned back to the doctor, the rim of his eyes turning
slightly red. "It was for our children, you know."
"Let's continue on to the Socialization
Center," suggested the doctor kindly, trying to shift Ben's attentions elsewhere.
They walked through another set of double doors; these made of strong
plexi-glass. They walked through as the doors made a soft hissing noise,
welcoming them into a large room filled with chairs, tables, and couches.
Two men were sitting by a far window,
nonchalantly engaged in a chess match.
"Who are those two?" asked Bennett, politely
interested.
"Patients," said the doctor hurriedly.
"Only patients."
"Who's the thinner one, the one…
good god, is that man strapped to that wheelchair?"
"He has a tendency toward self-mutilation,
sir," lied Dr. Alexander as quickly as he could. "It's for his own good,
you see."
"Oh…" Bennett continued to stare
at them as the doctor began babbling about 'state of the art' this and 'high
tech' that. Ben didn't care about that; he'd dealt with technology long enough
for one lifetime; the two men playing chess were far more interesting. He
could have sworn he'd seen the thin, pale, sickly man somewhere before, but
he couldn't quite see the man's face in order to make the mental connection.
Bennett couldn't restrain his curiosity
any longer. He stopped Dr. Alexander in mid-sentence, asking, "Would you
mind terribly if I go and talked to them?"
The doctor looked quite taken aback. He was so used to visitors and relatives
of patients not wanting to have anything to do with the other 'nutzos' in
the place, what would make a millionaire any different?
"I… I suppose there'd be no…
harm in it," stuttered Alexander. "Go right ahead."
"Thank you," he replied, walking slowly
over to the quiet pair, leaving the doctor behind with his thoughts.
"Knight to King seven," said the man in the wheelchair. Bennett could barely
hear him, he didn't speak much louder than a whisper, and those eyes, they
spoke louder than his voice.
"Good day," said Bennett kindly as he
approached them. The man who was moving the chess piece for the other snapped
his head to the side and stared right at Bennett, who took a step back as
he saw the man's face. The connection had been made; a familiar name had
been combined with a recognizable face.
"What a pleasure to see you again, Mr.
Riordan," said Bennett, holding out his hand for the thin man to shake.
The man nodded in reply then held out
his right hand. It was so devoid of flesh it appeared almost skeletal. Bennett
was shocked to note the ghastly sight of long, purplish scars that decorated
the man's arm. They were pink and purple, as if they were only just about
to heal completely. They couldn't have been more than ten weeks old. Ben
did his best to look past them as if they did not exist and continued with
his polite air.
"I had heard you'd gone on holiday,"
said Bennett, trying to strike up conversation. "Are you here on a visit?"
"Hardly," said Mr. Riordan. "I'm terminal,
I'm afraid."
"Who's Riordan?" whispered the other
man quietly so it was inaudible to Bennett.
"Shh," cooed Riordan out of the side
of his mouth as Bennett continued.
"Terminal?" he gasped. "I thought the
death of your wife hit you hard, but I didn't think it was that devastating."
Riordan sighed and moved a black chess
piece to counter the other man's knight. "Might I introduce my friend and
associate, Mr. Devon Barlow," he said, waving his hand at the man in the
wheelchair. "Devon, this is Bennett Henge; the owner of the world's first
successful Internet banking system."
Bennett smiled sweetly and waved lightly
at Devon. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barlow."
Devon replied by lowering his chin to
his chest and muttering, "Sorry…" Bennett's brow furrowed in total
confusion, but he didn't have a chance to respond to Devon's strange statement,
for at that moment Dr. Alexander approached them. He had grown tired of waiting,
not being at the center of attention.
"We must be going, Mr. Henge," he said,
waltzing up to them, and casting a commanding look at Mr. Riordan. "There's
still a lot for you to see."
"Alright," said Bennett, but before he
left he turned back to Mr. Riordan who was staring at Devon silently. "It's
been a delight seeing you, Gabriel, and a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Barlow.
Good day."
Alexander whisked Bennett through another
set of doors, leaving the two men to their chess game.
"Who's Riordan?" repeated Devon, this time a touch louder.
"Riordan is my last name," said Gabriel,
not looking from the chessboard.
"You told me Etienne was your last
name…" squeaked Devon, slightly hurt.
"Etienne is my middle name," he looked
sharply up from the game and stared at Devon. "My name is Gabriel Etienne
Riordan. Happy now?"
"Don't look at me like that…" muttered
Devon. "I hate it when people look at me like that… my mother looked
at me like that… stop it…"
Gabriel put his bishop down, pushed the
table aside, stood up, and walked over to the window.
"I'm sorry," he said, looking outside
at the brilliantly white clouds that sailed across the bright blue sky. "I
promise I won't look at you like that again… There's something strange
about that man."
Devon was silent for a moment, which
shocked Gabriel; he had been expecting a rapid fire session of, "sorry, sorry,
sorry." Instead, there was nothing.
He turned around and saw that Devon was
looking down at his feet, turning and flexing his ankles against the restraints
in a very childish manner.
"What is it?"
"…"
"Come on… tell me. You've been hiding
something all morning, spit it out."
"I saw him this morning… from the
roof," whispered Devon as if he'd stolen a cookie from the cookie jar.
Gabriel's eyes lit up. "You saw him from
the roof at sunrise?"
Devon nodded his head.
"The man in the black fedora hat…"
Chapter Three
"How have you been doing, Gabriel?"
"Peachy," replied Gabriel as
monochromatically as possible. He was lying on a tan distressed-leather fainting
couch, nervously rubbing his middle finger against his thumb as if trying
to snap them. He stared at Dr. Caldwell, one of the on-hand psychiatrists,
who was sitting in a matching winged-back armchair to the right of the chaise.
"Hmm," cooed Dr. Caldwell thoughtfully
as he jotted down a note on the clipboard that was rested against his knee.
"Tell me how you've been doing over these past few weeks… you've been
here, what? Ten weeks now?"
"Nine," retorted Gabriel, looking
unpleasantly at the doctor.
"Yes, nine," the doctor kept his eyes
on the clipboard, not even bothering to look at Gabriel. His small, round
spectacles were perched daintily on his sharp nose. "So… I've noticed
you and Mr. Barlow have become rather attached; tell me about that."
"Devon is a very quiet person," said
Gabriel matter-of-factly. "I had heard stories about how he wouldn't or couldn't
talk. For some reason he saw fit to talk to me, so I thought I'd listen."
"Ah, I see," another note was scribbled,
and the topic was abruptly changed. "Tell me, how are those scars healing
on your arms?"
Gabriel sat up, and held out his arms
for the doctor to see, but the doctor didn't take his eyes from his clipboard.
Gabriel rolled his eyes, then laid back down.
"The skin is healing," he muttered
disdainfully. He decided to play along with the doctor's game, and changed
the subject before anyone else had a chance. "When will my supplies arrive?"
"Supplies?" said the doctor, a bit puzzled.
"My paints, palette knives, et cetera,"
he spat. "We agreed I'd be allowed to paint."
"Yes, I…" the doctor finally looked
up at Gabriel and said, "they will arrive tomorrow, now, I'd like to ask
you…"
"Who was that woman who came here this
morning?" Gabriel was treading on thin ice; he blatantly interrupted Dr.
Caldwell, something that horribly annoyed that man, and of course, Gabriel
knew that.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That woman," continued Gabriel confidently.
He knew it was bothering the doctor, it was working. "You know, the one with
Bennett Henge."
"Oh…" the doctor paused, and swallowed
with great difficulty. "That was his wife. Moving on…"
Gabriel sat bolt-upright, his eyes alight.
He interrupted again, this time with more brute force. "Emma Henge…
What happened? By all means, man, tell!"
Dr. Caldwell slammed his pen against
the clipboard and looked ruefully at Gabriel. "You know perfectly well I'm
bound by patient/doctor confidentiality. You may be a psychotic, depressed,
suicidal maniac, but I know your intellect hasn't been altered. Don't play
that game with me, Mr. Riordan. Shut your mouth before I put you in Solitary."
Gabriel was utterly shocked beyond words.
He had never seen Dr. Caldwell make an outburst like that, and it was rather
unnerving. However, he was pleased to note he saw a trickle of sweat sliding
down the side of the doctor's face; he'd struck a nerve.
"Yes, sir," said Gabriel, fighting the
urge to taunt the doctor further.
"Get back to your room and stay there
until dinner… Go!"
Gabriel launched himself to his feet,
and marched out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
*****
Dining that night was unusually quiet. Gabriel had entered the dining room,
expecting to find Devon sitting alone at a table, waiting expectantly as
he always did for Gabriel to arrive. He looked around the room, and Devon
was nowhere to be seen. Gabriel escaped to a corner table and ate alone,
surveying those around him. Those who could feed themselves would dine silently
until the Caretakers would come and take them away.
Around a quarter after seven, when Gabriel was lazily twirling his spoon
through a bowl of tomato soup, Dr. Alexander and Bennett Henge walked quietly
into the dining room. The doctor waited by the door as Bennett strolled between
the tables, looking at the food, smiling at some of the patients as he'd
walk by; taking a full account of his surroundings.
Gabriel watched Bennett with great interest,
forgetting his half-eaten dinner.
It was amazing how Bennett could get
down to the same level as the patients, and yet still retain a higher air.
He was a walking quandary. Bennett Henge had never been a sophisticate or
an aristocrat by any means. Raised dirt poor on a farm in Suffolk, but found
his niche in the world when one of his Uncles happened to find a good deal
on a computer, and gave it to Ben. He mastered it immediately; a natural
talent, they all said.
Everyone in Europe knew the Henge tale
of 'Rags to Riches.' It had become a modern legend. Now incredibly rich,
Bennett spent all his time, and indeed a great deal of money, on his little
American wife. She was the mystery in the tale. No one knew much about her,
she just arrived on the scene one day, and was accepted by those in Ben's
inner circle. Never questioned, and constantly admired; Emma fit right in.
Bennett continued to walk about, inspecting
the place as if he were a commanding general overlooking a troop about to
be sent abroad. He continued deeper into the room, until his eye finally
caught sight of Gabriel. He perked up immediately and walked directly toward
him.
Gabriel tapped a few droplets of tomato
soup off his spoon, and placed it gently on a napkin to the right of the
bowl. Running his index finger gracefully along the spine of the spoon handle,
he looked up at Bennett, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Good evening, Mr. Riordan," said Bennett
cordially, reaching out his right hand, inviting him in on a friendly handshake.
Gabriel obliged, of course, then motioned his hand to the chair opposite
himself.
"Would you care to sit?" asked Gabriel
in his best manner, that which was taught to him by his manager. Well, his
ex-manager at any rate. "Would you like some tomato soup? I'm sure they'd
be more than happy to supply you with some."
Bennett smiled warmly. "No, thank you.
I've already eaten." He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, then he
looked up at Gabriel with a strange expression; obviously not something they
taught at Socialite School. It was a quizzical, uncomfortable, almost vulnerable
look, as if Bennett weren't sure of what to do next.
"Would you mind, terribly…" he said
slowly, "If I asked you a few questions?"
Gabriel was intrigued. "By all means,
take advantage of the liberty and continue."
The professional air about them was almost
comical; indeed, Gabriel found it quite amusing. But, then again, everything
about that other world of "The Elite" had always seemed rather silly to him.
The conversation that he was now engaged in only further proved how superficial
it all was.
"What do you think - honestly -- of the
accommodations here?" Bennett's voice lowered, and it was quite apparent
he felt strange asking about such a thing. Perhaps he thought it a personal
question, but whatever it was, it obviously took a lot of courage for him
to ask it. Gabriel felt rather honored, despite himself.
"Could be worse," he said, casting a
glance at the doctor who was standing by the door on the other side of the
room, nervously tapping his feet, and checking his watch every few minutes.
"The patients are well enough, nothing to worry about there."
"…and the food?" asked Bennett,
casting a nervous glance at the bowl of tomato soup.
"You have connections with Wolfgang Puck,
do you not?" quipped Gabriel. "Yes…" replied Bennett, unsure of where
this was going.
"You might want to give him a call,"
replied Gabriel quietly. "I'm afraid this might not be up to… pleasing
standards."
Bennett smiled widely, and Gabriel noticed
a twinkle coming over Ben's eye, as if he was about to laugh, but thought
better of it.
"Thank you, Gabriel," said Bennett kindly,
holding out his hand again. "I'll give Mr. Puck a call, and see what I can
do."
"Much appreciated, Bennett," said Gabriel,
returning the kind tone and stretching out his hand. Bennett rose to his
feet, and with one last warm, appreciative smile, he turned and walked back
to the doctor, who seemed quite happy that they were at long last leaving
the dining room. They left without saying another word.
Gabriel sat back and watched as they left the room. He sat, leaving his dinner
untouched as he silently contemplated the conversation he'd just participated
in. He had never exchanged more than a cordial greeting with Bennett in his
entire life, and yet he was being treated as a friend. He'd heard of Bennett's
engaging sincere and inviting manner, but had never quite believed it. He
recalled meeting Bennett on one prior occasion, at a birthday celebration/charity
banquet Gabriel's agent had arranged for some reason unbeknownst, at the
time, to Gabriel. His agent, George Brandt, knew perfectly well he despised
large public events, but George convinced him that Gabriel's wife had pulled
it together, reminding him how much time Mrs. Riordan spent at George's office,
fine-tuning the details. Of course, Gabriel knew what the real reason behind
it was, but he tried to forget that. It hurt too much to think about it.
Bennett and Emma had come to the birthday
bash; they were apparently connected to the party by
a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. After Gabriel answered the cries of the
crowd for a speech, Bennett approached Gabriel on his way back to his table,
congratulating him. He stood out in Gabriel's mind for some reason. He didn't
say anything remarkable, he wasn't dressed strangely, it was just something
about the woman next to him, Emma. She took Gabriel's hand in hers, shook
it gently, and said how much she adored his kind sentiments about how much
he loved and appreciated his wife, and her constant support and faithfulness.
She uttered something about how they were a lucky 'crop,' or something like
that… he wasn't sure. He was too much in awe of some curious thing about
her to really pay much heed to her words. He couldn't so much classify it
as an attraction; there was nothing physical about it. It was more that feeling
of innocent warmth emanating from the human spirit, creating a glow about
her figure. As he stood holding her hand, looking into her smiling face,
he tried desperately to record that feeling so he could paint it in his next
'masterpiece.'
Perhaps the legends revolving around
the Henges were correct. They were the media's favorite "Happy, Smiling Couple"
to flaunt on magazine covers, or invite to fancy dinner parties. Gabriel
always thought it was hype, refusing to believe there was such a thing as
a content, dare he say it, happy, marriage between two people still existing
on the planet Earth. He thought he had been so lucky to be part of such evidence
to the contrary, but he had been wrong. Nothing like that could last. It
was too perfect to last.
*****
"Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Henge?" The Doctor stood next to
Bennett at the crest of the large hill, over looking the lake and oak tree,
which resided on the back lawns of the Institution.
"Just about," said Bennett, choosing
his words wisely as he swayed gently on his feet, his hands in his pockets.
"There are only two details that trouble me."
"Anything we can do to improve Mrs. Henge's
surroundings will be done," replied the Doctor quickly. "Just give us the
word and we will see that it is taken care of, you have my word on that."
Bennett paused before continuing, taking
in a slow breath.
"I would like to bring her wardrobe from
home," he said thoughtfully. "I've noticed all of your patients wear white,
linen uniforms, and as I do understand that is for their own safety, I do
not believe my Emma would enjoy life in such… conformity." "I quite
understand," stated Dr. Alexander. "Have her clothes delivered whenever it
suits you, and I will personally see to it that she wears what she pleases."
Bennett nodded his head in quiet
appreciation.
"… and the other matter?" prompted
the Doctor.
"Yes," Bennett stared at the leaves of
the oak that were rustling gently in the breeze. He had been rehearsing these
two requests over and over in his mind throughout the afternoon, and yet
he still felt rather slow to address them. "I'd feel better if I knew she
were eating something more to her tastes than tomato soup. Would it be all
right if I were to hire a private chef for her? If it were a problem to serve
her separate meals in front of others, it would be more than adequate if
she took her meals in her room."
Dr. Alexander smiled as he looked at
Bennett, who was still staring off at the tree as if mystified.
"Of course," he said kindly. "Anything
you wish will be arranged. An extra chef will not be an hindrance, although,
it seems silly for you to spend the extra money. Why not allow me to simply
amend her living costs slightly to pay for an increase in one of my chef's
salary, so that chef may care for your wife as well?"
Bennett nodded. "Thank you, Doctor. I've
taken far too much of your time. I think it best I leave now. Thank you for
your time and hospitality."
"I'm only glad I could help you and your
wife," said the Doctor, a kind, reassuring smile on his face. "She'll be
back in your care in no time, sir, just as she was before."
*****
"I see trees reflecting in the water. The boat's swaying nicely, like
my mom's rocking me back to sleep. It had just been a bad dream…
That cloud looks like a wheelchair.
Sailing is so much nicer than where I was a minute ago. All that
shouting… and that man screaming…
That cloud looks like a coat whose
arms are too long.
If I close my eyes tight enough, I can see my mom smiling at me from
the other end of my boat. She's so far away, but she loves me anyway.
That cloud looks like the blue candies
they give me at breakfast.
I wish I really were sailing instead of alone in here. Sometimes I imagine
that these soft white walls are clouds and I'm flying, but my wings are caught
in this coat and I can't get out.
That shadow looks like the needle
they stuck in my arm.
I don't like it when the soft white cold room is dark. It's scary and
funny lights come through the window up there.
There aren't any more shadows.
I feel lonely now."
Devon hadn't been there for breakfast that morning. It was starting to worry
Gabriel. He hated it when Devon would
just disappear for days on end, and it was always so awful when they'd bring
him back. It would take Gabriel at least two weeks to get the man talking
again after being in solitary for that long.
Gabriel was sitting in a white armchair,
looking out one of the oversized windows in the Socialization Center, just
waiting for something to happen. This was his favorite spot inside the hospital;
the only place you could observe any color at all. The hospital was completely
devoid of it elsewhere.
Time passed quite slowly as Gabriel stared
out the window, trying to think up the best way to get Devon to talk again
when they brought him out of Solitary. The same method rarely worked twice;
Devon was too smart for that.
As a slight breeze ruffled the grass
outside the window, a door at the opposite end of the Center opened and two
men pushed a wheelchair into the room. The wheelchair wasn't what interested
Gabriel. It was the woman sitting in it. Her face was battered and bruised,
her arms were mangled; she looked positively dead. It was Emma, out of her
room for the first time since she arrived.
Gabriel waited as the two men pushed
Emma over to a window, carefully put on the brakes, then left the room. As
soon as the door latched behind the two men, Gabriel left his seat and walked
over to her. She was sitting in her wheelchair in a painfully perfect posture,
her back curved just slightly and her chin up, as if the window in front
of her were some person of great importance. As Gabriel drew closer to her,
the boughs of a nearby tree shuffled in the wind, sending light dancing across
her face, illuminating her features.
He took a sharp step back as adrenaline
ran through his body; there she was. That poor, mangled woman he had seen
from his window. Gabriel reclaimed himself and continued to walk toward her.
His curiosity had gotten the best of him; all alone in the Socialization
Center with her, no one to stop him from talking to her. Surely, he thought,
they wouldn't want her mixing with the other patients. Gabriel doubted that
her husband's dedication to the common man would reach that far.
He finally reached a couch, which was
facing the side of her wheelchair. He walked up behind the wheelchair and
was about to sit down, but remembered his manners before it was too late.
"Good morning," he said softly. Perhaps too softly for she did not move. Indeed, she hadn't moved the entire time he approached her, except the slow movements of her chest as she permitted herself to breathe.
"Good morning, Mrs. Henge," he repeated, this time a touch louder. Perchance her "accident" had been worse than imagined; could it have deafened her ears? Gabriel sidled between Cecilia's wheelchair and the couch so he could sit, facing her profile. What met his eyes was truly a catastrophe. Her milk-white skin had been painted in the most grotesque shades of blue, purple, and even green. These bruises lined her eyes, her cheekbone, and her graceful neck. He looked down at her arms and saw the same artist had left his calling card there as well. Rigid scuff marks and bruising lined her delicate wrists. Had her legs been bare, he was certain he would have seen similar markings elsewhere. She had been truly tortured, and the evidence of such a claim was written all over her very countenance. Even her eyes looked bruised. They were sad, distant, and alone. Gabriel knew that look; she greatly resembled Devon in Gabriel's eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Henge," he repeated for the third time. Again, no response. The resemblance was becoming even more profound. Gabriel continued on, anyway, hoping the same methods that worked on Devon would work here. He was incredibly anxious to talk to this woman; she had monopolized his thoughts ever since the previous day.
"I met your husband yesterday, Mrs. Henge." She continued to stare out the window as if nothing had changed. She was still alone in that room; it was all in her head. "Very kind man, him…" Gabriel was fascinated by the concentration displayed in this woman's gaze. She was captivated by something beyond that window. He turned his head to match, and searched for something, anything, out of the ordinary. They sat there for some time, just looking out the window. Gabriel found nothing; everything was as drab as it had been before. Nothing more than a tree, plenty of grass, then the crest of a hill.
His eyes returned to Emma, and he noticed her hands were clasped around something as they lay rested on her lap. Her lips began to quiver and her eyes slowly closed. Her eyelids began to shake as her eyes trembled behind them. Gabriel was growing concerned. He looked back out the window to see if perhaps she had seen something unsettling. Nothing.
"BITCH!"
She screamed, and as he turned immediately to look at her, he saw her throw what had been in her hands. It happened too fast for him to fully appreciate what had happened. Finally he saw that the quivering of her lips had spread to her entire torso, and tears streamed down her face. Her breathing became sporadic, and her eyes were staring franticly out the window, as if asking for help.
Within an instant over a dozen doctors and aids rushed through the doors into the room. Gabriel quickly backed away from her, edging his way through the sea of furniture toward the window she had tried so desperately to attack. She was taken away, and thankfully, the staff took no notice of Gabriel. As they left, Gabriel looked down at the floor and noticed a large, smooth rock. If the windows hadn't been plexi-glass, it surely would have shattered into a thousand pieces. He picked up the rock and felt it in his hands. It was still warm from her grasp.
*****
"How long has it been now, Ben?"
"Five days." Bennett shifted on the leather couch, swilling the brandy in his glass. "But you know I can't go back to work now. It's impossible."
"I know."
His father's home in Paris held a sense of refuge for Bennett. He didn't want to go back to London, back to work. Everything was too fragile there.
Ben's father picked his snifter up from the bar and walked over to the sitting room, pausing in front of his son. Ben slouched on the sofa, watching the brandy swirl around the base of the glass, his legs stretched out before him.
"She'll come back, Ben," his father said softly, sitting down in a chair opposite his son. Ben hadn't looked up. He was mesmerized by the blood red of the brandy, locked into reflection.
"The case hasn't been closed yet," he continued. "There's still hope."
Bennett remained silent. His eyes closed and the brandy glass paused its rotations.
"Ben," his father prompted for a response. Anything at all.
"I think," he said slowly, returning his untouched brandy glass to the coffee table. "I think I need to get some air."
"Do you want company?"
"No, no," he repeated as he got up from the sofa. "I'll just go around the block. I need my coat…"
Bennett stumbled to the coat rack and grabbed his father's trench coat. Unnoticing the mistake, he haphazardly threw the coat over his shoulders and grabbed an umbrella, despite the clear skies.
"Are you sure you're alright, Ben?"
"Yes, yes, I'll be fine… I just need some air."
He grabbed the door handle, yanked the door open and continued down the steps to the small walkway in the front yard. His father followed but paused at the threshold, determined to watch Ben for as long as he was in sight. Concern welled up inside. He had never seen Ben so distraught; so drunk without drinking.
Ben stumbled down the path, but before he reached the road he stuck the umbrella into the soft dirt beside the path, and stopped. He stood and stared at the empty street in front of him. The rows of pleasant houses with small pleasant gardens out front… The pleasant street lights, the pleasant little footpath…
His knees crumbled and he collapsed, his sleeve caught on a wayward hedge. Tears flooded his cheeks as he was embraced by his misery.
His father ran out of the house and tried to pick his son back up, but he only sank further, the trench coat flaring into the earth.
"She's gone," he cried. "She won't come back, I've lost her, she's gone…"
Ben curled up on the path, his stained trousers clinging to his legs. His father knelt down beside him, lifting his son's head out of the mud by the hedge.
"I couldn't help her."
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