Five.
~Westbury was an old house hiding out in the countryside. Its white outer walls the prime opposite to the varied colours of grass and trees that surrounded it. Antonin had been here for some time now. The house was large, too large, for any real use. Room after room stood empty, only one part was given over to clinical use. At his feet the glass laid scattered. The kitchen area was designed to promote independence, yet he could hear them come running almost as soon as the bottle had slipped from the shelf. Everything seemed to promote something, it was all forced, he felt. What’s the point in taking you away from one thing, dumping you in another only to spend all your time trying to return you to the previous. Two of the nurses came creeping in, their eyes always locked behind bars, always expecting the worst. It was like their brains constantly feed on negativity. ‘What have you never dropped a bottle?’ he said as they stood hesitantly by the door. ‘It’s ok son, there’s no need to be afraid, it was an accident wasn’t it’ Moving towards him her eyes once more sat far back, her question almost an opening prod, like she was defusing a bomb, scared that at any minute he might explode.
~Walking in the gardens of Westbury he felt good. The fresh air was something he always enjoyed, it refreshed him, snapped him back into thinking, which was good. The main doctor, Simmons, was a tall sharp man. His face sat like a plate on top of straw, his nose the dial on a weather vain. He took Antonin for many sessions. The two sat in the consulting room and chatted almost daily, his voice showed little, true, concern. It bubbled beneath shrilled tones always on the verge of self congratulation. He didn’t care much for these sessions, his main preoccupation since his arrival was what he could do now he was here. He was free from a lot of the things that pressed on him previously. He no longer had to find justifications for himself. He had always felt as if everything in the world quarrelled with him, pecked away, always trying to set him up. Here a lot of things were done for him, he enjoyed the simplicity of only having to put his washing down a shoot and then next day it was washed and pressed back in his draws. Meals were at the same time everyday. He had his sessions with Simmons, everything was just so, nicely placed for his understanding. Yet he still had the hunger, that very deep need to show his own existence. A bright poster sat pinned to one of the walls, it was for art classes, he could feel their eyes burning into his shoulder, you were always jumped upon. You couldn’t just look at something without one of them making a note, forcing you harder than you wish.
~A small sack of his post had sat at the foot of his bed for some time. Not long after looking at the art poster he decided to look through it. His room had been rented out. There was a letter from Ruben Vojak, or at least it seemed to be, it was on his headed notepaper, but after greater examination he found it to be from Hermann Vojak, his nephew. He thought this all very strange, why would they be writing to him, as he read on he was even more confused. They had held his room for a few weeks after he had been taken away but with the economy as it was they had no choice but to give it out to someone else. “You won’t be needing it any longer” This line stood out. It bellowed all around his room. It hadn’t really hit him that he wouldn’t be returning to all that he knew before. He placed the letter down carefully and rested back on the bed. It wasn’t all that great anyway, he thought. He had probably meant to leave anyway, he bit the inside of his check by mistake and felt hot. That place wasn’t him, he wasn’t settled there for life, what did they think of him. Did they think he was stuck, resigned to that nothingness! He thought about sleeping but felt too annoyed. Taking the letter once more he read it from the start again. Why would the Vojak’s be concerned in all this, he couldn’t work it out. The entire thing was dripping in regret! Further down it explained that the room was now being taken by Daulston’s Sister. She was a young mother, abandoned by the father. He was hit by a strange feeling, he was sure it was because it was the first time he had thought about Daulston since he did himself in. He did feel happy that the room was going to someone who probably needed it, yet he tried to think all afternoon if he had ever heard mention of a sister before.
'Am I free to leave here?’ once more sitting opposite Simmons, Antonin asked his first question.
‘What do you think?’ the plate and spike replied.
‘I can do anything!’ he began, picking at the tread in his sleeve. ‘I’m free to think and act, I can do anything!’
'Is that so?’
‘Yes!’
‘Is that why you cut your arm off?’ Shaking his head Antonin dismissed the question and instead rattled off a few in his own his head. How long will I live? What will be my greatest day? Has it already been? Does everybody think the same? How do you know anything to be true unless you test it yourself?
‘What would you say if I said your arm was in that box?’ He could hear the doctors voice but tried to ignore it. The consulting room was becoming heavy from the long rain that had begun to fall outside. Will I ever feel contented? Will I find a struggle worthy of taking pain for? His questions flittered on, but still the doctor continued. ‘Go on have a look!’ Most of the sessions ran through the same routine, both battling to feel comfortable. ‘It’s really in there, I tell you!’ The rigid cardboard box sat across from them in a part of the room that he never really took any notice of. It was by the window, the shadow of the rain drops showing on the lid, then disappearing. He watched them almost in a trance. He knew it wasn’t in there. There was no way it could be.
‘Would you take it back, would you have your arm back if you could?’ the doctor prodded.
‘Of course’
'Really?’ Simmons actually seemed interested, he leaned forward in his seat.
‘Its always better to be ‘better’!’ Antonin mumbled.
'Do you wish to be better then?’
‘Its not like that, don’t make this into some illness!’ he could see his twinkling eyes, desperate to file a form, diagnose, breath life into this deflated mess. ‘Having two arms is defiantly better than having one!’
'So why remove one in the first place?’ the pencil flickering in his fingers, he leant even closer, feeding on the immanent breakthrough.
‘Why do anything! Why breath, why not simply see the world in a instant and then turn blue and be gone! Why stop there, give me a thousand arms, a million heads, twenty tongues!’
‘Lets keep it serious now please’
‘Serious! What the bloody hell is serious about any of this! Its all absurd, who knows maybe I’m the one in the right and your wrong!’
Six.
~Johnson was another patient. He stood now with his back hard against the Perspex. Everything seemed very sterile, that was the problem with this place, it wasn’t based on anything tangible. In his hand the razor blade hung dull and low. It was clear he meant to use it, but to what extent it wasn’t clear. Antonin was the only other person present. He stood without thought and watched. Johnson was from the north, his thick accent coughing up from his thickened chest. ‘How did it feel?’ he rambled, his head tingling, eyes darting. ‘How long did it take ya?’ He had been conscious of this adoration for a while now, it seemed his actions were some kind of gloried flag for his fellow patient. His mind was blank. Not completely blank, but like it had been for some time now, blank to events immediately around him. He understood what was happening, but it didn’t really effect him. Everybody was free to act as they wished, why should he intervene.
‘What did you do with it after?’ Johnson, still with the blade poised, bickered on. ‘Where is it now?’
~At night he would often sit alone and roll up his trouser leg. The knife skimmed up and down his shin, dragging dead skin bundled up against his thumb. Actions are so easy, he thought. He could do it, he had done so before, its all about choice. The empty box still sat in the corner of the room, he didn’t want to get rid of it, that would consist of brining it once more to their attention, he really didn’t want to give them the chance to drag him once more into another conversation about it. He hadn’t seen Simmons for a while now and he knew why. During their last conversations he had noticed some blankets bundled on top of the cupboard. It seems the awkward doctor had also become a lodger at the great white house. He had been kicked out of the family home after his wife found out about his affair. There goes life, he thought.
~The art lessons took place in the main room. It had large glass windows that showed out into the grounds. He had little choice but to take part. It was one of his great pleasures to sit and stare out in the countryside. This was living, he felt. He argued with himself, he would sit in an old wicker chair sipping a watered down scotch and debate his success. Maybe his greatest weakness was always questioning, maybe he trapped himself. It was becoming harder to remember his life before, he could hardly think of his room, it seemed to float about unnaturally, always becoming defiled by his room here. He was made art monitor. This was such an insult. He was to manage all the materials, hand them out, collect them in. At fist he felt like they had done it to try and build him up, but he began to realise that they had done it because they believed a man with only one arm was not fit enough to paint, or stick bits of card together. He wished to be back in his chair, the day outside was cool and leant itself perfectly to contemplation. This place was beginning to cave in on him. It was becoming just like before, it was pointless. At the far side of the room he saw Johnson. He was tracing the wood-chipping form the wallpaper with a green crayon. He looked up and smiled. His left eyebrow gouged out. He wanted to find an outlet, yet again it was all turning to muck, how could he drag himself into a gloried role. He clearly saw his old room, just for a second. It was that day, he felt just the same now. In truth that one act was his one true act of instinct. That was going to be his tipping point, his watershed, had it worked, he didn’t know. Maybe they were all correct, maybe he was failing, wasting his go at living.
~They were often taken by coach to Frensham ponds. It sat mysteriously in a deep wooded area forty minutes from Westbury. The sand was dark and unfiltered. The entire place always seemed as if it was fake. Everything was just that little bit out of place. The water was thick with reeds, but only in certain areas. Some were clear and decent for swimming. He enjoyed wading out, the water was cold but welcoming. He could only stand the sludge under feet for so long until it forced him to dive under. Being in the water truly returned him to a basic state. It was like being sheltered. The others splashed about, sending great amounts of white foam scattering everywhere. He always swam as far as he could, he was stronger on one side obviously, and liked to lay on his back and kick his legs. There was another beach, it was sheltered by some heavy bushes and he always tried to swim around to it. On one occasion he swam particularly strongly and made it away from the others quite easily. He crawled onto the beach and settled down. The water dried in the sun, leaving his skin feeling tight. An old lady arrived whilst he was there. She set out an old sun chair and kicking off her shoes settled down. He offered a polite smile in her direction and once more turned his head to the sky. After some time they got chatting. As he moved closer she made a piercing shape with her lips, as if she was imagining the pain of losing and arm. He hesitated, he was used to being rejected, however her face glowed with compassion. Her name was Marian. Her hair was white and swirling, like delicate bundles of clouds. She had a beautiful round face, subtle pink cheeks and glowing eyes. She offered him sweet tea. It was black tea laced with whiskey. They both drank and smiled at the way it made them feel. As he spoke he noticed her habit of raising her shoulders, pinching her head almost, as if to say I don’t really understand all that you are saying. But he didn’t feel annoyed by it, if anything he was sure that she was the most decent, reasonable person he had met. They talked for a long time until the sky drew colder and she had to go on her way. He sat alone on the beach for while and thought that maybe companionship was what he was searching for. But what did he have to offer, what good had he ever created. The swim back to the others was slow and painful. He got cramp several times and the water kept on splashing in his eyes.
~On the way back from the ponds another time the bus broke down. They were all forced to get out and stand by the side of the road.
‘I hate people like you!’ the little boy shouted. A family had stopped, the dad was keen to help out, his head was soon lost under the bonnet, his family stood around uncertain of their roles. The young boy of six or not much older held a very definite curiosity, he circled them, whooping, firing an imaginary machinegun.
‘Your all weirdo’s!’ he cooed. ‘We don’t like your sorts!’
His mother shoed him away and he was belted into the car, but the words still ran about, they were not so easy to rein in. These were the single most painful things Antonin had ever heard. He felt so distant. How can he be so foreign to a mere child. Was he really that far removed from reality!
Seven.
~’So have you gotten any answers?’
Joseph came to visit, it was completely out of the blue. He sat out in the garden, the dark wooden bench pressed hard lines deep into the grass.
‘I wasn’t looking for any!’ Antonin said as they both ate worn sandwiches. There was definitely something strained between the two of them, it wasn’t like it had been before. The old man stared off into the distance. His lips were frail as they spoke, tripping up several times. As they sat very still he was suddenly reminded of being taken back to his apartment. It was not long after everything that had happened in the park. Accompanied by a policeman he had been escorted to show them where he had placed his arm. It all felt like he was under suspicion of murder, like he was showing them where he had buried a body. He sat on his bed as the old chest was opened, the smell seemed to appal everyone present. Joseph was there, he hung morosely by the door, his body ready to quit the moment things got too gruesome. He had noticed that day a change between them. They were no longer equals, he had fallen down the pecking order, now he was tainted, placed amongst that difficult minority whom nobody really has the stomach to deal with.
'At least its gone to someone who really needs it now’ The sun was floating above the high line of the far off trees. It flickered in-between awkward branches, they both sat staring out towards the wondrous landscape.
‘Hey?’
The conversation was airy at most. They both fiddled with it, neither really wanting to delve to deep.
‘Daulston’s Sister, she moved in to my room, I’m glad for that.’
‘Oh yeah course’ there was a strange pause, he could feel the old man squirming ‘you haven’t heard then?’
‘No?’
‘The baby died, cot death’ The silence grew, nothing could be said.
The sandwiches were finished and soon they both noticed. For the first time since he arrived Joseph looked across. They sat looking at one another, he was crying out inside for it to be like it was before, but he could see in his tired eyes that it was lost forever.
‘It seems that damn room of yours is cursed or something!’
~Rising from the table Antonin took a few steps out into the heart of the lawn. Such a stupid thing to say! He was filled with so much disbelief. He thought so much better of Joseph.
‘You’re a damn waste!’ he heard Joseph’s voice cannoning towards him, he turned to see him banging his fist against his knee. ‘I don’t understand what it is you were trying to prove by doing all this, I really haven’t got a clue why someone would mutilate themselves!’
‘Mutilate!’ the word stuck in Antonin’s teeth. He had never thought of it like that before. ‘you really don’t understand!’ he said.
'No I bloody don’t!’ Joseph called back whilst biting at his finger.
‘Well nor do I to be honest!’ He felt the sweat growing on his forehead. He felt like just being destroyed, totally annihilated. ‘That’s what its all about isn’t it, nobody really understands!’ he shouted.
‘Exactly! But there’s other ways, different ways! You didn’t have to do this!’
‘Didn’t I?’
'Damn no!’ Joseph got to his feet.
‘Well its all relative I suppose. It’s all part of the same curve.’
'Bloody hell, stop it!’ reaching out he grabbed Antonin by the neck ‘Stop all this nonsense, your not stupid, you know what’s right!’
‘It is! That’s all I can say, were all spinning in the wheel, it leaves us dizzy, what else can I say!’
'You bloody idiot! Your just a kid, you don’t know anything! Your just a bloody selfish kid!’
He felt the thick hand strike him across the cheek. It left him dazed for much of the day, long after Joseph had left.
‘In that case Joseph might just be on the greatest upward curve any of us will ever know!’ The vicar walked away, his words settling between the scattered graves. Antonin laughed to himself and that smile sat on his lips for a long time after that.
~He met the girl who was arranging the flowers. She was in a strong family line who all arranged flowers. Her small pale face sat perfectly in his world. They chatted and he asked her to share lunch some time. They soon became very much attached to one anther and when he said he would take care of her always he meant it more than anything he had every said. He wanted someone to take care of, to feel special, to know love and with this sweet, perfect girl he knew it was obtainable. Life was slowly becoming manageable, each day he would push himself to face up to challenges and he was eternally grateful when he came out on the right side of them. Passing by the vicarage one day the window was half open. Inside the vicar was dancing to a Bob Dylan song that played purposely from a radio. Upon the table a small bible sat open, the vicar’s shadow danced all around it, dipping in and out, sometimes pausing, sometimes flashing straight across. Beautiful he thought. We’re all meant to grow, to challenge and be challenged, no one knows the answers, the whole truth. But we’re meant to ride the beast the best we can.
Don’t be afraid he reiterated to himself, be brave, stride the path, we’re all doing the same!
End.
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