Monday 21 November 2011

My holiday, a short story in 983 words

The brief this time was to write a story up to 1000 words on the theme 'My Desert Island' - here is my first effort - what do you think?

Mr Cave, my psychiatrist, is once more saying that it’s important to remember who I am because the people who love me are very distressed about my condition. I tell him, again, that they shouldn’t worry because I am very happy right now, even if I don’t know who they are.

“It’s like being on a really good holiday. I think whoever I am didn’t take many holidays and I’m enjoying the change of scenery.”

“Tell me more Kenneth. What’s this holiday like?”

“It must be one of those all-inclusive holidays with food and drink whenever you need it, as long as you don’t mind tea and coffee instead of wine and whisky. There’s plenty of time for reading, and thinking, and no-one asks you for anything. I have a room on the ground floor with a big picture window, and my own bathroom. There are no reports to write, no people to see, and my time is my own, except when I come to see you of course. I have no responsibilities. It’s nice being me for a change.”

Mr Cave writes in his notebook, puts down the pen, removes his spectacles and gives me his amused look, the one that makes me feel like a wayward child.

“I think you must have been very tired before your accident Kenneth.”

I do not reply because I know what comes next. I’ll say I don’t know what he means, then he’ll try to force me to remember, then I’ll start to cry, and he will say goodbye till the next time we meet.

“You see Kenneth, you were tired and stressed before the accident. You are an important person with lots of responsibility. There are people waiting for you to get better. Some of them can’t have a holiday until you’ve finished yours. That’s not very fair, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.” I hang my head and feel a tear growing into a tiny bubble behind my eye. I stare down, trying not to blink because that will make me drip on the carpet and he will see that I am crying.

Mr Cave ignores me, like he always does when he’s about to lecture me.

“You’ve had a frightening experience, not to mention a bump on the head, and your mind has put a strategy in place to avoid thinking about it, because it’s painful. It’s persuaded you that you can escape reality by building a construct that you are in a place you always wanted to go. It’s a sanctuary, a world away from real life, where nothing bad happens. This holiday of yours is a fantasy Kenneth. Until you let it go you will never remember who you are.”

I stare into the distance and refuse to listen any more. I like this holiday. I feel safe. I have no expectations. I never feel disappointed. Most of all, I do not have to remember anything. Without memories I can just be myself.

When I first met Mr Cave, when he still called me Mr Sinclair, I had some memories that wouldn’t go away. I could remember a close up view of Tottenham High Road. It was as if I had been doing press ups on the pavement and several people were standing on me, pressing my face into the concrete slabs. I pushed into my hands to raise myself up but I lacked the strength. I saw the horse above me and the horseshoe coming down in slow motion. I remember admiring the surprising symmetry and beauty in the underside of a horse’s foot. Why had I never seen this before? I blinked. The next thing I saw was the face of Mr Cave.

This memory triggers another and I start talking.

“Last night I remembered something. I was watching a mob throwing bricks through shop windows. I was shouting instructions to people wearing uniforms. They did what I told them and it felt good. Then I was standing in front of a row of microphones and people were asking me questions but they never listened to the answers. They just kept asking more questions. That made me angry inside. Then I woke up.”

I stop talking. I did not mean to reveal any of this because I knew Mr Cave would want more, and I had no more to give.

Mr Cave scribbles in his book and nods at the clock on the wall behind me.

“That’s excellent Kenneth. We can work on this in tomorrow’s session. Why don’t you go back to that memory and focus on the uniforms? What colour are they? Have you ever worn a uniform? How did it make you feel? The answers could be the keys that open the portal into your real world, revealing the real you. Tomorrow could be an exciting day!”

“Goodbye Mr Cave” I shake his hand, leave the room and follow the nurse back to my room. As we pass through a reception area I pick up the evening paper. Inside my room I spend the next hour reading every word of every article, paying particular attention to the photographs, with my scissors and my scrapbook ready but once more, there is nothing worth saving.
I open the scrapbook and look at the first page, the only page that isn’t blank, and read out the caption below the photograph.

“Assistant Commissioner Kenneth Sinclair was seriously injured on the first night of the riots.”

I have a strong urge to take this to Mr Cave. I should tell him this is the picture of a man who deserves a holiday but I know he is incapable of appreciating the refuge I have found. Although he is an intelligent man he would not recognise my oasis. In his hands my desert island would become a mirage. He would not listen. He would not understand. Mr Cave doesn’t understand holidays.