I’m floating in black nothing.
Am I dead? No, if I’m thinking, I can’t be. Am I dreaming?
Out of nothing comes something.
A man.
Colours seep in, an unfinished sketch.
A desk.
I know what to say.
I ask him if he thinks I’m crazy. He asks me, “Do you think you’re crazy?” Instinctively I assume that no, I’m not. But I’m here, after all. By force or not, something brought me here, to this room, to this point in time where everything converges to a single point. At this moment, I’m being urged to describe in no small detail every relevant and irrelevant moment of my existence thus far. All there is in the universe is this room where I have to explain myself. And the only words I can summon are not my own, but the ravings of some lunatic I’ve morphed into, and all I can think about is where I can get an impressive chaise longue for my room like this one I’m lying on.
I feel powerfully unknown.
So today, who shall I be for the doctor? Shall I be a tree, a goat, a burlesque dancer, a cabbie, a sock? The invisible girl? Someone? Shall I tell him about the brothers? The butterflies? The sodium?
“Are you unhappy?” he throws at me.
“No, I’m happy.”
“Are you happy because you’re happy, or happy because the stereotype says you should be?”
“What stereotype is that?”
“Young, healthy, able to feed and clothe yourself, a warm bed to sleep in at night.” Dull, dull, dull.
“I’m not too pleased about some things.”
“So you’re unhappy.”
“No. Yes. About some things.”
“What things make you feel this way?” Now, the ceiling begins to crack, splitting from cornice to cornice and widening like clamped ribs, prepped for surgery. Snow begins to fall through the gap, pouring in and settling gently on the oversized, file-scattered desk, the worn green leather chair and the couch where I’m lying. I have a good view from here. I extend my tongue to catch a flake, but it doesn’t taste like snow. It’s salt dusting this room. Sodium.
“Don’t ask me that…”
“Shall we explore this further?” His voice booms louder.
“Am I dead? Am I dreaming? Am I crazy?”
“Shall we explore this further? Hmmm?” Again and again, louder and louder. He looks over his half-moon glasses and stares, wide-eyed and menacing. “Shall we explore this further? Shall we explore this further? Shall we explore this further?”
“Answer me!” I yell.
I cry into the steady streams of white flakes. And then they come. Drawn to the salt. “Oh no,” the psychiatrist continues, “now this is not good, no, no indeed, very interesting, very interesting…” He starts to scribble intently in his notepad. He shakes his head, tuts and continues to mutter to himself. I can no longer hear what he’s saying and I no longer care. The butterflies swoop and dart and scratch, so many that collectively they are able to lift me, twirl me. So many butterflies. They’ve got me.
I’m not scared.
I’m not scared.
I’m not scared.
They drop me.
Am I really schizing out?
Then nothing. Darkness snares me again. Loneliness hooks me.
Whirr
Flutter
Whirr
Flutter
Gently, gracefully, a butterfly floats down and comes to rest on my stomach. The Queen of the Butterflies. The largest in the world, a wingspan of thirty centimetres. Green and yellow and red, she’s magnificent. She’s perfect. I can hear her in my head. I’m Doctor fucking Dolittle.
“My God, Carla. Look at you,” she says. I try to speak but no sound comes out. I’m paralyzed. “What have you done to yourself?”
An Adonis Blue, with brilliant sapphire wings, flies in from the darkness, swooping and darting before landing on my hand. “Carla, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
I can’t. I want to but I can’t.
“I’m going to get a coffee.”
The Adonis Blue flies out of sight.
I hear crying.
“It’s Mum. Can you hear me?”
I can hear you, I say in my head, the words unable to escape to the audible world.
“I’m sorry. Look at you.” The butterfly tickles my forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
It’s OK, Mum. The words echo, unreleased.
“I’ve really screwed things up for you.”
No, I screwed things up for me.
“I failed Biology,” I croak. “And Psychology.”
“Oh, Carla. Thank God.” She wraps her arms around me. I can hardly move; my eyes feel full of sand. I try to open them. Through the blur I see Mum, a smudge of pale pink and brown, her diamond earrings white and twinkling.
“She’s awake. Nurse! She’s awake!” she calls.