Strongbox

I have to be careful that’s all. All the time, with all my thoughts. It’s exhausting really, just remembering, always, always, always remembering.

I call him Al, though he introduced himself as Dr Bentley, and never once asked me to use his first name. But he makes liberal with mine: he uses it like punctuation. He uses it as a way to hold me down, to keep his dominance over the conversation. And so, each time I come in: “Hi, Al. How’s it going today?”

“How about you, Simon? How are you doing?” Always the switch and twist. He guards his privacy like a lion; but he delves into mine, dives right into the sweet, virgin flesh of it. How did that make you feel? How would you rate your mood today? Are you having any thoughts of hurting yourself or others?

Well, well I have all kinds of thoughts. I have thoughts that rage through my head that are vicious and rainbow-coloured, that are loud and raucous, blood-bathed and sweet with laughter. I have thoughts like that that bloom every time my mind is still for long enough to let them take root. I have memories of the day: 12 August, 2016. An ordinary day. A Friday. At least to everybody else. But I know on that day, my hands were unclean. And I can see her crying, I can see her lip slashed, her face crooked, the way she tries to crawl away from me, and then I just step forward, big heavy boots: thud. The heel crushes her fingers. Grinds them. And it sounds like treading on chicken bones.

What have you done to your mother?!

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

… and don’t think you’ll ever be welcome in this house again!...

That house. No. I could never walk through that door. I could never dare myself to know if the blood still stains the door, or the wallpaper in the corner.

Al would have me play the counting game. I get good at it. Backwards from 180 in multiples of seven. Child’s play.

I tell him about a dream I had. I was back in the house, but younger this time, and there she was making me dinner. But when I started to eat the dinner it was all full of maggots and crawling insects. Dream-me jumped up on his chair and he threw the plate in her face. He reached for a knife, and he was advancing on her, adrenaline roaring all through him, just drunk on her fear of him…

Awake-me: gasping for breath. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.

Al asks me: “What do you think the maggots represent?”

“Mum fed me bad meat once when I was about nine. I got really sick. She didn’t mean to or anything, but you know, I remember…I remember it, you see?”

“And how do you feel?”

“Scared. Angry. High.” I get good at describing my emotions.

“Like you want to hurt someone?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what you have to do when you start feeling that way.”

The box. Yes. The big old iron box. Build yourself a strongbox in your head. Picture it. Picture how strong it is, and the big lock on it. Now put that feeling inside there, put the image of violence away in that box and turn the lock. Picture that lock turning. You feel angry. Feel it. But then when you think about doing something, something violent, you breath slowly, you picture the box, you lock that image away in that box.

I do. I try. The box has become a living thing in its own right. I picture it not just iron and strong, but decorative, all carved in ancient runes that glow with magic. And that magic flares when I open the box and shove a little more of my darkness inside. This darkness that must be so thick, so concentrated; such distilled, fine, filtered fury. A black hole inside that tears at this box in all directions, scratching at the lock to find its way out, or screwing itself up into a fist of gravity, trying to suck the box inside of it, break it from within. That box has to hold up to a lot.

I can’t let these things out.

I call her sometimes. She sounds happy to hear from me, but at the same time wary. At the same time: remembering. “I’m sorry dear, I just don’t think your father is ready yet.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He just needs time.”

Sure he does.

“I love you sweetheart.”

The love feels dirty. I know I don’t deserve it. It’s a trick of the light. A trick of biology: you have this love that doesn’t make sense because you made this thing in your body and even though its unworthy of love you can’t help but love it and that love is just a burden you have to bear…

Al says to me, “Well, I think we made some progress today.”

He says that every day.

I shrug. I leave with just a few mumbles – too tired to put more in today.

Out in the street, there’s some kids leaning against my car. I can feel that sensation that really is almost like blood boiling. It’s just on the edge of my mind. Don’t go there. Don’t… don’t touch those feelings. I reach into the box before the images can form in my mind, I shove them inside, lock them down hard. I turn in another direction – walk around the block a few times, maybe they’ll be gone before I get back.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work