Broken (30 page)

“How is he today?”

“Still won’t see me.”

She sighs down the line. “Oh, T. I’m sorry. Where are you now?”

“I’m on the bus on my way to James’ apartment.”

“Why?”

“I’ve not had time to get my car fixed.”

“Not the bus, dickwad, why are you going to his apartment?”

“It needs cleaning. He can’t come home to how it is now.”

“You shouldn’t do that on your own. Where does he live? I can be there in half an hour.”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s face it, your boss doesn’t need another reason to sack you.”

“Pfft. He’s not in today anyway. Besides, I can’t help it if I get the shits. He wouldn’t want me to spread it to the rest of the staff, I’m sure.”

I’d laugh if that part of me hadn’t died. “Thanks, Tess, but I’m good. Promise. Gotta go, mine’s the next stop.”

“Okay. Catch you later.”

I told a tiny lie. My stop is ten minutes away but I can’t face talking any longer. When I talk, I cry, and if I cry any more my head will burst.

The noise on the bus grates on my nerves – the harsh engine, people laughing, a baby that won’t stop bleeding crying. On top of the already deafening thoughts running riot in my mind, it’s too much, so I twist my earphones into my ears and hit
play
with the button on the cord.

Demons
by Imagine Dragons penetrates my ears and, shit, if this song wasn’t written for James. That’s when it hits me.
Music
. There’re hidden meanings and emotions in every song. I wonder if that’s why James listens to it so often. He relates to it, maybe uses it as a way to express the things he can’t say out loud. Perhaps I can get through to him that way.

My stop is nearing, so I’ll revisit that thought later.

I miss you.

The five minutes deep breathing and trying to steel my emotions outside the door to James’ apartment does shit to prepare me for what I’m about to see. When I walk inside, I’m right back to the day I found him, and I haven’t even reached the bathroom yet.

I literally shake myself off, cranking my neck from side to side, before treading cautiously to the bathroom. My eyes close as I round the corner, silently hoping Max has already been here and forgotten to tell me.

He hasn’t.

The stagnant water, coloured with James’ blood, still fills the bathtub. The towels Tom used to dry him off, again stained with blood, remain on the floor where he left them. Pieces of fried chicken and shrivelled fries litter the tiles and as far as I can see, only the empty pill bottles are missing, presumably taken by the paramedics.

For a while, all I can do is stare. Stare…and remember. After who knows how long, the entry buzzer snaps me out of the trance I’ve slipped into, but I don’t answer it straightaway. I can’t let anyone in here until this mess is gone.

But it sounds again.

And again.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice curt after stomping over to the receiver.

“Let me up, bellend.”

Tess
. Her voice makes my lips curl into an almost-smile as I let her into the building. Hanging up the receiver, I open the door and wait for her. She appears from the lift opposite moments later in her work uniform – black joggers and a white t-shirt with the company logo sewn into it.

“How did you find me here?”

“I rang Tom. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“It’s a mess in there,” I warn. “There’s b-bl-” Throat tight, I can’t finish my sentence.

“All the more reason to have me here. We’ll get it done in half the time.”

“Thank you,” is all my wobbly voice will allow me to say before I turn to the kitchen in search of a bucket. Some things are still out of place after James’ destructive breakdown the day before…
it
…happened, so I rearrange as I go along. Eventually, I head into the bathroom armed with a washing up bowl filled with soapy water, a bin bag, and some sponges.

“Jesus,” Tess mutters, following behind me. “God, Theo…I can’t even imagine what finding him in here did to you.”

“Would’ve been a whole lot worse if Tom hadn’t been with me,” I say, bile scratching at my throat as I roll up my sleeve and reach into the water, pulling the plug. “He knew just what to do. Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I’m so fucking glad my car broke down again, otherwise I’d have been on my own.”

I watch the water swirling down the drain, relieved to see the back of it. It leaves pink-tinged, residual watermarks around the edges, so, dipping my sponge into the washing up bowl, I clean there first.

“Sometimes,” I begin, detesting myself for what I’m about to say. “Sometimes I wish I’d never met him, just so I don’t have to feel his pain. How selfish is that?”

“It’s not selfish, T. Not even a saint would be able to go through what you are without having some doubts. You’re not selfish, you’re just hurting in a way I can’t even imagine.”

“He’s hurting more.”

“No, he isn’t. He just didn’t cope with it as well as you.”

If I could summon the energy it would take, I would laugh. I’m not coping. I’m merely existing. Living in limbo. I can’t see a future anymore. Everything I saw just a couple of weeks ago is
gone
.

“What a waste of KFC,” Tess says, attempting to lighten the dense atmosphere as she tosses the rotting food into a black bag.

We work for a couple of hours, cleaning everything three times. Every stroke of the sponge makes my chest ache a little more, but by the time we’ve finished, there’s no trace of the horror that occurred here.

“So,” Tess begins. “What do you want to do now? We could grab a takeaway on the way home, catch up on Criminal Minds.”

“Actually, I think I’m gonna stay here.”

“All night?”

I nod. “I feel closer to him here. Besides, the kitchen still isn’t perfect, and everything should be perfect for when he gets back, whether he wants me here or-” The word gets caught on the lump that’s formed in my throat.

“He’s not seeing things clearly, T. When he’s had the help he needs, he’ll come around.”

“Maybe.” Staring at the ceiling, I sigh. “But I have to learn to accept the fact he might not.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Dragging in a deep breath, I shrug. “I have no fucking idea.”

When Tess leaves, I hit shuffle on James’ iPod which is permanently sat in a square dock in the kitchen. A sense of calm washes over me the very second the music starts filling the lonely apartment. There’s always music here, and when I close my eyes I can almost feel James sneaking up behind me, his hands settling on my hips as he breathes into my neck.

I miss you. Please miss me, too.

I potter around the kitchen for a while, reorganising cupboards and making notes of things I need to replace. Later in the evening, Max rings to tell me James has been moved to the psychiatric unit and that he’s not only refusing to see
me
now, but him as well. Apparently the staff there are a lot stricter with visiting times. I’ll no longer be able to wait outside his room, strolling their corridors, but they can’t stop me waiting outside the building during every visiting hour available, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Exhausted, I go straight to bed after ending Max’s call. Removing my clothes, I fold them neatly over the back of the plush chair in James’ bedroom - because I know tossing them on the floor would annoy him - then I climb onto the mattress. Hugging a pillow, embedded with his scent, to my chest, I break down for the thousandth time since I found him…crying myself into a restless sleep.

I miss you
.

~James~

“
Morning
, James,” the chirpy nurse, who comes in every morning, says. “Time to wake up.”

I
am
awake.
I don’t look at her. I don’t look at anybody. I spend my days lying on my back with my head flopped to the side, staring at the magnolia wall until my spine starts to ache, then I turn over and look at the wooden cupboards with no doors instead.

“I have your meds. Are you going to take them for me today?”

No.

She asks again, and again she gets no response. I just want her to go away. I want it
all
to go away.

“The breakfast trolley will be coming around soon. Are you going to eat today?”

No.

“I’ll be back in a little while to change your bandages.”

When she leaves, I roll onto my side and continue staring at the wall. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be
anywhere.
I was so certain I wouldn’t fuck it up this time, but I did. I fuck
everything
up. I’m a waste of a life.

**********

For four days I haven’t spoken to a single person. Sometimes I think I might. Sometimes I think I
should
. But those thoughts aren’t strong enough to win over the only thing that plagues my mind every long minute of every long day.

I don’t want to be here.

Perhaps if I ignore everyone long enough, pretend I don’t exist, my body will eventually give up like I planned.

“Knock knock,” Peter practically sings as he walks into my room. Peter Donovan is my therapist, a step above the nurses who won’t quit fussing over me, and one below my psychiatrist, who I’ve only seen once. Peter, however, graces me with his annoying, unwanted presence twice a fucking day.

His visits pan out exactly the same every single day. He talks, I don’t. Yesterday he told me if I carry on refusing my meds they will have no choice but to
force
me to take them. That shouldn’t be allowed to happen. I’m a grown man. I should be able to make my own damn decisions. What difference does it make to their lives if I’m here or not? If anything, they should be grateful for the extra bed. No point wasting it, wasting their time, the government’s money, on someone who doesn’t fucking
want
it.

“Nurse Marie tells me you ate some breakfast this morning. That’s great.”

Patronising bastard.

“What made you start eating?”

“I was hungry.”
Fucktard.

Peter pulls up the chair next to my bed and sits down. “Talking, too? I’m honoured.”

What the fuck? Aren’t you supposed to mollycoddle me and ask about my feelings?

“So, how are you feeling today?”

Here we go.
“Fine.” Why am I talking?
Shut the hell up.

“Now that’s not strictly true, is it?”

“
What?
”

“I’ve been doing this job for seven years. Training for even longer. In my experience, people who feel
fine
don’t try and take their own life.”

I can’t believe I’m here, listening to this shit. It was all supposed to end.

“So you’ve eaten, you’ve spoken, how about you take your meds for me?”

“There’s no point.”

“Why do you think that?”

Seriously. Stop talking, James. Stop talking,
now
.
“They don’t work.”

“They do.”

“No, they
don’t
.”

“Why not? How do they make you feel?”

“Like a robot. A useless robot.” I don’t want to talk to him. He’s just such a sarcastic arsehole I can’t seem to help myself.

“Okay, answer this honestly. Did you decide they make you feel like a robot while you were taking them, or after you stopped?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Answer it.”

Huffing in frustration, I drag myself into a sitting position, dangling my legs off the edge of the bed. For the first time, I take in his appearance. He’s wearing beige slacks and a white shirt with a lanyard hanging round his neck. He can’t be much older than me, but he dresses like a grandfather. “After. I didn’t notice while I was taking them because, like I said, I was a fucking robot.”

I stopped taking them after my father died because I
needed
to. Suddenly, I was faced with a huge responsibility and a workload I wouldn’t have been able to deal with without the extra energy, longer waking hours.

“Or maybe you didn’t notice because while you were medicated you really did feel
fine
, as opposed to the
pretend
fine you’re feeling now.”

“You’re wasting your time. Talking therapy doesn’t work either.”

“Well it won’t…if you don’t
talk
.”

Go fuck yourself.

“Your brother has been by again today.”

“I don’t want-”

“And Theo is outside.”

Theodore.
His name makes my chest ache and my stomach swell with guilt. It’s the first emotion I’ve felt since I got here and I don’t like it. The only way I can fight those feelings, is with anger. “I don’t want to see him.”

He needs to forget about me, dammit!

“Why not? He cares about you, as does your brother.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I cause them pain. They worry about me and they shouldn’t. I’m not worth it.”

My mental illness, my problems… they’re infectious. They don’t just affect
me
, they spread to other people, people I care about. It feels selfish to carry on living, to keep the pain of being close to me in their hearts.

“So you think they’re stupid?”

“
What?
No! Of course not.”

“But they waste their time caring about someone who isn’t worth it. Doesn’t sound too clever to me.”

“Stop it,” I spit, shaking my head in an effort to unscramble my thoughts. “You’re twisting my words.”

Where’s the distant, note-taking, fake-sympathising professional I’m used to dealing with? Is this guy even qualified?

“James,” he says, his voice low and serious. “If I’d come in here and started asking generic questions from a list, looking down my nose at you while scribbling down my thoughts, would you have answered me?”

Umm…

“I might not do things the conventional way, I might not pussyfoot around and relay everything I learned in the textbooks, but I
am
qualified and I
can
help you. You just need to let me.”

Hmm,
well that’s different. It almost sounds like he’s asking for my permission rather than ramming diagnoses and medications down my throat. I also can’t help wondering if he has some kind of magical mind-reading powers.

“It never goes away. The sadness. This feeling that I’m broken.” I stare at the floor as I talk. Telling him anything at all is hard enough. I’ve already spilled more information about myself than I ever have before to a professional and I don’t have the courage to watch his reaction as I do.

“Even when I feel great, it’s still there, taunting me, telling me it’ll come back.”

“You say it
tells
you. Is it a voice? A voice that’s not yours?”

“No, no. It’s not a nutjob kind of voice.” I realise that probably isn’t appropriate terminology when I’m stuck in a psychiatric ward and apologise immediately. “Sorry, I just mean…They’re my
own
thoughts. You know, how you silently talk to yourself? They’re my own thoughts talking to me. I’m not hearing voices. Am I making sense?”

“Perfect sense. So in your mind the depression makes you broken?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you are. That doesn’t mean people shouldn’t care about you. Value you. More importantly, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t value
yourself
.”

“You don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I
can’t
be fixed.”

I was
born
this way. I’ve been struggling with this darkness, this emptiness, for as long as I can remember.

“Neither can a three-legged puppy, but you can bet your backside someone will love it.”

“That’s not the same and you know it.”

“I’ll tell you what I know so far. I know two men ask about you every day, desperate to see you. They care about you, and no sane human being becomes emotionally attached to a robot, as you referred to yourself earlier. So, James, I think you’re lying to me. I think you’re not telling me about the
real
you, the James those men care so much about. Why is that?”

I shake my head. I know what he’s trying to do and it’s not going to work. “Max
has
to love me. I’m his brother. And Theodore…his heart is too big to see the bad things.”

And there’s so much bad. So much darkness. Emptiness. I’m…I’m too tired.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Not particularly.
“Go on.”

“I think you’re focusing on the bad because it’s easy.”

“
Easy?
”
What the fuck?
“You think what I’m feeling is
easy?
”

“I think it’s easier to accept things are never going to improve than fight for them to get better.”

“Are you even allowed to say things like that? Isn’t it against some kind of Therapist Rulebook? It’s not very professional.”

“Have the other professionals you’ve seen helped you?”

“No.”

“Then maybe it’s time to try a different approach.”

For the first time, I look him right in the eyes. His expression doesn’t falter, as if he genuinely believes there’s hope for me. I admire his optimism, but I can’t summon it myself.

“I’ve fought all my life. It doesn’t work.” Tears sting the back of my eyes and I pray they don’t fall. It’s clear by the fact I’m in here – dirty, unshaven, with bandaged wrists – that I’m weak, that I’m a failure. I don’t need to reinforce that knowledge by crying in front of him.

“
I’ve
being the operative word there.
Nobody
is capable of getting through this life alone, James. When your boat is drifting from the shore, it’s okay to use an anchor for support. We
all
need an anchor. Without people to love us, we’d just drift further and further away.”

“What if…” I want to stop talking now. I want to curl up on my side and go back to giving up. It hurts, and he’s
right
. Giving up
is
easier than this. “What if I’ve already drifted too far to be saved?”

“You almost did, but your anchor, Theodore, held you in place. Now you need to make the journey back to shore. It’s a long way, and it’s
okay
to need help getting there. That’s what
I’m
here for. That’s what your medications are for. That’s what the people you love are for. You do love them, right? Max, Theodore.”

“Of course I do.” Why would he ask that? I tried to leave them because I love them. I tried to
free
them.

“Robots can’t love,” he says with the smuggest grin on his face.

Suddenly, I’m laughing.

Laughing? Have you forgot where you are? What a mess you made of things? You have nothing to laugh about.

And so, the laughter fades, replaced with that damn knot of sadness, of
hatred
towards myself, bound tightly around my stomach.

“I think we’ll leave it there for today,” Peter says.

I feel an odd stab of disappointment. He can’t leave yet. He said he’d help me and he hasn’t. I’m not fixed yet, dammit!

“You did well today. Thank you for talking to me.”

I still can’t quite believe I actually did. All I’ve done since the second I woke up is silently curse the bastard who saved my life, and think of ways to make sure I succeed next time. For a while, I even considered talking, saying all the right things which I know they want to hear so they’ll discharge me. Then I could take myself away to a place where it would take someone days to find my body.

But that’s
not
why I talked to Peter today. I talked because I couldn’t help it. Peter asked the right questions, questions no one else has ever asked before. He treated me like a person instead of an illness and it caught me off guard, kicking my walls down. Maybe it won’t continue. Maybe the darkness will set in again and remind me it’s part of who I am, that it will never leave.