He could finally hide that ring beneath the cushion when they got their new home.
Donny walked over to his desk, perching into his roller-chair. How he’d missed his bloody roller-chair. He reached his arms behind his head and spun around a couple of times in it before leaning forward and aligning his notepad. He was tired, but he needed to get the story down on paper. If he could just outline it, get it down, then he could get some sleep.
He opened the front of the pad and he saw it.
He flicked to the second page and he saw it again.
How could this be happening? This couldn’t be right. He’d… he’d started the novel before the painting. He’d started the novel before any of this had happened, and yet…
He tore through every page but they were all the same: the same red handwriting, the same two words. It must’ve been the wrong notepad she’d picked up. Something can’t have been right.
He turned back to the front cover and he saw the project note staring at him in the top corner:
Manny Bates, 2011.
This was his notepad. There was no mistaking it. He slumped forward and scratched his forehead with his hands. Why was this happening?
The door creaked and Sara was in the room again. This time, she was with another man—a man in a white coat. He smiled at Donny and nodded, his eyes flicking to the pad.
“Who’s this?” Donny asked.
Sara bit her lip and brushed away her tears. “Donny, this is… this is Doctor Rogers. He’s—he’s here to make you better, honey. He’s here to make you better so we can make a fresh start again.”
Donny’s hands shook as the doctor walked towards him. “But—wait, I don’t need a doctor. None of this—all of this happened. I was there and I fell through a painting and, and… and Reginald. Ask fucking Reginald. I’m okay. I’m here now. I’m here now and I’m oka—”
“Donny, you’re not okay,” Sara said, pity in her eyes. “But we will be soon.”
Donny squeezed the sides of his head.
This could not be happening.
He’d got back. Things were supposed to be okay now. Things were supposed to be better than ever.
“I just wanted to finish my novel,” he said. “I just wanted to finish my novel.”
The doctor bobbed his head, bearing a fake smile of understanding. “I know, Donny. And we’re going to help you with that. We’re going to give you all the support you need so you can finish it, right?” He turned to Sara and smiled, who shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
Donny stood up and shook his head, staring the doctor in the face. “I didn’t write this. I swear to you, I didn’t write this. It’s… it’s them. They’re watching. They want me to know they’re watching so I never forget that. They… they’re inside me and they won’t ever let me forget.”
The doctor nodded with absolute sincerity. “And we’re going to make sure you feel much better about that, aren’t we?”
Donny looked over at Sara, his eyes stinging. All that trust, all that faith, banished in an instant. “You said you believed in me,” Donny said. “You said—you said things would be okay. You said you thought things woul—”
“Things haven’t been okay for a long time,” Sara said, raising her voice. “You agreed, Donny. You agreed—any more strange behaviour and I called the doctor.”
“This is not strange behaviour,” Donny shouted. His entire body was shaking. “It’s—I know it’s strange, but it’s true. I swear to you, what I’m saying is true. They… they’re watching.”
“So your little notebook says,” Sara said.
Donny turned back to the pad. Two words, sprayed across every single page.
We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.
He hadn’t written that. He—he knew he hadn’t written that. His writing sessions, they had been productive. He hadn’t written those words.
Had he?
The doctor held his hand out. “We just want to make sure you’re feeling completely well so that when you come back home, you’re all ready to finish that novel, eh?”
Donny shook his head and looked between them. They’d set him up. Something had set him up. It had happened. Everything had happened.
“You people, you’re the organisations and—and the authorities who keep it all covered up. The—the gaps. You keep the gaps a secret but soon you’ll be like the other side. Soon you’ll be—be treating them like prisoners too. I’m—I’m from this side, okay? I’m not one of them.” He reached his arm out. “I don’t have a chip, see? I—I don’t have a chip. I… I just want to finish my novel.”
He turned down to stare at his feet. What was he doing, trying to convince them? Maybe they were covering things up, but Sara thought he was crazy and there was only one thing he could do about that. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils.
Calm yourself. Calm yourself.
Then, he looked at the doctor and smiled. There was nothing else he could do.
“So you’ll come with us?” the doctor asked.
Donny looked at Sara, saw the desperation in her eyes, and nodded. “I’ll do what I have to.”
The doctor chuckled. “Good. Good. I think you’re doing a very brave thing, Donny.”
Donny walked up to Sara and wrapped his arms around her. The warmth of her face in his chest reminded him of all the times he’d wished for her to be there when he was away, of all the stories he had told her, and all the stories he could still tell her.
He just needed to get better. He just needed to go and get better.
He let go of Sara and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” he said. “We’ll make things okay again soon. We’ll—we’ll get that house and we’ll make things okay.”
Sara nodded, tears rolling down her soft cheeks. “I’ll come see you. I promise I’ll come see you every day.”
“Ssh,” Donny said, placing a finger on her lips. “Ssh.”
Then, he followed the doctor out of the house and towards the car.
He took a deep breath as he stepped outside, nodding at Jack as he passed him. He stood still by the doorway with his arms folded and grunted, avoiding eye contact as well as he could manage. The doctor walked over to his car door and unlocked it, smiling as he hopped into the seat and gestured to Donny to join him.
Donny opened the door and looked down the street. Really, his world wasn’t so different to Reginald’s after all. If you drew attention to yourself, you were cast out. This world just hadn’t quite reached the levels of micro-chipping yet, but smartphones were a start.
He got into the car and sat in the seat. When he looked up, he saw Sara at the door, tears running down her cheeks. Jack had his arm around her shoulder. He’d never liked Donny. Perhaps he was just frustrated that he was a bus driver and Donny was a writer. Jack would never get a book finished. He just wasn’t the type.
The doctor whistled as he turned the key and revved up the engine, before the car rumbled to life and disappeared down the road.
Donny turned away from his home. He’d see her again soon. He’d see her again soon and things would be okay. One day, things would be okay. When he was better, he could work on getting that house—hide that ring underneath the cushion. They could be okay again.
They could.
The car turned out of his road and the grey apartment blocks disappeared out of sight.
“So, what’s this book that you’re working on then?” the doctor asked, breaking the silence.
Donny laughed as he watched the tall trees pass by on the open road. “I think I’m just going to get a normal job instead.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ryan Casey is the author of several novels, novellas and short stories.
Casey lives in the United Kingdom and enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork's Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.
He posts a weekly blog at RyanCaseyBooks.com, discussing writing, publishing, and whatever the hell else he feels like.
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