Self-harm

                                  

Blake Crowe woke from a choppy night’s sleep of unquiet dreams mixed with frequent trips to the bathroom. It wasn’t a burgeoning prostate problem that had him peeing so much, rather, it was the unsettling contents of those same dreams. Every half hour or so, he had woken in fright and scurried to the loo just to calm himself down. The final vision, before the shrill 6a.m. alarm bell, was of a coffin lid closing—with a bleak and resounding thud—upon Blake’s entombed and terrified head. He had tried to scream but his soil-filled mouth rendered him mute, writhing helplessly in the desolate dreamscape.

Hitting the floor and straightening up, part of him felt unable to face the day at all and he considered, for a moment, leaping back into his still warm bed. However, such a gambit wasn’t an option on this important morning, and besides, he’d recently read an article on depression which said “catnaps can be very durable”. He knew, in his present state of mind, to take great care around the whole area of sleep.

Awake now, time was of the essence. Trying his best to forget the night’s torments, he dragged his fraught frame towards the stove. That feeling called déjà vu came over him and he smirked to think that he might have been here before in a number of past lives. Right now in his current life he planned to be outside the Grange District Asylum for 8a.m.—an hour’s bus journey hence—where his friend Paul Pubb was due to leave Unit 9 after a three-month stint within the walls of that grim institution.

Turning the tap and lighting the gas, Blake could feel a bad headache coming on and his mouth was hangover dry, though it had been several days since he’d had a drink. Doubtless, this current state of abstinence was behind the disturbing dreams now plaguing him nightly. The recurring one about the executed cameraman was of a particularly harrowing nature and would stick in his mind for years to come.

Seeking something anodyne to soothe his head, he reached into the kitchen press for a tub of paracetamol he kept ever on hand and popped two of the tablets into his arid mouth. He filled a pint glass to the brim with tap water and washed the drug down greedily. Then, to get his day going, he set about preparing a bowl of porridge and some tea. This nourishment, he reasoned, would fortify him nicely for what was certain to be a difficult day. Once it was eaten, he could be on his way.

Standing by the cobwebby stove, stirring his oats in a battered old saucepan, he listened to the water brewing and thought of that well-worn maxim of a watched pot that never boils. To get off the pot, so to speak, he started mapping out his day and weighing up what approach to take when encountering Paul Pubb again.

Paul’s period of incarceration had been relatively brief—the government’s cutbacks on nuthouses were starting to bite—and his release today came on the strict proviso that he attend as an outpatient for a year’s psychotherapy in the Hope Street clinic down the road from the asylum. Blake had phoned the Grange in a sort of next of kin capacity and learnt of these release terms from Paul’s nurse. Friendly but firm would seem to be my best bet, Blake thought. Even if it meant pushing Pubb through the door of Hope Street—like some struggling Tokyo metro attendant jamming a carriage at rush hour—Blake was determined that Paul would meet with his counsellor and receive his much-needed therapy over the course of the next year at the very least.

He was immensely fond of Pubb and saw in him a goodness that others often failed to recognise. Crowe resolved to make it his mission, in any way that he could, to assist his friend in the healing process. During their allotted five-minute phone call the previous afternoon—Paul was given two calls per week during his time at the Grange—Blake had been emphatic, driving home the message of recovery and change

“Listen, Paul,” he’d warned. “You can’t go on the way you were. Once you’re out of there you’ll be attending a guy called Ben Anxious in Hope Street for a year. The first appointment’s 8.30 tomorrow just after you walk. It’s once a week from then on, with no ifs or buts. Your life is at stake!”

His breakfast made, Blake sat down to eat it at the rickety table—it was like something from a Van Gogh painting—and found his mind drifting back to that accursed day and the appalling event that had seen poor Paul Pubb get put away.

Blake recalled a gusty, chilly afternoon with billowing clouds, grey and massive, rolling in from the eastern horizon. He was down on Mint Street sitting with Paul on some dilapidated street furniture: a vandalized bench, as he remembered it, which gave off a horrid tramp stench. As far as leading a normal life and partaking in everyday society went, both men were feeling decidedly out of the frame as the town clock struck three and leaves and litter blew about their feet. Disaffected is probably the word that best describes their state. Also, both felt a deep urge to escape themselves through drugs and were scanning the street in the hope that a dealer would pass by to do some business. The minutes dragged on and, in a loud voice aimed directly at Blake’s left ear, Paul expounded on a subject most dear to his heart: his unrequited ardour for and mounting obsession with the promising young actress Pearl Gamble.

Pearl’s star was in the ascendant. The widely held view amongst movie insiders was that she was one lead role away from super-stardom. She was also a queen of social media with a legion of friends and followers on all of the top websites. Her beauty, to boot, was phenomenal though Blake was inclined to think that eye candy could be cloying. For his sins in a past life, poor Paul had fallen—nay, dived!—a million miles down for Pearl and was nigh on morbidly fixated with her at this stage. His sense of longing was causing his heart to break and his attempts to contact Gamble had grown totally out of hand. In her last online communication with Paul, Pearl had threatened to set the police on him. In Blake’s view the whole grubby business was heading for a calamitous end.

As the clouds scudded past, Pubb hollered.

“I’ve written to her snail mail. Phoned her up. Tried reaching her on the net. She’s blocked me on all the social media sites. As far as Pearl Gamble’s concerned, I’m persona non grata. I’ve got to show her what she means to me!”

Blake still found it hard even visualizing what happened next. It was a memory he would far rather keep suppressed. Now, with great reluctance, he let it come to the fore if only for Paul’s sake. After all, it was the morning of his friend’s release and Blake had to make himself recall just how far into the darkness Paul had strayed. How else could he help Pubb to come back into the serene light? Whilst by no means dwelling in the serene light himself—his troubled dreams were testament to that fact—Blake, nonetheless, was a good deal nearer the peaceful radiance than Paul.

On overcast Mint Street it started to rain: gigantic droplets pounding the pavement with no end in sight. Blake wanted to get off the soiled bench and scarper for cover to the tatty mall across the road. Before he could even suggest the idea, though, Paul—by no stretch an aficionado of quality Havanas—was on his feet and had pulled a compact cigar cutter, of the guillotine type, from out of his jacket pocket.

“This will show her!” he screamed to the angry sky and at his audience of one: Blake Crowe. “I’ll suffer and I’ll bleed for you, Pearl Gamble!”

With these words Paul immediately went to work with the cutter on the index finger of his shaking left hand. Keeping as steady as he could in his manic state, he severed half the digit in one violent move. Blake, frozen by shock at first, was too late when he finally tried to stop his friend. The mutilated piece of finger lay on the concrete—quite the gruesome sight indeed—and there was blood everywhere. There were also screams—both Blake’s and Paul’s—and some, too, from the several strangers who, despite the rain, had stopped to stare and now began to roar in shock. A lot of finger-pointing, as well—at the finger. Presently, a stray mutt stumbled upon the scene and stared in momentary wonder at the fallen chod of flesh lying in the rain. The dog sniffed at the lopped off pinky for a second or two and then, without further ado, ate it; its mangy mouth masticating with relish. Minutes later, an ambulance arrived and Paul was carted off to the Grange.

Eating breakfast now, with Paul about to re-emerge into society, Blake beseeched God to give his friend the strength to readjust to the world again. To this end he knew that Paul would have to let go absolutely of his obsession with Pearl Gamble. The level of derangement she’d brought about in him was truly shocking. Sure, he had behaved recklessly in the past over lots of things but chopping off his own finger for a girl? For fuck’s sake! Whatever it was about her, she had a highly deleterious effect on Paul. He was simply going to have to forget her altogether. Otherwise, Blake felt, it won’t be long until he buys the farm.

With these thoughts swirling in his skull and his stomach full after the hearty oats, Blake threw the crockery in the sink and headed out the door.

7.55a.m. he alighted from the bus across the road from the asylum and surveyed the

Victorian Gothic building with a sense of foreboding. He couldn’t help but feel doubtful about Paul’s recovery—the thought niggled that maybe his friend had gone too far this time and was beyond redemption.

Still, I must stay optimistic and do what I can for him, he thought, as he walked across the road and positioned himself at the main entrance—a welcoming party of one.

The hour turned. Paul Pubb emerged—wan and Christlike—through the gates of the District Asylum. Blake made a mental note to avoid any scrutiny of the damaged digit. Following some brief hesitation the friends shook hands. It was clear from the look on both their faces that they were enjoying this moment. After a minute or two they set off in the direction of the Hope Street clinic locked in animated conversation.

They laughed together about Ben Anxious and his ridiculous name. Paul said he was naturally quite tense to be meeting the doctor and had popped two valium on the way out of the asylum just to steady his nerves.

“With a name like that,” Blake chuckled. “You can forget Benjamin, the Ben must be short for Benzodiazepine.”

Still laughing—though ‘twas really gallows humour—they came to the door of the clinic and walked in. At the reception Blake hung back while Paul gave his name to the chit at the hatch. She checked the computer to verify the appointment and explained to Paul that Dr Anxious would see him shortly in Room 6 and advised him to take a seat in the meantime

Blake and Paul parked themselves in some chairs next to a table strewn with tattered magazines. Neither man bothered to read any of this frayed pulp and instead sat there unspeaking, gathering their thoughts. There was a girl in a small black dress waiting, too. Good-looking, tattooed and sporting a beehive haircut, she appeared to be highly stressed. Every other moment it seemed she would gnaw at the nail of her left forefinger in a relentless process of tearing at her own flesh. After a short time, the girl at reception called to her.

“Amy, Dr. Burroughs will see you in Room 7 now.”

The agitated and alluring Amy arose, straightened her short skirt and wiggled sexily into her therapy session.

Paul’s turn came next. The receptionist told him to proceed to room six where Dr. Anxious was ready to see him. Pubb got up from his chair and headed to the small corridor where the therapy rooms were located. Blake watched his friend slip into Room 6 and hoped that this really was Paul’s first step on the road to full recovery. Then, knowing that he had some time to kill, Blake picked up one of the magazines piled on the table. The whole edition he noticed, as he began to leaf through it, concerned celebrities and their daily doings. After about thirty seconds, he lost the will to read on. The minutiae of these people’s lives meant sweet damn all to him.

In the rehab room Paul Pubb and Ben Anxious sat in chairs staring silently at one another across a coffee table containing a box of mansize tissues and a single red rose wilting in a glass of water.

Blake was correct in his guesswork about Anxious’s first name. Ben’s father—determined that his son would pursue a career in psychotherapy—had confidently christened his boy Benzodiazepine.

Despite his name, however, there was nothing fretful about Ben. A real rutting male this one; bedecked in gold jewellery and forever stroking his jet black goatee. The supremely telling detail was a constant thrusting of his groin to the fore no matter what his posture—quite the little swashbuckler indeed.

Oddly enough, Paul considered the goatee stroking to be more unnerving than the prominent groin. Ben spoke.

“How do you feel, Paul, now you’ve left the asylum?”

“Well, I’m glad to be out, doctor,” Paul replied. “But, to tell you the truth, I’m tormented; tormented by this ever brightening and ever darkening light here on Earth; these so-called seasons.”

In the next room, the girl Amy began wailing uncontrollably. A man—one presumes Dr Burroughs—shouted at her in a tone of savage anger.

“What are you so cut up about!?”

Sounds like they’re practising some particularly tough therapy in there, Paul thought. Then, as he was wont to do, he pictured Pearl Gamble in his mind’s eye. In the asylum they had tried to get him to forget Pearl and consign her to his past once and for all. To achieve this aim, the doctors had used all the latest therapies on him but nothing had worked. She continued to occupy his mind, constantly, as the source of all his sorrows and all his joys. Over time, however, he had grown quite adept at hiding his innermost thoughts from others—even from (especially from!) Blake Crowe.

Through the walls Dr. Burroughs continued to be heard shouting at poor, nervous Amy. Paul was sure that everyone in the building could hear the man’s murderous cries and he kind of hoped that Dr. Anxious would have a crack at some of this shouting lark as well. It would certainly liven up the proceedings. Still, they can try anything they want on me, Paul felt, my depression will never dispel.

Out in the reception area Blake was thinking the same thing about Hope Street’s therapy methods. Unquestionably tough stuff—bloody violent! Amy’s keening sobs coming through the walls had set him right on edge. It was his turn to gnaw at a forefinger.

In Room 6 Ben Anxious was eager to wrap things up and end his first session with Paul Pubb. Throughout their brief consultation, he’d deliberately avoided mentioning Paul’s egregious act of self-harm—the destruction of the index finger. Ben decided he might broach the subject in the third or fourth session if he felt the therapy was progressing well. He had also failed to follow up on Paul’s remarks about feeling tormented by the seasons. All in all, it had been quite a cursory opener. In conclusion, Ben simply said:

“You’re improving, you’re improving, one day it will just come to you, this business of living.”

It was a phrase Ben had read in a textbook years ago and with it he waved Paul away, reminding Pubb as both men stood up that they must reassemble at the same time next week. Paul left the room, relieved that the session had ended so quickly. Amy could still be heard from the room next door sobbing loudly. It really was the most unnerving racket altogether. Paul walked into the reception area and told Blake.

“C’mon, let’s go. That’s enough pifflepaffle for one day. Besides, her screams are doing my head in! I’ll be back next week. That’s if I make it.”

They left the clinic and wandered through the streets passing several shabbily chic neighbourhoods along the way. Blake kept the conversation light, not wanting to bombard Paul on his first day out with questions about the future or queries on his overall mindset. Let him slowly resume playing the game of life, was Blake’s attitude. Before they knew it they were almost home and decided to hop on a bus for the final stretch of the journey to their zone. Jumping off on Mint Street, Blake suggested to Paul.

“You ought to have lunch with me, and then I’ll help you to settle back into your place? See if you’ve got enough food in the fridge, clean bedclothes, that kind of thing.”

“Good idea, but go on ahead without me,” Paul said, his eyes wandering in the direction of the tatty mall. “Get lunch ready. I’ll see you at about one. I’m going to pop into the Net Café and catch up with my online life. We were deprived of all access inside.”

Blake reluctantly acquiesced to Paul’s plan. He knew it would be foolish to start ordering him around in his first fragile hours of freedom. Far better to let him feel at ease by allowing him do some of the things he pleased. He did warn Paul, nevertheless, in no uncertain terms, not to contact Pearl Gamble online and also not to try to see her in person by approaching her house.

“You’ll destroy any progress you’ve made up to now, Paul. For Christ’s sake, put that girl behind you!”

Blake went back to his flat to get the makings of a lunch together while Paul went into the mall and paid a goldmark to the man in the Net Café for an hour’s worth of web time.

Later, as arranged, the men had a pleasant lunch in Blake’s place at one. In the evening Paul, with some help from Blake, settled back into his own flat.

Dropping off to sleep at the end of what he felt had been a satisfactory day, Blake was quietly confident that Paul had turned a corner in his recovery and would be able to lead a normal life from this point onwards. In the end, he thought, the only long-term damage would be that missing half finger.

Blake’s dreams that night were less chaotic than in recent times and he awoke the next morning in a state of calmness most unusual by his standards of late.

He turned on the radio for the morning news. After the usual stuff about wars and rumours of wars, as well as a routinely strident piece predicting the collapse of the world economy, the report went on:

“And in local news, a decapitated head has been found in the garden of the actress Pearl Gamble.”

As the clipped tones of the newscaster seeped into his ear, Blake felt how he imagined a motorcyclist would feel about to crash his bike at a hundred miles an hour.

Proving that these days you really can get anything you want on the internet, Paul Pubb had found a site called decapitationsdelivered.com. For a reasonable fee, the people behind the site will behead you and deliver your severed dome to wheresoever you request.

Paul’s final tweet—as the press, after they’d dug into the matter, would report later—read:

“oinka oikna oinka why you awake”

Blake Crowe could only surmise that the second word “oikna” was a typographical error of Paul’s made in a state of high anxiety.

Paul was cremated at a small ceremony with only a handful of people in attendance. The handful of dust that remained of him—his ashes—were scattered into the ocean at dawn. That solemn act of dispersal fell to Blake and he performed the task at such an early hour that even the angels themselves hadn’t time to assemble.

Years later, the remembrance of these events still brings a shiva to Blake. No typo there, by the way; a shiva.

© Brian Ahern 2011