Where Is My Mind?

This is a short story I wrote in early 2015, but I still really love it. I wrote it while listening to Where Is My Mind (oddly enough), the version from Suckerpunch, although I’ve since developed a fondness for the Pixies’ original version. I hope you enjoy!

Why are these places always green? And not a nice green, that insipid spearmint colour. Seriously, it’s like the most depressing colour in the universe and they think it’s a good idea to use it in a building full of crazy people. Just proves my point that the people running these places are idiots.

Note to self: don’t say that out loud. Calling your doctors idiots never ends well.

There’s a fricking analogue clock on the wall over there. The only people who use analogue clocks now are hipsters and those weirdos who think steam could be used to power the universe. And they think I’m crazy. Of course, they still teach you how to read analogue clocks in school for some reason, so I know it’s exactly sixteen minutes and forty seven seconds past eleven. Sixteen minutes and forty seven seconds late. My doctor is always running late. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him within twenty three minutes of my actual appointment time.

Note to self: don’t complain about him running late again. If he uses the word ‘confrontational’ one more time I’m going to punch him in the nose and then I’ll really be in trouble.

. . .

Note to self: don’t punch the doctor in the nose.

God, the sooner they put this fricking implant in my head, the better. Then I won’t have these damn appointments all the time. You’d think, once they figured out what was wrong with me, they’d be able to just plonk the thing in there, but no, they have to calibrate it or some shit. They’re a bunch of sadists, the lot of them. I think they just like prodding the crazies, like we’re a bunch of monkeys in a lab or something.

Note to self: don’t compare yourself to a monkey in a lab, even as a joke. This doctor’s sense of humour is set at zero. He’ll probably think it’s a symptom of some new and interesting psychosis and then they’ll have to do more calibrating.

Oh good, the nurse is back. No, she’s sitting down and pretending to do something very important. Wonderful. I forgot my book, too, and they make sure you can’t miss the sign about turning off all mobile devices. I guess I’ll just sit here then.

That girl over there definitely hasn’t been here before. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat like she’s about to jump up and run away. I felt like that the first time. I thought they’d knock me out as soon as they figured out what was wrong with me and shove the metal in my head. It sounded pretty scary at the time. Of course, she could be one of those paranoid types. They must get them in here all the time. I might be nuts, but at least I know it. Those crazies have all kinds of weird ideas and half the time they don’t even know there’s anything wrong with them.

Note to self: don’t use the word ‘crazies’ in front of this nurse. She thinks political correctness is next to godliness. As though being referred to by my proper term will make the fact that I’m officially insane better somehow.

Note to self: don’t use the phrase ‘officially insane’ in front of anyone. They never get the joke.

Note to self: stop checking the time every thirty seconds. He’s not going to hurry up just because you know how late he’s running.

Twenty four minutes and thirteen seconds. Oh damn, I did it again. That girl is actually pretty cute. Pity we’re both nuts. If I could be sure she wasn’t a potential axe murderer I might ask her out. If I didn’t have trouble talking to actual real people I might be able to ask her out. Ugh, I am so sick of being crazy.

Oops, she’s looking at me. I should probably smile or something, but my subconscious is suddenly really interested in my sneakers. They’re pretty great sneakers, I have to admit, but if you’re going to offer me a choice between smiling at a cute girl and looking at my shoes… Yeah, okay, so I’ll choose the shoes every time because I’m literally incapable of making eye contact with anyone.

Note to self: don’t tell the doctor you prefer looking at your shoes to looking at cute girls. This is something that will only make sense to another nutter.

I wonder what Doctor Needles would think if I told him I was interested in girls. Well, looking at girls from a distance. It’s a 50/50 chance he’d decide I’m an obsessive weirdo and lock me up. Heaven forbid I act like a normal human being in any respect whatsoever.

Note to self: don’t call him Doctor Needles. Again. He didn’t like it the first time. That will not have changed.

Twenty seven minutes and three seconds. How good is my peripheral vision?

Pretty damn good is how good. She’s still sitting there, right on the edge of that seat. They’re real bastards, these chairs. If she shifts her weight wrong it’s going to go right over on her and she’ll end up on the floor. Of course, a normal person would warn her about that. Or at least offer to help her up when she fell. Hey, it’s the perfect excuse to start a conversation right? Pass on the word about the dangerous furniture…

Note to self: don’t try and start conversations about the dangers of furniture. She already knows you’re nuts, don’t make it worse.

But since she’s here because she’s nuts, surely she wouldn’t be so bothered by my being nuts? I mean, it’s not like I’m a Fringe or anything. We’re all here to get fixed, right, so I’m obviously not going to be nuts for much longer.

Note to self: logic is not your strong suit today.

Her gloves have little bows on them and no fingers. I always wondered what the point of those are, because when I wear gloves, it’s so my fingers don’t get cold. She has bright blue nails. I wonder what my nails would look like that colour. I do like blue.

I could ask her where she got it.

Note to self: do not ask the cute girl where she got her nail polish. Dangerous furniture would be a better conversation starter than that.

If this doctor does not hurry up, I am going to do something desperate.

Like sit here until he tells me to come in.

Damn.

Thirty two minutes and twenty eight seconds. Oh look, here he comes. Finally.

You’d think it wouldn’t take this long just to stop being crazy.

Text: All Rights Reserved to Cambrey Payne 2015

 

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Soulless Killer Series: Ch2 Conflict of Interest

The problem with having Christen as a roommate, I soon discovered, was that on paper, she was the perfect roommate, while in reality, she was a nightmare. Most days I would have preferred a roommate who left dirty socks hanging over the back of the couch and half-empty bowls of cereal in the sink. Christen, however, always kept her clothes clean (with the help of my darling mother), and washed her dishes, and even wiped out the shower when she was done. She also moved all the cutlery into the TV cabinet so she could keep her socks in the kitchen drawer.
“Are you just trying to piss me off?” I asked, staring at her extensive collection of multi-coloured foot coverings.
“I left the other half for you,” she said, sounding hurt. I stared at her for a second with my mouth open.
“Because of course I’d want to keep my socks in the kitchen.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s far more sensible,” she said serenely, taking a pair of rainbow-striped knee socks that no one would ever see under her black jeans and heading for her bedroom. She would never put her socks on anywhere but in the bedroom. I threw up my arms and put the cutlery holder back in the drawer next to her socks. It was a big drawer, after all.
As well as the socks in the kitchen, she spent the first week hand-sewing little white curtains for the few photos I’d put up around the house – including the family shots I had in my bedroom. She would close them every night and open them every morning. I’m sure you can imagine how unnerving it would be to awaken at 8am on a Saturday to find your roommate looming over you, opening a tiny pair of curtains on the family picture next to your bed so they could get some light.
“You do know photos hold part of the soul, don’t you?” she said, apparently astonished at my ignorance. “You need to make sure you maintain a healthy circadian rhythm, or the soul’s owner could start feeling unwell. I wouldn’t want that to happen to your mother.”
I didn’t bother replying to that particular gem.
However, these might almost have been forgivable quirks if it weren’t for my aforementioned mother, who had now quite willingly adopted Christen into the family.
“It’s not her fault she grew up the way she did,” Mum said severely to me whenever I dared to hint at my disapproval.
“All the more reason not to encourage her,” I muttered in reply. But Mum seemed to think she was helping, rather than enabling, my completely interplanetary roommate. I considered asking Christen to move out, but I couldn’t face the dual guilt-trip of her puppy eyes and my mother’s disapproval. I figured I’d just have to grit my teeth and bear it, and hope Christen got bored.
Sadly, she got comfortable instead. About a month after she’d moved in, my boss offered me a commission interstate, which I would normally have thought twice about, since I had essays to write. However, having just that morning found Christen taking the labels off all the jars in the pantry and rewriting the contents on the bottom in calligraphy, I was in need of a break. I packed a small bag, caught the first flight out, and settled happily into my hotel room, anticipating an easy transaction and a relaxing evening. I should have known better.
Two hours after I’d settled into my chair by the window with my novel, I became aware of a faint metallic scratching sound coming from my door. It was an older hotel, and still used regular keys instead of keycards, and I instantly realised someone was trying to pick the lock. I silently closed my book and reached for the Smith & Wesson I’d tucked into the seat with me. The faint sound of my finger clicking the safety off went unheard as the lock gave a clunk and the door started to open.
I know you, dear reader, will be far less surprised by what happened next than I, but I hope you appreciate that hindsight comes with rather more clarity than was available to me at the time.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” I spluttered, clicking the safety back on and putting the pistol back on the small table next to me.
“Your room has a better shot than mine,” Christen said, as though this fact ought to have been obvious to me. I stared at her, still not quite caught up with events.
“Why did you have to pick the lock?” I said. “You could have just knocked.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.” She closed the door and locked it behind her, stashing a small leather wallet of lock-picking wotsits in the inside pocket of her coat as she turned back to me. “Is he back yet?” I stared at her some more, mouth open like a gormless goldfish.
“Oh no,” I said, finally realising what was going on. “No, no, no. This is my commission, you can just stay out of it.”
The puppy dog eyes made an appearance and I cursed internally.
“I thought we could do it together,” she said.
“You don’t think our employers might have an issue with that?” I suggested pointedly. She looked surprised. Clearly the thought hadn’t occurred to her.
“I can’t see why they would,” she said. “As long as the job gets done.” I sighed. Soulless people in movies tended to be incredibly intelligent and ruthless. How was it I’d got stuck with the human version of a baby Labrador? I opened my mouth to explain the difficulties of dividing the fee between two opposing companies, imagined the ensuing conversation, and closed it again. There really was no point. She sensed victory and bounced happily over to the window, where my rifle was already set up.
“See?” she said, grinning at me. “It’ll be fun! I’ll order us some room service.”
I sighed and put my bookmark back into my book. Short of murdering her in order to protect my commission – which any sensible person would have at least considered – it looked like I was stuck with her. It seemed I wasn’t feeling very sensible.
“Make sure they send up honey with the tea,” I said, and turned my attention back to the window.

Text: All Rights Reserved to Cambrey Payne 2017.

Image from: http://www.wallpaperup.com/688806/pistol_gun_weapon_handgun_military_police_book.html

If

TW: frequent references to domestic violence

If he hadn’t been my gaoler
Maybe I’d still be a wife
With that photogenic life
At least between 9 and 5
Because you know what kids are like
Near 6 o’clock…

If he hadn’t tried to own me
Maybe I’d still wear that ring
Finger swelling round the thing
The symbol of my giving in
To the fight I couldn’t win
Against the world

If I’d got to keep my body
Maybe I’d still walk those halls
With their off-white painted walls
And their scratch-resistant floors
And their lever-handled doors
I chose myself

If he’d been somebody different
If he’d know-n how to love
I might not have… “given up”
I’d still have a smooth-shaved cunt
Not leave the house without makeup
Cos I’m a… woman…

If he hadn’t been a monster
I wouldn’t have to be so grateful
For escaping something dreadful
With three reminders of my downfall
Not their fault they bring back painful
Memories.

If I’d stayed…
If I’d surrendered…
If I’d died.

All Rights Reserved to Cambrey Payne 2017