The patient (A short story)
By: Josue Ferreira
Tags: Beach, Sand, Mental Illness, Short Story, Patiënt

The patient

It was Tuesday, I couldn’t forget that because on Tuesdays the boys used to come around the house to play. I never really knew what they saw in that old looking building that made it so interesting, so appealing to them, but they never tried to go inside. They always played outside — Like cats and dogs do. They would usually leave around midday. They would always leave when the sun was at its peak.

I only remember that because I had to wait for them to leave. It was Tuesday and I was not allowed outside when others were around. It was not like I had someone controlling my every movement. I was housebound by choice. I lived in that house by myself, and I knew from experience that children were cruel.

I knew it from experience, and experience always trumps gut feeling. Don’t believe in them when they tell you that children are innocent. And if you tell me you do, then I feel sorry for you, but I will tell you that they are probably right. I can be nice like that, always trying to keep everyone happy, always worried that I might say the wrong thing.

The week after, the house was quiet. On Monday it was quiet. Tuesday came and, again, it was unusually quiet. By Wednesday I was secretly hoping for the quietness to go, but no one turned up.

On Sunday, just before evening I stepped outside. There was a soft breeze in the air and I really wanted to enjoy it. The best sunset is the one where the sky goes from blue to orange, purple to pink. When the sky is half dark and half orange and pink, just before night, that is when I like to go outside to greet the night — It always comes with a soft and comforting breeze that only happens on Sundays.

I am always looking forward to the next Sunday. If I have learnt anything good from my father, is the importance of spending my Sunday evenings outside, enjoying the breeze. He knew that after spending every Sunday morning being forced to get up to go to church, he knew that I needed to relax. Church was so important to my mother that she would hold me with one hand and beat me with the other, telling me that I had to go.

I think she was worried that Jesus would not be very happy with her; back then she probably thought He would think less of her or give her a smaller place in heaven. But that is a story for another time.

My father knew it well, and his ritual became my ritual. And one day, if I ever have a kid, it will become his or her ritual. I say if because I cannot imagine a world where there is a smaller version of myself wandering around. The world has been cruel enough to me. But if for some reason I do have kids, I can only hope that I can be there for them. They say, ‘history often repeats itself.’ That is what some people say.

My grandfather knew that there was no point in trying to change the future. ‘Like son, like father.’ He kept repeating whenever I said I would try to be different. He knew it so well, he died alone because his son, my father couldn’t be at the funeral. My father sent flowers. He knew someone would place the flowers on the tombstone for him. But that too is a story for another time.

There was nothing to do around the house. Things had been quiet on the outside. The windows were barred, turning my reality into shapes, uneven triangles and a few squares. It was not the ideal way to see the world, but it was the only way to see it from the inside. I was only allowed outside when there was no one around. There was a special window at the back of the house. They had been kind enough to leave that window clear. ‘A treat for your mind.’ That is what they said.

On Sunday, while I was outside, I tried to imagine what it would be like to be on a beach. To smell the scent of salt water and ocean in the air and to feel the breeze. I tried to picture what it would be like to walk barefoot, to feel my feet covered in grains of sand. I always liked having my feet covered in sand. I would dig a small hole to bury my feet in — it is one of those things that I cannot explain. I would just do it.

Thinking about all that makes me feel sad. I think it makes me feel sad. It was never explained to me, emotions, you know. I watch a lot of movies, and I try to mimic their expressions. So, I think it makes me feel sad. They left the window at the back of the house open, but they never considered what it would mean to me, what it would mean to me, over time, to be able to see the world, but not be able to touch it. They did it without ever considering what it would do to me, to my mind.

They left the window open for me, and by doing so they closed the entire world. They cut me off. My mind became my world. On that weekend when no one came around I struggled to come to terms with reality. The silence engulfed my mind with sounds that I did not know existed before. I think it was because I spent so much time in silence. I think it happened because, on that week, the world outside was quiet.

On Sunday, I almost forgot about the breeze and the night because like my crazy auntie Julia often says ‘where there is no sound there is no life.’ It was always night that week. My auntie is crazy, completely cuckoo. If you are wondering where I get it from, she might be part of the answer: she always told me the craziest stories.

My auntie Julia genuinely believes she came from another planet. My uncle is such a nice guy. Whenever my auntie says that she needs to go back home, by home she means another planet, he smiles and tells her to be patient. ‘I am still waiting for the booking confirmation. These interplanetary communications take a long time. We will go together. I promise.’ That always makes my auntie so happy.

My first memory of my Uncle Tom is of him telling me to not upset auntie Julia. ‘Whatever crazy thing your auntie says, you go with it, and be creative.’ He is such a great guy. He was at his dad’s funeral, that should tell you something about him. He took flowers with him, and instead of trying to act tough he cried and thanked his father for helping him become the man that he is. I guess my grandfather would be wrong for once, or maybe he would be right. My uncle never talked much about his parents.

I was walking around the house searching for a new friend that I had invented. He liked to play hide and seek, and he always seem to know the best places to hide, he always won. He had managed to somehow always be the one hiding. I looked for him everywhere, and every time I returned to the wall without ever finding him. It was when I was on my way to the wall, from one of the games, that I felt this subtle breeze coming through the wooden walls, and suddenly I remembered that it was Sunday, and that night was coming. ‘Silly me.’ I remember saying out loud. ‘you are looking for an imaginary person, what did you expect?’

It was definitely a Tuesday, I remember.