A Collection of Stories

HE ISN'T MAD!

"Square room. Square squares on the floor... yes... squares. The ceiling's squared too... or is it? Of course, it is, you fool! Yes! And the windows... they're squares too, yes...?"

The air smells of fresh linen and medicine while the open barred windows welcome fragrant foxglove and the playful perfume of the budding and blooming cherry trees outside.

The gold varnished doorknob across the room turns slowly. Though it makes no noise, he starts and whips his head round as if someone shattered glass a few centimeters from his face.

"What!? Who's there? What do you want?!"

A young man enters the room bearing a tray.

"Are you hungry?" he says in a pleasant voice. "I thought some fresh veil and endive would be nice today."

"Who are you?"

"Have you noticed the weather today?" the young man goes on cheerily. "It's absolutely splendid for a stroll! We can go straight after dinner if you'd like."

Who is this man? Who is he?! He speaks of the weather and goes about setting up the trays for my meals every day and yet I do not know him. What does he want? Why am I here?!"

"Who are you?!" he cries in a shrilly voice as the man approached him. The boy's smile falters, and a sad glint appears in his bright eyes. He looks away towards the window.

"Why do you do this?" he says, more to himself than to the man before him. "You know me-"

The man huddles in the corner, wrapping his arms about his knees. "I do not know you! I don't, I don't, I don't!"

"James?" a voice calls from outside the room. The young man, rooted to the centre of the room, only moves to answer after the third call."

"Stay there, I'm coming."

The older man whips his head in the direction of the door, then throws himself on the bed, pulling the covers over his nose.

"Who is that? What do they want?!"

"It's okay," the younger man soothes, forcing a smile. "You just eat up and I'll be back in a minute to check on you."

The old man smiles like an obedient child, scanning the tray set before him while the gentleman slips out of the room with the older man's conversational tone trailing behind him: "The weather is nice today. Didn't I say that? Yes! I did, didn't I...?"

A short, stout woman waits at the foot of the stairs, examining the wall of fine portraits. The young man scowls.

"Why are you here?"

"How is he?" she says with mock interest. She squints at one of the smaller paintings.

"He's fine. Now, what do you want?"

"Don't you dare to take that tone of voice with me, James," she turns sharply to face him with angry eyes. "His condition isn't improving no matter how much you try to act as though it is." James closes his eyes and tenses his jaw.

"There is nothing wrong with him, Aunt Christie. He just needs time to--"

"To what? We've given him time, James! He needs professional assistance!"

He scoffs. "By which you mean an asylum. No."

She exhales and massages her temples. "James... listen to me, this cannot go on. He must be institutionalized." He shakes his head.

"No."

Her eyes flash and darken. "I tried to talk things over calmly, but it appears you need to be told in bluntness: your father is no longer sane. Do you understand me? He cannot even remember who you are, and the doctors say he won't get any better here." Bitter tears glide down her cheeks, causing him to look away. "He doesn't know anyone anymore and his hysterics are getting out of hand, and you know it!"

But he isn't listening. He turns away, climbing the stairs in a daze with a dull ache in his chest. He slides down to the floor beside his father's room and let the silent tears flow down his face.

He isn't the only one hurting. Aunt Christie had raised his father, and this was the only reason he respected her. She never liked him and the only thing that bound them to one another was the man behind the door. Was there still hope? He had always had it, but the line appeared to be growing thin. It wouldn't be long before his aunt took matters into her own hands. She would, and he couldn't stop her. He takes a shuddering breath, wipes his face, and gets to his feet.

"Dad-"

The bed stands empty with rumpled sheets and the contents of the dinner tray lay scattered about the room, in the far corner, shreds of the morning paper rest in a messy heap. A muffled moan comes from the bathroom and James, his heart skipping a beat or two, rushes across the room and throws open the door.

"Dad, no!" he tackles the old man who kicks and screams frantically. A wild clash echoes throughout the bathroom as the stainless-steel knife from the dinner tray falls to the floor. James kicks it away. Aunt Christie appears in the doorway with a pale, frightened face.

"Dear God, what's happening!?" A stream of blood drains from her nephew's arm and the knife on the floor bears evidence of the deed done. She brings her hand to her mouth, shedding silent tears and shaking her head.

"It's okay, he- he just got confused! That's all, right Dad?" He shakily wraps his over shirt around the wound. His father leans his head against him and lets out plaintive sobs.

"Why do you hate me? Who are you people? Why are you doing this to me?!"

James clings to the man. He glances bleary-eyed at his aunt in the doorway. But he knows she's made her decision.

"He isn't mad, he isn't mad, he isn't mad..." he repeats to himself. But deep down, he knows he's already lost the man he loves most in the world. Forever.