UNSCATHED

Chapter 8

  "NO," TASHA  whispered.

"We tried to say something," said a Staff Member.

Her colleague said, "....but you were so happy."

"At first you were," said the Staff Member who'd spoken first.

"I lent all those..." Tasha sobbed. "I loved....."

"Tasha, my love –- you didn't lend those items to anyone, Staff Member or resident. As Staff, we are not allowed to borrow your things. I doubt anyone who lives here would want to see anything of that nature."

"Did he...?" Tasha questioned. "Did you..?"

".....Say anything to him? No; there wouldn't have been any point. We knew how you felt," said the older woman. "From the first time you saw him in that meeting. He didn't seem to notice." She was nearly in tears herself. "We love you, Tash."

Tasha shook her head; she wanted to believe it, she truly did; but she knew that Staff who said they actually loved their charges were either very new to their job or good liars.

"But I saw him!" Tasha cried. "Everyone did!"

"Yes," said the Staff member, " you saw him in our residents' meeting."

"We talked," Tasha said, "we got on really well....."

"Yes," said the Staff Member, "you seemed to. You spoke in said meeting, which you both kept interrupting with your banter......"

A huge smile lit Tasha's plain face.

"He had a massive tantrum," said the Staff Member, "stamped his foot.. " She didn't go on; there was no need.

".....he played me music," Tasha gasped, "he....his songs made me...."

Someone, or something, inhaled sharply; there was a growl, then a shriek from a thin, high voice; whatever was going on, it sounded as though the owner of the voice was pleased....

"Stop it! Ouch!" She was so tired...

"You're sick, Tasha," Pique had said, "you need some serious therapy."

She had been told that more than once; usually by people who also needed it. She had once had a t-shirt that said YOU'RE ONLY JEALOUS BECAUSE THE VOICES TALK TO ME. Her stomach rolled and her tongue felt like a piece of dry flannel in her mouth.

"...nut job...."

"...psychopath..."

The plastic bag she had been holding spilled its contents –- curry; beer; N-Rage energy drinks...

"Tasha, who are these drinks for?" asked a Staff Member.

Tasha put her head down.

"They're not yours, Tasha; you can't drink them; they're for him, aren't they?"

Tasha went on, "He found it difficult to speak, when we chatted, it had to be on his terms, when he wanted to, you see......and we had to talk about shared interests; if not, we didn't speak."

This was nothing new; most in the Warehouse were like this; even her.

"I have to keep his interest," Tasha whispered, "I just have to."

She was used to few sharing common ground with her but most never spoke to her at all except to tell her of something she had done wrong; it was one of the reasons Tasha had wanted to move homes and had asked to be allowed to eat meals in her bedroom.

The Warehouse paper, produced by the company running where she lived, was bright and easy to read and made all the other homes look better than the one she lived in.

"This place is a prison....."

Pique had been very forthcoming in his own dislike of it; he had advised her to get an Advocate –- someone to speak up for her –- so she could leave it....

"I want to leave....."

"So we chatted via computer," Tasha said,"....we did..."

"Tasha, you can't have done that; he has no page."

"He does!" Tasha said, "I've been on there!"

She'd know his hard features anywhere.

..Tasha, you haven't," said the Staff Member, "you found no info for him. That means either he has no page, or you used to be on his and he took you off it, or never put you on in the first place."

One of the Staff had asked whether Pique would be getting himself in this state about her.

You found no information for him.....

It was obvious that Tasha was not as others were from just looking at her; though –- she was thankful for this –- not as obvious as some in the Warehouse. However well they got on, her shortened, twisted limbs, her likeness, would only have served to remind Pique where he lived......

"Oh, Pique," Tasha sobbed. "I don't want you to go..."

He'd shown her a film, where a woman, distressed at being left alone while hugely pregnant, had slithered along the floor calling her husband's name; she'd screamed, don't leave me! I don't want to be alone!

One of the Staff had asked whether Pique would get himself in this state over her. She'd been to lots of concerts; she looked like a band member herself, but she'd never heard of his band in her life.

"What did you call him ?" asked a Staff Member with a long beard, plaited and oiled and dyed into a work of art. Like her, he revered Nature. "That word you keep saying; what is it?"

"Pique," Tasha whispered. "Pique....." She hoped saying his name would call him to her. "He called himself that, when he was in his band. Khronic Khonstipation, with a K and a H for both."

     "There you are, Tash," said the bearded Staff Member. ' Peak' –- peaks and troughs. Hollows."

"What?" Tasha sniffed.

"Peaks. Dizzy high peaks when he decides he wants to communicate with you...... whoever .... or whatever ...he might be..." The bearded Staff Member had read lots of psychology books. He went on, ".....but crushing hollows when he doesn't."

Tasha felt sick; she choked. "He eased my pain.... he cheered me up..."

"He may have eased your pain, Tash, but he also caused half of it," muttered a colleague. "His temper was terrible; you saw how bad it was in the meeting; no doubt it would've been directed at you at some point. You were so besotted, so fixated on him...."

"I was not!"

.... you just couldn't see it."

Tasha's Key Keeper started to sing a bawdy rite-of-passage song.

The Staff shook their heads sadly.