Alistair Caligari // WATTY'S 2018 LONGLIST

II. TRAILBLAZER

 "What was the orphanage like?" Ford's question rung out against the eerie silence that had settled over them once the memory had made its way into a long drive. It was a memory filled only by the constant blur of the road and the buildings through the dark window of the vehicle. It wasn't broken by words or by sound of any sort, but it was still a strangely comfortable silence. It was familiar; he'd driven through many nights himself, just him and the open road, but it was strange for a young boy to be so comfortable in the back of a car owned by people he didn't know. The Psychiatrist supposed that at the time his patient had no sense of self-preservation and was unafraid, or perhaps was too naive to know of the dangers that might have been facing him.

He heard a sigh from his patient only a few seconds later, like recalling the place was a tiresome amount of effort. It was like everything to him was a strain, like he went out of his way and pushed back so many walls just for something as simple as a memory. It wasn't something that surprised Ford, though, he knew well enough that his patient had reached the end of his tether a long time ago. Now, it was more about trying to find a new path for him to walk, some hope or enjoyment that he could grapple onto again... if he had any of those things, to begin with. The memory changed once more, fading away briefly into the same white light from before, only to return to warmth. At a quick guess, Ford assumed the current room to be the entrance to the orphanage. It was old, probably built in the early 1800s. It had Victorian wood panellings under the windows and a musty old red carpet that probably could have done with being replaced. The lighting also lacked a modern touch and cast a yellow glow into the room; making the white curtains appear beige and causing reflections to appear on the glass of a vase in the corner beside the front door. The boy was ushered further into the building and directed towards a dusty looking sofa, chaperoned by a collection of armchairs, at the far end of what seemed to be the living room. The blonde woman, still under her haze, took a seat in one of the armchairs with some papers now resting upon her lap. The other woman chose to sit with the boy on the sofa. Something told Ford that perhaps the darker haired woman was more experienced than the other as though she was prepared for any circumstance that might befall them. She was more confident, the perfect image of a stand-in parental figure.

"They asked me the basics."

The voice of the scientist startled Ford, unprepared to hear anything outside of the story that was unfolding before his eyes. He managed to retain his composure to respond. "The basics?"

"My name, my age, my date of birth. They wanted to learn what they could about me since I had nothing on me except for what I was wearing. They weren't mind readers."

Ford had to inhale sharply to save himself from giving a harsh sigh. There was some amount of arrogance in the other's tone that rubbed him the wrong way. The Psychiatrist always believed there was no such thing as a stupid question, that it was better to ask for clarification than assume. Yet, he was sitting opposite a man with an IQ perhaps double his own -- he had no doubt that every question would sound stupid to his patient. When he thought back on it, though, he noticed that the other's statement lacked malice. It almost reminded him of the snap response of a teacher who was trying to correct a pupil that had the wrong idea.

The memory flickered then, suddenly, with glimpses. Quick flashes of images and emotions from the past. The first one was a sideways glance of the form that the blonde woman had been filling out, with his patient's name written across the top of the paper. One thing that Ford noticed straight away about this specific image, was that the first I in his name was blurred out, almost with the same haze that the woman's face had been. It seemed almost like it couldn't decide on something, and came hand in hand with a sense of unease and uncertainty. Curtis felt the need to question it, only the images continued to flash before his eyes with such a velocity that he hadn't a second to concentrate. The next memory was a brief look at more of the building, the inside of a long corridor leading to a stairway with the same yellow-orange glow as the entrance hall. It was a warm atmosphere, a warm environment, and it made it hard to believe that anything problematic or troublesome could ever occur here. Comfort was the next emotion on the list, relaxation and ease. The flashing came to an end in a bedroom, not huge but not spacious either. Ford didn't have to think too hard to guess this was likely his patient's childhood room -- at least until his adoption. To him, however, this was all ultimately meaningless. His job was to search for trauma, for dramatic events that might have occurred in the other's life loud enough to alter his entire brain chemistry. Childhoods were often vital in terms of a person's psychology, but the boring, menial events tended to be forgotten about. In fact, it was almost surprising that Alistair even bothered to remember these events at all. Once more, Ford broke the concentration on the memories with another question.