Me & Her

Me

I've always been a fan of crime dramas, as it turns out. At least that explains where my fond recollections of Murdoch Mysteries come from. I'm watching grainy murder mystery re-runs on the television, while my Mother is in the kitchen washing up. I slept long and hard yesterday, even if I hadn't meant to. Still, I feel a lot better today. I'd even dare to use the word 'fine'. Or 'sane'. The only thing bothering me is the butterfly-like tingling in my stomach, due to Dr. Light's imminent arrival. Will he be intrusive, understanding? For some reason, I find I'm not used to the latter. Hopefully, he's not one of those olden-day professors with bushy mutton-chop sideburns. I decide I have definitely been watching too many 19th century murder mysteries. Until he arrives, my mind remains a lake, calm and quiet and undisturbed. If I had inner demons before, I certainly don't now. The creak of the doors opening draws me from my permanent-since-9:00am state of couch-potato towards the entrance to the living room. It's fusty – basically the one word I'd use to describe this house – but unlike the disinfectant scented hospital room, this room holds patchwork blankets and has an overall homely feel about it. Even though I don't remember living here. The television is seemingly the only modern edition. There's quite a few books on the shelves, most of them old leather-bound volumes of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe that's how I got into crime and murder.

'Poor choice of words'.

"Shut up". I shake my head, as if my other persona is a little ant wriggling in my ear that I could dislodge. If only it were that simple.

'Hey!' Smiling, I block her echoes out – something I've never done so easily before – and carry on. With my life. My life. Thanks to her, I've missed the beginning of Mum and Dr. Light's conversation.

"I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable here until my daughter is better. Doctor Steele is coming to check on her in a couple days".

"Yes, I spoke with him on the phone. She sounds like quite a wonderful young woman". Dr. Light's voice merges in my mind like the words of a Shakespearean Play. Profound, but layered. Rehearsed, but somehow spontaneous.

I peer around the doorframe as his eyes lock directly onto mine. His build is slender, but well-muscled. He like a designer suit, or a hand-crafted blade. Sleek muscles, slim overall appearance. All too soon, my eyes are drawn to his hair and it's psychically painful trying not to laugh. He has a shock of white-blonde hair, and the brightest green eyes I've ever seen. I want to ask him what comic book he's from, but I don't think that would make the best first impression. Besides, I'm not like that. I don't have that spark and I don't think I ever have. When your life is a masquerade of people in white telling you that you're wrong, self-doubt easily becomes commonplace.

"Hi," I whisper, so quietly that I have to clear my throat and repeat myself.

"Hello". He's tall, but it appears that I am too. I reach his shoulders quite easily. "I'm Dr. Light, your psychiatrist. Well, in the most informal sense. I don't know what your Mum has told you, but I'm not here to judge you or analyse you. Doctor Steele has told me a lot about you". He seems flustered, but I can't understand why. I'm a mousey girl, I'm weak from the coma and I have presented myself to him with no more than a shrug. Why is he afraid? It occurs to me then, that I'm probably not the one he's afraid of. Maybe I have a file, one of those huge fat ones created for national fugitives and assassins. Turns out that I'm a bit of both. He nods to the books on the shelves.

"Do you like Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes". No. I don't know. I haven't been sure of anything since he walked in. His presence makes the pores of my skin crinkle in fear. He says he's not here to analyse me, but somehow, I think that's exactly what he's here to do. That's his job, isn't it? To him I'm just another screwed up patient. As soon as my condition was given a title, it was as if everyone stopped pretending I was human.