A Doll's Nest in Time

“Do you mind telling me what you remember about that day?”

The question rolls off her tongue, silky smooth. I would have felt the need to feel embarrassed at the thought of not answering, but from what I could feel, it was more of a stricken anger, more or less.

I know to myself what I am saying to her sounds more like a fever dream than a past reality of mine; I can swear I felt the same way the first time I read it from my discarded crumpled-up letters. But how else can I really explain it to her? Isn't a therapeutic scientist supposed to help understand your mind? Or at least to try, right? Well, Miss Weatherbee here seems not acquainted with the thought.

“Death,” I say to her face, resting my disjointed back on the comfy armchair just across the linen coffee table.

“Millions, upon millions, of corpses littering dead New York,” I simply add, shifting my loose arm a bit to grab the mug on the table’s surface.

As I take a sip from the vintage China cup, I stretch my eyes forward to the surface of Miss Weatherbee’s notebook. As always, she’s busy noting down symptoms of mental disorders I clearly-think-I don’t have. It’s a common practice for me these days. At least it no longer feels as boring as getting my monthly shots. I hate those shots; I really can’t stand the sight of needles. Nonetheless, one in me. Every time I see one, it makes my skin crawl.

“So, you’re still sticking to that one narrative play I see,” she responds while looking up from jotting down all those fake notes about me.

“Don’t know what to tell you. That’s what I remember.”

“Okay then,” she says slyly, “What about you tell me about this fantasy place of yours again. I think you referred to it as New York.”

To be clearly honest, I don’t even know what New York is. Just that in my notes, diary listings and discarded letters, it seems like something I truly held dear to. But what is it? I have not the slightest idea of it. But from what I know-and want to know more of- how is it connected to my accident?

“From what I can recall from all my entries, it seems like a big city, and very industrially developed. Maybe even close to the size of a capital,” I say, explaining like I usually do on our Thursday midmorning appointment sessions.

“And you say you saw streets of this ‘big city’ littered with corpses? Is that right?” She’s not even jotting down notes like before. She thinks I’m completely hopeless, doesn’t she?

“Well, in my entries, yeah, it seems like I saw them. All piled over one another in a fashion that seemed more of a natural cause than anything the human species is capable of.”

“What gave you that impression? That it wasn’t humanly constructed.” Her eyes dart all over the room, and I can see them glaring past the wall clock nonchalantly. Does she really want our session to be done that quickly? It hasn’t even passed forty minutes yet.

As I shoulder the burden of being too self-aware of my surroundings, I simply shrug at her former question.

“Apart from all the torn-off bodies lying all over, some even on top of high skyscrapers, why would I think of anything other than a powerful storm or hurricane having moved through the city?”

Maybe she hadn’t anticipated my sudden outburst at the moment, as she seems rather stunned. But like the professional she is, she as easily regains her earlier composure. The next question that comes off her tongue stuns me as well.

“So, where is this New York City now?”

“I don’t know…” I whisper, “Or I can’t seem to remember.”

From my journal entries, it truly did seem like a big city. A city of that size and importance can't really vanish just like that. And even if it does, it can't be as easily forgotten. But apart from my written words, there seems to be no other documentation of such a city. None whatsoever. It kind of begs the question: What really happened? And why does everyone except me seem to not have a bit of an inkling that it actually existed? Maybe it has something to do with my unquestionable loyalty towards the truths I write down in my journals.

“If that’s the case, should we just end our session for today? It seems like I- again, as always-couldn’t get to you,” she says while waking up from her armchair. Her scarf neatly folded just below her notebook and ballpoint pen. From my angle and perspective, she does seem like a giant. With all those striking strides she’s pulling off, she can as well succeed as an Amazonian one.

“Yes. I agree with you, Miss Weatherbee. Seems we haven’t made any progress from our former sessions,” I say, still slouching down on the solicit armchair. It’s not like I can just wake up or anything; remember the accident?

“Not at all. We did add some clarifications, although I would have preferred to end most of the confusion today. Well, it can’t be helped, now can it,” she says, having accepted the shortcomings of our earlier conversation. As she stretches alongside the windowpanes, she turns back towards my line of sight and gestures her hands in motion to my head area. After a while, I understand what she means by this. I slump further down in my seat, open up my trenchcoat zipper side pocket, and motion a thumbs up to her as I retrieve a maroon-colored mavin from its depths.

“I wonder how long the weather will persist? I don’t know if you know how bad it can be for me,” I say sarcastically quaint.

“Yes, Integria. I know,” she adds, lighting up a quiet smile for once. “I guess I would be staying for an hour more now.”

“Sorry,” I say. Knowing well she will either send Nurse Darcy or the Tommyknocker feller from last winter to aid me. And knowing Aiden is expecting a baby boy from Martha, she as well is not going to be around, due to maternity leave. I just hope Clancy gets back from his deliveries. If not, she is really just going to be by herself the whole afternoon, not just an hour late. The clinic closes at three past noon after all.

“Darcy,” she calls out, “Darcy!”

“What is it, Madam Weatherbee?” Darcy peeks out the corner a minute later. Her nurse attire looks completely worn out from a hard day’s job. She manages two infirmaries by herself; two slots at least.

“Can you do me a favor and escort Miss Shalentera here to her lay area, please?” Miss Weatherbee does sound more sincere now than she was with the Tommyknocker feller. The gender bias in this clinic truly is to be admired.

“Again, Miss Weatherbee?” Darcy retorts, staring holes into my face. She was obviously very busy before being summoned here to take care of my problems.

“Just this one final time, Darcy. Just take it as a last stretch. You know she can’t make it through this weather alone,” Miss Weatherbee tries to defend my pathetic excuse for a body.

“Fine,” Darcy admits with a pained, heavy sigh, “But this will give me an hour less of working in my next shift. As well as me heading home after escorting your young miss here.”

I could see Miss Weatherbee’s face crumpling up in pained silence, but then she just let it go. After all, my young self was pretty vulnerable in such moments like these.

As I wander off with Darcy, looking back at my wheelchair, I see Miss Weatherbee fall into her armchair in steady silence. Part of me honestly feels bad for her. She is my mentor and watcher after all, when I'm away from home.

LAZARUS’ POV

*COUGH*

I can hear it tensing up every bit of my muscles. I don’t know when it started, the phobia, I mean. But it truly has taken a considerable toll on my mind. I can’t sleep; I can’t eat. I don’t know if it will ever leave me; this thing is feasting on my mental fortitude.

*COUGH*

“Will you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom,” I say to the girl next to me, who’s holding my favorite jacket; the yellow one. Don’t know, or simply can’t remember, for how long exactly… for how long we’ve been dating. Just woke up in her arms one day, and from all the photos in the room we were sleeping in, I guess it seems like we have been a pair for quite a long time now.

As I’m rushing towards the washrooms, I catch a glimpse of an old lady letting out a cough. With this last knot, I almost vomit all over the floor, but I’ve been practicing of late, and I’m not planning to embarrass myself here in public again.

Almost fell for the sweet sensation of releasing it all, all over the decorated tiles I was racing over.It sure is hard to hold back a puke, isn’t it? I monologue to myself.

As I reach the bathroom door, I fling it wide open, not even caring if there’s anyone just behind it that I could accidentally hit. Sliding towards the stall, I lean over and voila. Everything I’ve gobbled up that early morning and even the butternut ham sandwich that Elsa had made alongside her little brother – Vincent- went down the toilet drain. Well, what do you expect when someone has a phobia of coughs?

Wiping myself up was an easy task, as now I was more used to it than the first time it happened. Flushing the toilet, though, having witnessed all those pieces of stomach fluids, left a bad taste in my mouth. Well, that’s not going to go anywhere for a while. Sigh!

Moving through the large hall corridors, my mind kept drifting back to a woman I’ve been dreaming of for quite some time now. She has no abstract face that I could define her features on. Everything is so bluntly average that even my dreams fail to recognize her. I simply don’t have a way to find out who it is, since I almost forget everything in that supposed dream, except for the woman’s silhouette. Which I seem not to even comprehend.I’ll find out soon anyways, I reassure myself.

“Hey, are you alright? Is everything fine?” Those are the exact words that come out of Elsa’s worried mouth. I could have sworn I saw a short smile, but she seemed to hide it well as I sat alongside her.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie like every other man in a relationship. “Did our tag get called at all?” I blatantly ask, ignoring her worried look.

“Not yet, but we’re up close, though,” she adds with no hesitation.

“Oh,” I act out a bit. Now this is going to be awkward. What should I say to her?

With the silence between us bearing heavily on me-since we men are supposed to be initiators of conversations-I had to think of something fast.

Darting my eyes across the hospital resting hall, I get a glance at the same old lady from before, making her way through a bunch of other people-who I think are her family members-with a plate filled with different delicacies. That lights up my brain with an idea. Thanks, old lady.

“Should we go and eat first? I’m sure we’re going to be here for some time as well; we should at least wait while our stomachs aren’t grumbling like those vintage cartoons,” I say to her. Apparently, something in that left her giggling. Killed two birds with one stone, attaboy.

Across from the lunch table, I stare at her while she eats. I don’t know why-maybe since I can’t remember that well about us-but I find myself actually enjoying watching her eat. She somehow catches my eyes darting between my food and her, but she doesn’t seem offended at all by it. So, I decide to tease her a bit.

“Hey, Elsa?”

“Yeah,” she responds, lifting her head to my height.

“What about taking a picture?” I add. She kind of stares for a bit, then simply shrugs at it.“Fine, go ahead,” she concludes.

I take out my phone, open up the camera app, and simply take an innocent picture of her munching her burger. As a smile creeps out from the corners of my mouth as I stare at the photo on my phone, I see a looming shadow before me dwarfing the light. Looking up, Elsa flicks my forehead and whispers:

“You could have silenced the shutter sound, genius.”

I felt attacked there. So, I decided to tease her even further.

“Hey, Elsa,” as she stares up again, I add, “what about we ditch the hospital and go back home? ”She places the large fry she was holding down and moves closer to me.

“Are you really feeling okay today, Laz?”

“Can’t really argue with that, huh?” I add somberly.

“You know we came here because of your ‘lack of memories’, right?”

“Yeah. But it is getting quite boring, and I don’t know if I can stand this number of people. You know how sensitive my body can get sometimes.”

With that last straw pulled, she glares at me for a moment, then stands up and walks to my side.

"You know you could have said you’re not feeling that great. You know I would understand,” she says while moving her right hand all over my hair. It’s kind of comforting to actuate it.

But nothing with me always stays in the best condition. I learnt that the hard way.

From a distant corner-where that one old lady was feasting on her nuggets-she started choking on her meal. Her family assisted her.

But what about me? What about my phobia? I simply didn’t even get the time to control the reaction flow. It just flew out of my mouth like water from a fire hydrant. In the next moment, half of the lunch table was sprayed with all types of mushy delicacies.

What an embarrassment this is.

INTEGRIA’S POV

We’ve arrived, Miss Shalantera,” Darcy states as she puts the wheelchair to a standstill. 

The large twin oak doors ahead of my sight fully express the beauty of the townhouse my parents own. They aren't nobles, but they are high-end traveling merchants who have many businesses. So, one could mistake them for nobles. During these trifling times, someone as helpless as myself has to be very keen on what I possess, and what I don’t. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. It has been ever since the first report of the Dream Psychosis. People nowadays simply can’t define the difference between what is in their heads and what is in real life. A bunch of psychotics who should be in a ward. Imagine them putting me in the same category as those madmen. Hmph!

“Thank you, aunty Darcy,” I simply thank back, as I always do.

“Next time, young Miss, please don’t run around outside your fine home in weather such as this,” Darcy adds begrudgingly. As if she is extremely tired of a toddler’s nagging.

“I promise, Aunty Darcy. I won’t, unless it’s really urgent.” Maybe it’s the phrasing, but she glares at me as a predator does at its prey.

“So…,” she starts, turning her back towards me as she stares at my front door. I can tell from her darting eyes that she's in awe, admiring the large townhouse.

“…, do you live by yourself here?”

“You don’t really have to initiate a conversation if you don’t wish to, Aunty Darcy,” I spout in pure honesty.

“My, what an ungrateful young lady you are,” she exclaims while hiding a soft giggle behind the back of her right hand. “You could have at least pretended to be oblivious about it.”

“Well, that would be wasting both of our time. Also, to be fair, you’ve been to my house once before; you can’t just act like you don’t remember.” With that, Darcy crunches up her face-as in thought-and proceeds to stare up at the sunny sky.

“Oh,” she exclaims. Her face lights up like she’s remembering something. “The Cleon’s House?”

“Yes,” I answer back just as quickly. Maybe not to rouse any passerby’s interest.

Darcy stares at it, shifting and moving all over the small front open porch, seemingly in search of something she might remember from last time.

“He reformed it,” I say towards her shifting gaze.

“What?” She asks, amiss at my former response.

“This place,” I say, fixing my neck well to look at her, “he called a fixer-upper to remodel it.”

“The house?” She asks, seemingly abstract, confusion written all over her face.

“No,” I softly whisper, “the entire building.”