Pseudology

THREE: awake.

All was not well when Ade woke.

There were screams in his head, ones of pure horror and pain, and however loudly he told them to ‘shut up’, they’d just scream louder. They taunted him, gnawed at every thought he had and they twisted and twisted until his thoughts were not his own anymore... He didn't see them when he shut his eyes, but every noise in the small flat made them retaliate until at eleven o’clock when Morton was making tea, Adrian shut his head in the door.

There had been blood, but Ade couldn’t remember it. Morton, however, could, and detailed the whole incident on his phone about an hour afterwards for ‘the record’: Ade couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or amused.  Morton had wrapped tea-towels around the wound, which thankfully wasn’t too deep, and had wiped the blood out of his thick, dark hair with a rough piece of kitchen paper. He’d been typing away on the iPhone for nearly an hour once he's sat Ade down on the sofa; he'd apparently been detailing the event when Ade tenderly touched his own head, pain enlightening it. He sniffed and then turned to his brother, who didn’t look up.

“They’re gone, you know.” Ade said mildly, more to himself than his brother. “They were everywhere but they’re gone now.”

Morton looked up.

“Hm?”

Ade rolled his eyes and leant back in the seat, crossing his arms over.

“They’re gone now.”

“What are?” Morton looked mildly confused. It then dawned on him that Morton, though he knew of the drugs and the alcohol and the harming, knew nothing of the voices and the fear and the whispering and the visions and the anger… It was his secret. One of the last secrets he had left. Maybe he could tell Morton about the voices, but nothing else. He wouldn’t have to tell them that they talked to him and told him all about other people, but he could tell him that they were there, couldn’t he?

“The voices.”

Morton took a very deep breath. His hands stopped tapping on the phone and it was slipped gracefully into his pocket.

“What do you mean, Ade?”

Adrian gently fumbled with the buttons on his cardigan but said nothing. His mouth was slowly drying up and his skin prickled with embarrassment, but he had to say something. With a growing pain in his stomach from anxiety, he muttered something unintelligible, hoping that Morton wouldn’t notice, but his dark eyes were fixed solely on his pale face. There was no escape now.

“T-there… there are voices, you see.” Adrian was surprised that his voice sounded so deep and… normal amongst the tension in his chest and stomach. His eyes raised to meet Morton’s, trying to study his expression, but Adrian couldn’t make out the tangled mixture of squiggles and awkwardness that lined his brother’s face. He licked his lips in an attempt to soothe himself. “They aren’t angry, not all the time. They make me angry, though, like they did this morning… It’s not like they’re always there, either. They only come sometimes and often they leave within a little while.”

Morton swallowed; he sat a little more upright and look a deep breath, brushing his short hair from his face.

“How come you never told me?”  

“Because they’re like hands, Morey.” Morton’s chest tightened as his brother used is favourite nickname. “They’re like hands- you know they’re there, but when you think about using your hands, they don’t work as they should, do they? When you want them to work at their best, they creak and fumble, and every time I think about them, their voices dim, and they stop grabbing and gnawing at me, but they’re still there, but what’s the point in them being quiet? They should be there or they shouldn’t. They… they’re just like hands- what’s the point in a half working hand?”

Though the silence was painful, Morton revelled in it for a few moments, taking in the blessed quiet and peaceful feeling that relief could bring. But within moments, his chest tightened and his head started to pound with anticipation if what his brother would say next.

"Morey?" Adrian felt as though his head had been repeatedly rammed into the carpet. His hands started to shake and he ran one through his hair, not knowing what to say.  "Please... Say something."

But he didn't. Instead, he placed his hands into his lap and took a deep breath.

"Just say something."

"It's fine."

His eyes fluttered up to Morton's face, his gaze settling on a point on the wall behind his brother's head: slowly, cautiously, Morton reached over and wrapped his hand around Ade's cold fingers.

"Adrian. Look at me." Morton's voice was rougher than Ade expected: he wanted his smooth and collected face and voice to soothe the burning fear inside his chest, but Morton's voice was ragged and his face was lined with worry. It cut Ade's nerves like a rusty blade.

The gaze was held for a little, making Ade want to shrink further back: the seat couldn't swallow him far enough into the material.

"It's fine, Ade." Morton tightened his grip, and Ade had to resist the urge to squirm away. "I promise, it'll be fine."

"But it won't." he breathed.

"Yes, it will." Morton's grip loosened a little, as though he had relaxed as soon as he’d heard his brother speak. "I promise."

“Don’t promise.”

Morton felt his brother’s words hit him in the face like a wet towel. What? Why couldn’t he promise? He asked, but his stomach turned over and over as his brother muttered, words indistinguishable. There was something wrong with Ade: the withdrawal from his liquidised demons was drawing his mind away from him. He’d been so talented, so brilliant: the bottled bliss had ruined him and his beautiful mind. What was he now? Morton shuddered as he watched his brother’s eyes and lips move, but just a mawkish mumbling escaped.

“Ade?” he leant forward and cupped his brother's thin hands. A flicker of energy, like a burst bulb, fronted Ade's eyes and momentarily, Morton had his attention. "Ade, maybe you should go back to sleep. We 'll talk more soon, alright?"

"No promises?" Ade's voice was a wisp of air breathed on Morton's face. Morton nodded.

"None." Gently, he pushed Ade down into the sofa so that he was laying down, and pulled one of the musty smelling blankets over him. It'd shield him, Morton thought, it'd shield him from the cold and the dark.