This Isn't Real
Why do people always seem to think or even say 'This is not real' when something extraordinary happens? I guess it's how they try to cope, how they try to wrap their minds around the situation. And they can mean two completely different things. I mean think about it...
Parents sitting in a hospital emergency room after their son of twelve fell and hit his head during a football game. Sitting there, on the somewhat uncomfortable hospital chairs, with only the worst thoughts going through their heads, even though they won't admit it. You can see the worry on their face, even if they are as lifeless as me, you can see it in their eyes; they don't know what to do. Or they know they can't do anything to help; maybe that's a worse realization. All they can do is wait. Wait for a complete stranger to come out of an unfamiliar room and tell them how the surgery went on their son. I can see them, staring holes into the door they know the doctor will come out of. The wait is agony. They now know the hit was serious, but what they don't know is how serious. Feeling hungry, but can't eat. Feeling thirsty, but can't drink. Feeling tired, but can't sleep. All they can do is wait. The minutes tick past like hours. Their eyes darting from the door to the clock. One hour, two hours, three... The feeling of not knowing already makes them wonder if all this is real. They are already wishing it's not. Four hours. Four hours since they arrived in a frantic rush with their son bleeding from his head. Maybe letting him play football was a mistake; they think. Maybe if they let him play an instrument he wouldn't have been in this accident. But no matter how many 'maybe ifs' or 'what ifs' they run through their minds, it won't change the fact that they are here; in a hospital waiting for their son to come out of surgery. Five hours, six, seven... The doors open and the doctor comes out. She has the same neutral look on her face most doctors have. You can't tell if they saved a life or helped to dig the grave. The parents, grasping at straws, try and convince themselves one last time that their son is okay. They try to think it was just a little scratch or bump, but after seven hours in an operating room, that is unlikely to be the case. I can see them standing there with false smiles on their faces. The doctor holds the chart, and explains what happened, what was injured, what they did to help when all the parents really want to hear is, 'Your son is going to be okay'. After five minutes of just talking from the doctor I hear her say, 'Despite all this, we did everything we could. I'm sorry.' No words any parent should ever have to hear. Their smiles fall. Their minds cannot compute what they are hearing and all they can say is, 'This isn't real.' Trying desperately to understand, to justify, to simply just think. It's impossible. I suppose it is insane to think of how their day went. They probably got up, all smiles and excitement over the big game. And here we are, eight hours later and the boy is dead. They keep saying 'this isn't real' but unfortunately it is. This moment is real, this moment is the only sure thing in your life. This moment. I get it, they are trying to wake up from a dream they aren't having, longing to just jump back one day. But this is real.
At the hospital, people don't really take to me. I don't blame them. I have a kinda strange outlook on life. Am I a realist? I'd say so. I'm definitely not an optimist. That's probably why people think I'm a pessimist. But I have a fact-based outlook on life and I don't understand how anyone has a different outlook, it doesn't make sense. I get annoyed when people say 'I can feel it in my heart'. Um, no you can't! Your heart is purely there to pump blood through your body, and to provide your organs with oxygen. Why do people say that? People don't feel in their heart. No one ever has, no one ever will. You feel in your mind. I mean sure, I understand how there is a strange sensation in your chest or stomach when you receive good or bad news, but that isn't your heart. If anything, it's your brain pumping adrenaline through your system. I could carry on, but I think you get the idea. Probably why I'm single at twenty-nine without ever having had any kind of romantic relationship. Doubt I even have a half-decent relationship with my family. Anyway, to get back to my train of thought.
Down the platform from me, I see a couple. Nothing stands out about them at first glance. I mean, it's clearly a new thing as all they are doing is laughing, holding hands, sticking their tongues down each other's throat. That seems hygienic... Kinda sickening if you stare long enough. I wonder where they think this is going, and no I don't mean the train, I mean their relationship? Where do they see themselves in five years? Actually, I doubt they know where they'll be in five hours. If today taught me anything, its that you don't know. Anyway, he has this huge smile on his face. He is staring into her eyes, and she in his. They are in the moment. The wind blows gently through her hair and he is captivated. Or at least he should be. Why isn't he? This just got interesting. He is sweating, but tonight is rather cool out. He keeps glancing down at his pocket. What are you hiding in there? I mean clearly, it is more important to you than this girl. What are you thinking? And actually, how is she not seeing that you are distracted? A beautiful girl is sitting on your lap, looking at absolutely nothing but you, focusing her all on you, and you have better things to think of? Okay, I know I am emotionally stunted and retarded, but that can't be right. Oh, here we go. He's looking down at his pocket as he sticks his hand in and takes something out. I can't see, she's leaning in. I can't see what he is doing or what he took out. Common girl, sit back! 'THIS IS NOT REAL!' I hear her shout. What? What did he do? She jumps up and looks at her hand. Everyone on the platform is clapping and cheering at them. Oh no. Seriously? What are they, sixteen? They are so young, why are they engaged? Goodness! Well, at least they made my point. She said 'this is not real'. Once again, she's trying to cope with the sudden change in their situation. Only in their case, it is an inexplicable sense of euphoria and not gut-wrenching grief. So, you see; same phrase, very different scenarios.
When did life become so dull, so repetitive, so real? Maybe it would be more exciting if I had some 'not real' moments. Heaven knows I live in my head enough to create one. But I suppose it's defeating the object if your 'not real' moment really isn't real. I wonder where all my med school friends are now. I wonder if they've had any of these kinds of moments. Most are probably married or excited to perform groundbreaking surgeries while I'm stuck living the same day over and over. Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to experience the grief I see on so many families' faces. 'All passengers, next stop is Paddington station. Paddington station next.' That's me.
Ah, home sweet dull. What a feeling. Walking into this white flat with its white curtains, carpets, and kitchen. Yeah, I know white is a clean colour, and I like clean, but maybe if I change it up a little; I might have a 'not real' moment. Ugh, too much trouble. Besides, I'm only here eight hours a day. Better get dinner started. Warmed up pepper steak pie, as usual. Everything is so ordinary. It's not even bad, so I can't complain about it. It's just so vanilla. Right, shower and bed.
***
You know I can stand here for hours as I watch the people come into the ER. One after the other. And they all have something in common; they weren't planning on being here. I mean look at that guy over there. Dressed in drag. What was he doing before he came in? Actually, I doubt I want to know. He's probably been up since yesterday. And that woman there. Clearly, she is upset with someone, and by the guilty look of the man next to her, I don't have to wonder too hard. What did he do? She has a blue eye, but by the look on her face and the inferiority he has about him, I doubt it was domestic violence. Oh heavens, I'd better see my first patient. Wonder who it will be today.
"Morning Liz."
"Good morning Dr Redgrave. How was your evening?"
"Dull as usual, thanks. And yours?"
"Well, I eh... well um..."
Why does she do that? Every morning is the same. She's all friendly and pleasant until I ask her something. Just pleasantries really, but still, always with the babbling.
"Fine I take it," I say to stop her mouth from running away, "You can send in my 8 o'clock when they arrive. Thanks."
And just like that, she's back to normal. Maybe something is going on in her personal life. I wonder what it could be. Anyway, so starts the day. The ER seems so much more exciting than this dreary old office. I should have specialised in trauma, and not in psych.
'Right in here ma'am, the doctor is waiting.' I hear Liz say as she shows a new patient in. What does her file say? Twenty-six, slight bipolar tendency, nothing really out of the ordinary. Patient's name, Clark, Amelia Clara. Hm A.C.C., that's kinda cool anyway. Let's get started.
"Right, good morning Miss Clark, I am doctor Redgrave. Please have a seat."
"Leah, please. And thanks."
"Leah?" strange, why would you go by that? Amelia is such an elegant name. Suppose its not for me to choose. "Alright then. So, what brings you to me" I look up at her for the first time. Her blue eyes are electric. Her hair I can smell from across the room, lavender and roses. Her skin, flawless. She looks like a character straight out of a Jane Aston novel. Why do I suddenly feel like I want to be Mister Darcy?
"I'm fine thank you. Um... I've been having these problems lately."
"Oh? What kind of problems?"
"It's difficult to explain. I don't know where to start."
"Okay, let me help. I'll ask you some questions, and you try to answer. Alright? First, is your problem physical like a cold or a decline in physical performance?"
"No."
"Would you say the problem is an emotional one?"
"Yes."
"A mental one?"
"Yes."
"If you had to pick one emotion to describe how this issue makes you feel, what would it be? Happy, sad, scared..."
"Anxious."
"Anxious?"
"Yes anxious."
"I see." Anxiety. That is quite an abstract emotion to identify. Alright, Miss Clark, you've got my attention. "When would you say this feeling of anxiety started."
"Last week Monday."
So specific. Miss Clark, I have a feeling you are anxious because of one specific thing. Lets found out what it is.
"Last week Monday? That's rather a precise point in time. What do you think the cause could be?"
"Something I did."
"What did you do?"
You're silent. Staring out of the window. There is nothing to see out there which means you are trying to consider whether or not you should tell me. Your breaths have become deeper, you're nervous, anxious. Am I making you anxious? You're not going to answer me, are you? Alright then, let's try a different question.
"Where were you last week Monday?"
"On my family's ranch in Arizona."
American? No, you don't sound American. Maybe you've adapted your accent? No, I'd be able to hear it. No, you are English, or at least, grew up to be. Your parents are American, but you were sent to boarding schools in England. You come from money. Old money.
"So, what brings you to London?"
Again, you're not answering. You are running from something. Something that's making you anxious. A power-hungry husband?
"Are you married?"
"No"
Boyfriend maybe... Most likely you are running from a family member. But why come to London if they know that is where you'll be running to. Something about you Miss Clark isn't adding up, but what?
"How would you describe your relationship status?"
"Single."
You keep your answers short and to the point. You don't want to let me in, but you don't know if you can survive if you don't. You're testing me to see if you can trust me.
"And your relationship with your family?"
"Look, I am not here to talk about my family, if I wanted to talk about them, I could have stayed in America."
Stayed in America? You aren't here because you want to be. Someone is forcing you to be here. What is going on? You are wearing a turtle neck jumper and you keep pulling your sleeves down. You're hiding something.
"So, what would you like to talk about?"
Your heart rate is rising. Someone is scaring you. You won't look at me, maybe I remind you of someone. A man.
"This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry for wasting your time."
"Miss Clark-"
"Leah!"
"Sorry, Leah wait. Please don't leave."
"I'm sorry Dr. Redgrave I need to go. He's... um... I have to be somewhere."
He? Who's he? Why are you so scared? Who is trapping you? If I can just get a clear picture of what is going on in your life. Wait a second.
"Leah, catch."
There it is, under her long sleeves she had bruises. The kind you get from handcuffs. Under her turtle neck, strangulation marks. Someone his hurting you.
"What's this?"
"It's my personal details if you should want to contact me at any time."
She puts it in her purse and leaves. What is going on? You need help, but you're afraid. Who is scaring you? You are in trouble.
Leah, I've gone through my entire day only thinking of you. Where are you? Who is forcing you to do what? Why are you so scared? I'm running so many different scenarios through my head, but none fit in with your behaviour. I need to speak to you. I need to know you are safe. Where are you? My phone is ringing. Unknown Caller. I don't answer unknown callers. 'Next stop Paddington.' Where did your bruises come from? Phone's ringing again. Unknown Caller. Would you stop calling me already! Get the message. I wish you just told me what was going on with you, maybe I could have helped. I could surely have done someth- Phone. Unknown Caller. For heaven's sake.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Redgrave?"
"Yes, who is this? And why are you calling me?"
"It's Leah. I need your help."
Dear girl, what is happening to you? Why are you crying? I need to know.
"Where are you?"
"He is going to be back soon, please hurry. London Hilton Park Lane, room 115."
Dial tone... Leah, what is happening. Who is he?
***
Knock on the door. I hear a man's voice.
"Who's there?"
"Room service!" Why did I lie?
"Not now! Do not disturb!"
"I'm sorry sir, but I really must insist you let me in."
I hear him unlocking the door.
"Mate, I said not now."
"I am sorry sir, but there seems to be a slight gas leak in the building and I need to check your room for your safety."
He is not happy. His knuckles are bruised. His suit, expensive. His white shirt perfectly pressed. He is a powerful person. Why are you with him, Leah? What is going on?
"Hang on."
"Certainly sir."
He closed the door. What is he hiding? What does he not want me to see?
"Alright, come in."
"I'll start then, shall I?"
"Yes yes, get on with it, I have things to do."
Room 115. Leah, I'm here; why aren't you? I've looked everywhere. I can feel you are here, but I can't find you. I'll have to make a plan. Okay, he is in the other room, I'm going to break the door lock so I can get back in and find you when he has taken you out of where ever he hid you. Then I don't know what. I'll have to make it up as I go.
"Thank you, sir, everything seems to be in order."
"Thank you. Now please, do not disturb me again."
"Certainly sir, I'll put the sign on the door, shall I?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Not at all."
I hope the lock works as I want it to. I unlocked the door on the inside. I hope he doesn't check the lock. The minutes are ticking by as people walk past me in the corridors. I think that's long enough. I try the door handle. Yes! It worked; the door is open. Quietly I go in and close the door. I can hear something. It sounds like a muffled cry. Is that you? Are you tide up? He is talking to someone. 'Where is your father's safety deposit box?' So, he wants something of value. I peek around the corner into the lounge area. There you are. Bleeding, crying, gagged and bound. This man is beating you. He is going to kill you if he doesn't stop. By the amount of blood on the carpet, you've already lost enough to be confused and weak. Your left-hand fingers are broken. Either you are really strong-willed, or I'm guessing you really don't know where it is. What do I do? What should I do? Curtain tie backs. Yes. I take one off of the bedroom curtains. I walk up behind him. You're clever enough not to look at me. I whip the tie around his neck, twist, and pull. He is stronger than I thought. He pulls back and lifts me off the ground, throwing me to the floor. I try to scramble away from his grasp, but he's got me. He punches me through the face, breaking my glasses and causing them to cut a gash next to my nose. I elbow him in the stomach, but it has no effect. Leah, what is he made of? He throws me across the room. I see your eyes light up. You know I'm here. He pulls a gun from his side. Leah, he is shooting at me. Five rounds fired; four rounds miss. I've been shot in the shoulder. I run for the kitchen but he is quick. He runs in the one door, and out the other. I managed to hide in a cupboard. He is back with you but he is looking for me. I need to find something. There must be something. A twelve-inch kitchen knife. That will have to do. He is circling the room. If I come out he is going to shoot me before I can get close enough. I need some distraction. But you know that. You scream and throw yourself over to get his attention. I can hear you hit the ground, such a hollow thud. It works, he is walking towards you, now is my chance. I run out towards him, but he turns as I am two feet away from him. He fires two rounds into my stomach as I jump forward, planting the twelve-inch knife straight into his brain via his left eye socket. We both fall to the floor. You're already there. I am on the floor of an unfamiliar hotel room with three bullets inside me, holding on to a knife that is stuck in a man's head. This is a strange situation. Two hours ago, I'd never thought I'd be here. I guess this is where people would say 'this isn't real', but laying on this plush carpet bleeding out of my shoulder and stomach, listening to you cry close by, all I can think is: This is real.