Page 2 of Demonic Cage
“What…,” I gasp. My eyes widen, and I bang my head in astonishment back into the leather chair. Did he just insult the psychiatrist? InFrench? I stare at Dr. Michel in disbelief. She turns to regard me with raised eyebrows, her movement revealing the cleaner’s impassive face.
“Is everything all right, Lotte?”
I look at the psychiatrist in confusion, who seems not to have heard the insult. How is this possible? Or maybe… did I just imagine it? I shake my head to dispel such thoughts from my mind. This isn’t the first strange incident I’ve encountered within the walls of the psychiatric ward.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say awkwardly, and impatiently raise my chin toward the doctor. “Can I go?”
Nothing happened just now. I must have misheard the remark.
Dr. Michel narrows her eyes, but quickly composes herself.
“Just a moment,” she signals to the cleaner, walking slowly to her desk.
Now I’m definitely running late.
I shift from one side of my butt to the other as Dr. Michel signs the insurance papers. When she looks at me, indicating that she’s done, I shoot up from the chair like a cannonball. I reach for the papers, but when I grab them, the psychiatrist doesn’t let go of the stack. I look at her in confusion, her light-blue gaze simultaneously distant, calm, and stern, making me feel like a little kid.
“Knowing that you’ve been taking your medication regularly for the past fifteen years, and since you haven’t caused yourself such a severe injury that it would result in permanent damage, I can’t keep you here… for now.” Dr. Michel then lowers her voice,as if she wants me to understand every word. “But if there’s another similar incident, one where I think you might harm yourself or others, or if the delusions arise again…” My hand on the paper starts to freeze, and I gulp as I imagine where she’s heading. “In the next such case, you’ll have to stay here.”
It’s as if the world ceases to exist for a moment, and all I see is black fog. No, no, no. I can never stay here.
I try to suppress my panic as I feel the uncomfortable tingling in my chest, as if my internal organs are trembling. Fear presses down on me, as though the white ceiling is collapsing. The fluorescent lighting hurts my eyes. Being here again for months… Why? Why did I have to be born like this? Why can’t I be normal like everyone else?
I press on the paper, my fingers crumpling the pages. From today forward, I will be normal. They can’t lock me up here. They won’t lock me up. If I have to, I’ll die, but I… I will never come back here.
My black boots sink into the fall leaves as I hurry to my parents in the cemetery. I arrive out of breath, my face warm. I’m more tired than usual and contemplate whether it’s due to me skipping my medication or the sleeplessness caused by my fear of the monster.
Whatever the cause, a single glance at my mother tells me I’ve drawn enough attention to myself today. I try to take deep breaths as I approach them. Mum checks her watch and tightly wraps her white coat around her while inhaling the air more forcefully than necessary. She glances at Dad from the corner of her eye, as if expecting him to say something.
By the time I reach them, my father, like the dutiful soldier he is, takes the initiative.
“Was there heavy traffic?” he asks.
I clench my fist. I was ten damn minutes late. Anyway, the person we are here for is not in a hurry anymore.
“The session ran late,” I answer, turning my gaze towards the tombstone they are looking at. I cross my arms as the grief, dormant for ten years, ignites, as it does every year when I come to my brother’s grave. I scan the curved inscription with my eyes.
Bengt Olson
Lived 14 years
Beloved brother, son
I simultaneously smile and feel sad as I think about the boy I don’t want to think about in my everyday life. Ten years… ten years have passed, and I still remember his death as if it happened yesterday. As if I was holding him in my arms just yesterday, at the age of twelve, when he collapsed. As if…
I massage the area above my heart, guilt piercing me like a thorn. I should have waited a day before skipping my medication. Too many emotions stir beneath my skin, as if I can’t control myself. I swallow hard, imagining that this is all my problems need. If I just swallow them, my stomach will deal with them. After all, my body has been the only thing I could trust in the past years when my mind failed me.
My brother has been gone for ten years, the person who I loved most in the world. I wish it were true what they often say about young children forgetting trauma. I wish I didn’t remember that he was the only one who loved me. I wish I could forget everything, even the day he died. But, of course, it’s not like that for me. I remember everything as if all the afternoons of play and mischief with Bengt had found a definite place in my mind, just like the guilt.
I blink hard to hold back my tears. What would Bengt be like now, at the age of twenty-four? How would he look? Would he also be blond like me or our sister, Maya? I remember his eyes were a darker shade of blue than mine, but mine have faded over the years. Would he have gained weight? Or would he be as slim as me? Would I even be this thin if I didn’t take my medication?
I ponder questions to which I will never know the answer.
“I think he would be a musician,” I speak up softly, directing my words only to my father, with whom each year we play the game of guessing what Bengt would be doing. He chuckles gently, clearing his throat at the end, the only sign that he’s also trying to hold back tears.
“I still vote for a jewelry maker.” He raises his eyebrows and points to the necklace hanging in my cleavage. I smile as I pick it up, examining the necklace I’ve worn for twelve years, which holds a ring taken from a keychain given to me by Bengt on my tenth birthday.
“I don’t think so,” I say with a smile as I look at the chain with the simple keyring on it. “He wouldn’t have enough creativity for this. I think he would have failed in that profession pretty quickly.”
