The Midnight Tides

(Trigger warning: this short story observes the nature of late stage Dementia, whilst there is nothing graphic described, some may find the subject matter upsetting. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy)

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.

A strange man stares at me through the screen. He reads from neatly stacked sheets of parchment, tapping them upon his desk sporadically as they lose their shape and file.

An amorphous blob of beige sits before me, a spoon lies suggestively beside it.

Whose clothes are these? 

It’s light out, bees buzz amongst box honeysuckle shrubs. Ghouls drift beyond the borders, sucking down cigarettes, exhaling their miasmic vapours.

I want to feel the sunshine, but I fear what lies beyond these confines. These are a strange people, they speak in unintelligible bursts, rushing past one another in a never-ending bid to be where they aren’t now. 

The man on the screen drones on, it seems he’s lost interest in his papers. He looks at me directly, unbuttoning his blazer to better lean over his belly. I don’t like him; I don’t like the way he looks at me.

“Turn it off”, I yell.

Shapes blur beyond my door, it sits ajar, creaking on its hinges. Was that the way I came?

I feel moisture on my fingertips, they trace a line down glass, creating art from condensation. Cars zip past, brush strokes of reds and blues.

There’s music, I like it, I’m singing along; “Lookin’ like a true survivor…”. Other voices interject, the wrong words, the wrong pitch.

“Mr Stephens” .

Where was that, is that how I got here? 

“Mr Stephens”, the voice comes again, it carries an undertone of frustration. It was her, I knew her, didn’t I? 

“Abigail?” I ask, that sounded right, my lips seem to form the sounds effortlessly.

She sighs, stepping through the doorway; “No Mr Stephens, it’s Rachel. Abigail’s coming later”.

Her lips are pouted, and her brow is furrowed. 

“Mr. Stephens is everything all right?” She asks sweetly.

I don’t trust her, I don’t want to look at her, I don’t want her coming closer.

“Mr Stephens, do you think maybe we ought to get some fresh clothes on you, hmm? Would you be up for that?”

She reaches towards me, I lurch back, pinning myself against the headboard of my bed, they want to strip me, they want to take everything I have. The man on the screen watches it happen, thumping his fist on his desk, he urges them on.

“Please, Mr. Stephens, I don’t want Abigail seeing you like this.”

She comes to sit on the corner of my mattress, I kick at her with all the strength I can muster.

“Get out” I scream.  She looks at me with… with pity, but I stay firm in my resolve.

I watch her lips part ever so, she’s beautiful. Sun freckles dance across her cheeks, cast in shade by thick locks of auburn hair. She smiles, a familiar smile, I know that smile, it stirs something in me, something good.

“Abigail?”

“It’s Rachel, Mr. Stephens. I’ll come back in a little while, you just call if you need us.”

She stands up slowly, straightening out her pin striped uniform, a little name badge hangs from her breast pocket, I can’t make out the letters.

“Wait” I call out. She pauses at the door, one foot in the hallway.

“Please, please turn him off” I point to the screen.

She smiles toothlessly, lips pursed, her chin tucked as she looks down on me.

“Sure thing Mr. Stephens”.

She turns a dial on the radio next to me as she leaves, a woman extolls the virtues of double glazing.

The screen is black, I peer closely at it, somewhere within its murky depths I know the man still lurks, blazer buttoned, papers stacked neatly.

A tinny jingle plays, a piano riff, something about car insurance, I find my foot tapping.

Incandescent light bounces off well buffed flooring. A pair of Chelsea boots stand half submerged upon a burgundy shag rug. A tune is playing, wordless, unintrusive. 

I’m propped against the open door of a hatchback, tangerine scream, I think they named the colour. A young couple nod attentively as I gesture to the interior; “The steering wheel’s heated?” they gasp. The woman caresses her stomach absent-mindedly, a gentle protrusion has formed out of her otherwise slender frame.

Where was that? Was that me? If I walked out that door now, would I see those incandescent lights?

 The skies grumble, the clouds outside become disquieted, they pulse blue beneath their blackened folds. Rainfall patters against my window, I like the sound, there’s comfort in its rhythm. 

“Knock knock!”

A man stands propped on one leg, hanging from my door handle, he rattles something in his free hand. His skin is dark, much darker than Abi.. Rachel’s. He speaks to me in a thick accent, familiar though in its inflections. My stomach tells me not to trust him, I feel the goose hairs on my neck stiffen.

“Time for your medication Mr. Stephens” He cheers, his gait whimsical as he lets himself in. They all do that, they entertain the pretence of knocking, why? This is not my room, these are not my clothes, these people are not my friends. 

He passes me a cup of water; I see the liquid through the thin lining of its flimsy container. In the other palm two pale capsules lay nestled against each other, blushing innocuously.

I shake my head, I won’t take them.

The man with the strange voice frowns at me, a comical frown, exaggerated, the folds beneath his eyebrows overlapping his deep-set eyes.

“Come now Mr. Stephens, it’s your Reminyl, we take it every day!”

He’s lying, he wants me to take his poison, he wants to kill me.

“Poison”, I hiss at him, slapping his proffered palm, sending the little capsules scattering across linoleum.

The man reels back, I see his mask slip for just a moment, he wants to hurt me. Suddenly I feel afraid, perhaps it would have been better to take the poison, to swallow it down greedily and close my eyes, braced for the nothingness that follows.

He gathers himself, he doesn’t hurt me, he only smiles, it’s a tired smile that fails to reach his eyes.

“I’ll leave them here on your dresser Mr. Stephens, in case you change your mind.”

He places them by my radio, they make me feel uneasy.  I push the cup of water in front of them so they’re out of sight.

“He won’t take them.” I hear him say beyond my door.

“We need to call his doctor; he does not have the capacity to decide for himself anymore Cathy...”

They are scheming, it won’t be long now.

“He’s always like this on Wednesday’s, she’ll be here soon, and his mood will improve, you'll see. He’s still there… we’re not there yet.”

I want to scream at them, I want to charge out the door and into the unknown. I’d roar till my lungs grew tired and sore: “I’M HERE”. 

But where exactly, I did not know.

The radio crackled, like voices coming through the bath plug. They whispered, they spoke of cinnamon iced lattes and discounted caulking guns in hushed tones.

My hand cramps as I squeeze the ochre handle, viscous fluid curls out of the nozzle, I press it deftly between black and white tiles, rocking back on my knees to admire my work.

“I like this side of you…” A voice chimes behind me.

I turn, she’s leaning against the doorframe, her flannel shirt hangs open, her fine curls stuck to her sweat drenched forehead. There’s warmth in her eyes, she bites her top lip, I watch the plump flesh bend beneath her teeth. 

“Dad?”.

I groan, now what? I squeeze my eyes tight, searching the depths of the darkness for that woman again, bursts of gold and violet explode beneath my eyelids, but nothing else appears.

“Daddy, it’s me, Abigail”.

Will they not let me be but for a moment? Is it not enough to keep me here, must they torment me at every turn?

“Go away” I snarl.

She hasn’t left, I hear her ragged breaths, her awkward shuffling.

“I’m sorry miss, he has good days and bad days, I know it isn’t easy seeing him like this.”

They won’t leave. I turn to look at them. The woman nearest clutches a small purse by her waist, I follow the length of its cross-strap up, I see her puffed and reddened eyes.

“Rachel what’s wrong?” I ask.

I meant to comfort her, I meant a kindness, but she only seems sadder for it.

“It’s Abigail, Dad, Abigail, your daughter.”

She keeps calling me that, I’m Mr. Stephens, that’s what they all call me, Mr. Stephens.

“I’m Mr. Stephens.” I correct her.

She walks towards me, her arms extended, I recoil, I don’t want her to touch me, I don’t want it.

“Come on, let’s get you a coffee Ms Stephens, you can come back in a minute.”

Why does that strange man with the funny inflections call her that?  Stephens, that’s my name, my name is Stephens.

She still won’t leave, she still won’t.  I hear her protest, I hear her refuse; “no” she says, “no I won’t go”.  “He’s my dad”, she calls me that again.

A guitar string twangs, a hushed choir harmonise.  The sound is feint, as if I’m hearing its echo from a boom box a street away.

“Listen Dad, just listen.”

A voice picks up, a husky southern drawl, soulful, rich, like cooked butter when it starts to brown.

“Shall I stay… Would it be a sin?” He croons, I find the corners of my mouth upturning, I want to sway.  I feel people watching me, clasped hands held over their hearts.  I feel the warmth of her bosom against my chest, her warm tears fall upon my shoulder.

A band beckons to me from their wooden podium, it bows in the middle beneath the weight of a six-piece drum kit. A young man approaches me, he’s beaming.  He shakes my hand, and drags me out from the crowd, there’s laughter.

She’s waiting for me, she rocks her shoulders from side to side. Sequins shimmer under fairy lights, her bare feet shift on warm maple wood. I sidle up to her and lead her in a pirouette, as she completes her turn she falls in to my arms.

“I love you baby girl.”

“I love you too Daddy.”