The Repeated Lullaby

Mike is holding a knife, screaming, “You’re not human? Get away!”

“Don’t be afraid, Mike. You’re safe here. So, please give me the knife,” I say.

“You’re not real. You have no faces,” screams Mike, and charges towards me, slashing my nose and cheeks. I fall, banging my head onto the hard concrete floor. Mike is on top of me, grasping the knife with both hands, ready to stab me. I grab his wrists while the security guard marches towards the patient. They seize him by pinning him down and taking his weapon away. An inexperienced nurse comes forward. Her hands are shaking, holding the sedatives.

“WHAT’RE YA WAITIN FOR? DO IT NOW!” shouts the security guard.

The nurse is frazzled, storming at Mike. She injects him with sedatives brutally. Another stressful ordeal she survives.

Mike is sedated and chained to the bed. I am advised to get urgent treatment, but I refused. Now, in the middle of the night, in Room 14, it’s me and Mike, who is crying and apologising to me.

“It’s getting worse,” whispers Mike.

“We aren’t giving up on you,” I said.

“I think that I have,” he admits.

The patient’s condition is stabilised for now. The same inexperienced nurse is treating my wounds. With her anxious look, I could already tell that my injuries are nasty, especially if they are deep. The issue is that they sting despite her meticulous efforts.

Due to the incident, it is advised that I take it easy, so I use the opportunity for a short break outside. So, I relax my eyes, feeling the cold breeze.

I bet only one year.

I wake up, feeling some sort of shock to complete numbness within seconds. Everything around me becomes dark - an endless abyss. It does not matter how much you swim; you will eventually drown. For me, this sensation of drowning does not feel painful, but rather liberating, for reasons still unknown. Perhaps that is the reason to live in ignorance.

I could not fall back to sleep, so I walk through the corridors until I stop at Room 14. To monitor Mike’s condition, I slide the door open to witness that Mike has disappeared. The bed sheets are placed neatly and cold. I panic and run to the desk about this strange ordeal. But the nurses are looking at me as if I am the insane one.

“Who’s Mike?” one of the nurses asks.

Perplexed. Even on the system, there is no mention of Mike, as if he never existed. A fabrication on my part? Suddenly, my phone vibrates, and I receive a notification from a private number, which reads, ‘Want to extend your therapy only for £433.’ I ignore the message, thinking it is a scam. However, there is an uneasy feeling that this message serves as some kind of reminder.

My night shift has ended at the psychiatry with black circles under my eyes. On my way home, I see people walking their dogs or jogging in the park, while traffic opposite starts to emerge. Peak hours have started.

My phone vibrates, and I squint my eyes to see that my beloved mother is calling. I smile.

“Tommy, hurry up. I have a surprise for you,” says my beloved mother, and without any hesitation, I obey.

Once I reach my flat, which is exceptionally clean, the strong scent of petrol and metal burns my nostrils. I put my shoes neatly on the shelf and walk towards the kitchen, where my beloved mother was waiting. Without me blinking, she’s cooking with a messy black bun.

“My beloved child, what happened to your face?” she comforts as she turns and touches my cheek. Her hand is cold as always.

“Oh, just one patient had another psychotic episode,” I confess.

“Again?. Just try to take care of yourself as well,” she says, hugging me tightly.

As I sit at the table, there is something covered in a kitchen towel. I do not notice it once I arrive in the kitchen. She’s chuckling under her breath as she pulls away the covers to reveal my favourite dish, Kimchi Stew.

“Surprise!” she exclaims.

I devour the dish, while she sits opposite me, supporting her head with her hand, elbow on the table, smiling at me. For some reason, I am feeling sad. But I smile back, making my cheeks hurt.

The kitchen, which had vibrant sapphire walls and cream-coloured cupboards, now disappears. Instead, it is just a grey background. I am in front of the cooker, cooking. But there is nothing there. I know.

“I like this a lot, especially the sauce. You should make it more often,” a woman with a blurred face says as I turn around. I feel warmth as I get closer to her. My body moves on its own. I attempt to touch the table, but my hand goes through it. I do not feel scared. I am numb.

“It’s my own traditional recipe. I just put everything that I like. I call it ‘Kimchi Stew’,” I declare. I try to touch this woman on the shoulder. Rather than warmth, there is a glacial sensation, making my hand paralysed. I do not want to let go because I sense that she would leave me.

“I sense that you don’t like the stew,” utters my beloved mother.

“No, it’s perfect, but-,” I pause, trying to return to my senses. Words fail me.

I do not look at my beloved mother. Instead, I am observing the stew. The colours were perfect. The seasoning has the right amount. The portions are just right. But something is missing. My heart aches. Mother touches my cheek with her cold hands and embraces me tightly.

“I’m sorry for my shortcomings. It seems that I failed to bear your pain,” she confesses. I am perplexed. Tears are falling down my cheeks, hugging my beloved mother tightly as well. “You’re doing well. Actually, more than you can ever imagine.”

“Psychology? Psychiatry?” the woman with the blurred face whispers. She is sitting in her office. “So, you decided to quit your job as a lawyer?”

“I know that I’ve failed you, but I’m exhausted beyond reach. Everything’s meaningless,” I sigh.

“You didn’t fail. I failed you. And besides, nothing is meaningless when you need to survive in a world that revolves around money,” she says. “I bet that you won’t make it after a year.”

This woman is far too familiar. Even though I am able to touch the desk or the door handle, I could not feel it. No texture. No heat. No scent. Instead, everything around me is peeling off, including her. She raises her head, and though her face is blurry, I sense she smiles with sullen eyes.

“Tommy, are you here?” my beloved mother wonders.

I gaze at her, still smiling at me. I never understand why her only visible expression is her smile. It feels so distant, yet she shows me so much affection. So, all my worries are temporarily brushed off.

I lay down on the bed, suffering from a headache. The bedsheets have this flower-scent fragrance. This is how my beloved mother smells. Oddly enough, she has no scent. She strokes my head and looks at my piercings and tattoos on my arms with curiosity.

“They’re pretty, just like my son,” she says.

A shiver goes down my spine as a forgotten memory of the same woman from earlier resurfaces. Rather than looking at her face, I am intrigued by her navy blue high heels with smart white trousers.

“I want to express myself, uh? No one is interested in your truth. Because of this, you’ll be categorised as a certain type of person,” she sneers.

“Do you consider me as such?” I insist.

“Just cover them,” she begs.

I yank away my arm and pull down my sleeves. My beloved mother is non-responsive, while I feel visibly ashamed.

“I detect that you dislike them,” she admits. I refuse to meet her gaze. I do not know the reason, but hearing that woman’s monotone voice pierces my ears as if they bled.

Instinctively, I get out of bed. I start to get fidgety, walking around and playing with my fingers. My beloved mother continues to smile. Everything begins to glitch around me, making my head spin. I fall onto the ground. My mother walks calmly towards me, kneeling and holding my hand.

My beloved mother’s face is peeled off, revealing the woman’s blurred face instead.

“You’re my beloved son. But I won’t allow you to hurt me anymore,” the woman utters. I am hysterical, begging her to hear me, to listen to me, to see me. “Just like you have an estranged father. You’ll have an estranged mother as well.”

The face returns to my beloved mother, who taps my shoulder, seeing me distressed. But she still smiles. I despise it. I feel like I am unreachable instead of her. I am sinking into a dark abyss.

“STOP SMILING,” I shout.

“But that’s what you wanted, didn’t you?” she declares.

“Farewell,” the woman with the blurred face, as my beloved mother’s face is peeled off once more.

“Who are you?” I insist.

She is looking out the window, her long, luscious black hair flowing, while she smokes. She has numerous mirrors around her rooms in various shapes. She has no face in any of them until she turns her head towards me. The sunlight is reflecting through the window, revealing her face. I could feel my skin burning. That face haunts my eyes, and my heart is heavy with unbeknownst sorrow.

My beloved mother, with a smile and a cold hand, caressed my cheek, while my eyes were lifeless, and my breathing is almost non-existent. Everything is peeling off, including the only beloved mother.

SUBSCRIPTION HAS EXPIRED. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO EXTEND YOUR THERAPY, PLEASE BUY FOR ONLY £433.

I open my eyes as I am stuck in a black marble room. A white helmet is removed from my head with the assistance of two women. The helmet has dozens of wires connected to the engine, which is in the shape of a heart, pumping. In addition, they remove my glasses and give me my old, ragged clothes. The dread is too much for me. Everything that I try to erase returns once more.

At the reception, which is sterile, there is a young and inexperienced woman who smiles at me in a robot-like manner and mumbles, “Please share your experiences with us.”

“Do you know where my beloved mother is?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, but cyborg Siobhan will be assigned to the next patient. If you would like to extend your therapy, a new cyborg would be in charge of your needs. Would you like us to proceed with that?” she utters.

My eyes are hollow as I smile, declaring, “I realised that it’s meaningless unless I have money.”

I am escorted out of the ‘Blue Memories Therapy’. At night, outside, it is pouring. But I have no umbrella, or anything remotely comfortable. I wondered for a long time where I should go. I have nothing. No job. No family. No home. Home? I always debate what this word means. A place where your family accepts you despite your flaws, or only when you are flawless. Or a place where you do not feel pain, and the drowning of the darkness.

In trance, I wander until I reach the bridge that has a river under it. I stare at it for a long time, searching for my home. My sorrow pauses as a cold, metallic hand holds mine. I turn to see a cyborg who has the face of my beloved mother.

“I detect that you’re beyond distressed,” the cyborg says. I laugh at the absurdity. But the cyborg takes my hand and places some money in it. “I’m holding you, now, near the shore. Just hanging on a little longer.”

I look at the money, and then I pay attention to the bridge, contemplating.

“You won’t abandon me, too?” I hug the cyborg tightly. “Right, my beloved mother?”

Whether it is real or not it does not matter as long as my pain is soothed.