careful y to other people’s advice and to learn from your mistakes . . .”
Marge smacked the paper from her hands; “Wel , she ain’t there now.”
She pushed the door to Lindàs room fully open, entered quickly, her
bangles jangling from her wrists, her heels clicking determinedly
across the wooded slatted floorboards towards the bathroom.
“No bleeding sign of her, Miriam, she’s gone.” She came back to
the door, hands on her hips, and glared at her colleague accusingly.
Miriam looked at her, panic sweeping her broad features. “What
do you mean, she’s gone, she can’t be gone, she’s been asleep all
the time!” Levering herself from her chair, she pushed her way
past Marge, she did a double-take of the bedroom and adjoining
bathroom, which confirmed that Linda was, in fact, nowhere to be
seen. “Bloody Nora, Marge, she’s like Houdini. I been sat here all the
time and she ain’t passed me, I swear it.” Miriam shook her head as
if trying to dispel a bad image from her mind, and scanned the room
again, hoping that Linda would somehow magically reappear. “Well
she must have bloody well done at some point. I bet you dozed off,
you silly cow, I’m gonna tell Sienna.”
“Marge . . . . Marge!” she shouted, hurriedly chasing her as
Marge began marching her way up the corridor which lined the
corridors, arms swinging briskly at her sides. She began pushing the
doors to other clients’ rooms open, she began her quest.
“Is Linda in here, have you seen Linda?” she asked in a clipped
authoritative tone as she jumped nimbly over Horace, who was busy
doing press ups.
Miriam continued huffing and puffing behind her as she went.
Marge alighted at the office door where Sienna was sat reviewing
care plans. “Sienna . . . Linda is gone . . .”
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Sienna snapped her head around, pen poised in mid-air. She
stared at Marge. “What do you mean gone . . . How she can be
GONE . . . SHE’S ON A ONE-TO-ONE MARGE. WHERE’S
MIRIAM?”
Miriam, looking guilty and breathless from actually rushing for
once in her life, ambled through the door behind Marge. She looked
anxiously at Sienna from over Marge’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Si . . . . I was sat there . . . . I just . . . .”
Sienna stared at Miriam as the facts hit her. Her pen dropped
from her hand as she kicked into auto pilot, a risk assessment of
her missing client silently clicking through her head. Linda’s mood
had deteriorated rapidly over the past three days, which is why the
observation level had been instigated; she hadn’t even summoned up
the energy to self-harm and had been lying on her bed in an almost
comatose state; mute, flat in affect and blunted in emotion. She cut a
frail figure in her Muslim dress that hung around her lifelessly. Not
eating, not sleeping . . . “When did you last see her, Mir? How long
ago? What was she doing?”
“Ten minutes Si, I swear it . . . She was . . .”
“Miriam, start searching the rooms, NOW…GO.” Sienna
barked at her. “Marge, do a missing persons report and call the
cops . . . tell them it’s urgent and alert hospital security to start a search of the grounds and buildings.” Ringing downstairs, she alerted
Clive that one of her section patients had gone AWOL; it was not
uncommon for clients to strike up friendships as inpatients, and to
go wandering to other units for company, yet it would be very unlike
Linda. Professional as ever, she heard Clive instruct his staff and
effectively organize a search party. Knowing he would do a thorough
job, she clicked the phone down and headed towards the exit door.
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“Marge . . . ,” Sienna threw the keys at her “Look after the ward til
I get back . . . ring Clive if you’ve any problems.”
“Sienna, where the bleeding hell do you think you’re going? You
can’t go searching for Linda on your own at this time of night . . . .”
Marge shook her head as the ward door slammed shut, drowning
out her words.
Running down the stairs, Sienna’s mind clicked back to the
beginning of the shift when she had done her normal round to check
where everyone was; entering Linda’s room she sat herself on the
edge of her bed.
“Hey Linda?” No response. “Want to hear the joke about the Irish man again?” Still no response, normal y this raised a smile, she had laughed so loudly when Sienna had first told her. Linda continued to lie on the bed motionless, eyes wide open and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. Sienna had seen Linda present like this before, but something else seemed amiss this time; something she couldn’t quite put her finger on . . . . she was just different . . . maybe it was the look in her eyes, so hol ow and soul ess. She had never seen her look so defeated, her glimmer of fight and determination gone. Sienna had touched her lightly on the arm, still no acknowledgement that Linda knew she was there; Sienna had begun to wonder if she did know. She seemed immersed in her own thoughts. Sienna tried again.
“Linda, Tim tel s me that your kids have been in to see you today, how are they?” Linda stared at her blankly. Pul ing her legs up tightly against her chest, she opened her mouth and started wailing; once she started she couldn’t stop, the noise became louder and stronger, and her wailing became relentless. Sienna had never seen Linda cry before.
Inhaling sharply, the cool air hit Sienna’s lungs; the first snow
of the year was falling in London. Sienna stood still for a moment,
desperately thinking of where to start her search, where Linda might
have gone. Huddling her arms around her for extra warmth, she
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shivered as she quickly searched the perimeter of the building. She
couldn’t have gotten that far, she had hardly mustered up the energy
to move herself from the bed, only when nature called and even then
it looked like every step pained her. Shit, where the hell could she be?
Sienna quickened her step.
*
Sitting on a park swing underneath an oak tree, Linda shivered
uncontrollably in her thin traditional Muslim dress as the snow
turned the park into a brilliant white. She intermittently blew into
clenched fists to stop them from going numb. Linda thought of the
life she had lived until her marriage in 1975 had changed everything.
Growing up in the back streets of London in her tattered, torn dress,
Linda made friends with Ali, the boy across the railway lines who
wore smart trousers and jackets. They used to climb trees together in
the very park she sat in now, and sit amongst the highest branches,
completely invisible to the world that surrounded them, hidden by
the green foliage and privy to conversations that carried on beneath.
Sometimes they would liken themselves to great detectives and other
times they would drop acorns onto the unsuspecting heads of the
persons below. Ali always took a bit of coaxing to join her, but he
always did in the end. As they grew older, they spent more time
deep in their own conversations and theories of the universe and
its meaning. This was when Linda first took an interest in Islamic
teachings and learned about the Quran.
Linda rocked the swing gently so her feet lifted slightly from the
earth beneath her black plimsolled feet. Leaning her body back, she
let her arms take her weight as she held onto the icy, rusted chains
that suspended the seat, her face pushed up toward the cold night
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air she closed her eyes and began to swing, as she had when she was
a child, letting the snow fall softly onto her white, drawn, porcelain
skin, which for the first time in weeks showed a hint of colour.
Higher and higher, her feet thumped off the ground and propelled
her with a determined force into the air, and she peeked into her past
as she soared once again into the tree’s highest branches. Poking her
tongue out, she tasted the snowflakes as they fell. Her chiffon scarf
that adorned her head slid around the back of her neck, the flakes fell silently framing her soft brown ringlets of hair and glistening a brief brilliant blaze in the night before they were suddenly extinguished.
Linda marvelled at the sense of joy that leapt in her heart as she
uplifted into the air with each swing, and at the inner peace and
contentment that was spreading throughout her body like a warm
glow. This was surely her moment.
Linda had been a rebellious teenager and her friendship with Ali
fell by the wayside, alongside her Presbyterian upbringing, in favour
of the hedonistic lifestyle led by her col ege students, which consisted of drinking a lot and going to nightclubs. Her life seemed aimless
and shallow and in her search for peace and enlightenment, Linda
was drawn back across the railway lines to her Muslim neighbours,
who welcomed her back into their fold with open arms like a long
lost family member. Feeling protected and safe, the Islamic way of
life stirred something within her. After reading and learning the
teachings of Allah for a year, Linda converted to Islam when she
married her life-time friend Ali; she was little more than twenty
years of age. It seemed so perfect; Ali and his family seemed so
content and grounded in their spiritual guidance and beliefs which
directed their daily lives and provided consistency and structure
within an aimless world that filled her with angst. Allah would look
after her. Allah was her purpose for existence.
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She bore seven children over ten years, and in adapting to Muslim
culture became the homemaker, the heart of the family, whilst her
husband was the bread winner. Linda found that trying to lead a
good life became an unending and tiring job; her emotions and needs
were constantly suppressed. Her reaction came in the form of deep,
deep depression and self-loathing for not being able to fit into any
way of living with success.
The struggle of existence constantly pervaded her thoughts, no
matter how many times she prayed to her God she felt trapped,
suffocated and stifled with her never ending duties of meeting others’
needs, of constantly looking after seven children and her husband,
of just existing in order to serve others. She read and re-read the
Quran, she prayed five times a day, but the lure of the afterlife no
longer sustained her soul. She only prayed that the afterlife would
come sooner. Secretly Linda started to self-harm.
The first time she had cut herself was when she was eight years
old, she accidentally broke a glass and cut her hand whilst drying
the dishes one day. Although it stung, badly, she became enamoured
by the burgundy droplets which splashed onto the kitchen floor.
The stinging sensation ceased after a moment and was replaced by
a singular throbbing, and she felt a strange calmness descend upon
her and a sense of release.
That night Linda stole her first blade from her father’s razor and
the cuts became a companion, each slice providing an outlet for her
pain. Soon she was cutting every day. She’d cut in the morning before
school, and then cover up her arms with her long sleeved school
blouse. She’d take a razor with her on the bus, stored in the front
pocket of her blazer, so that during lunchtime and between lessons
she could sneak into the toilets and restore equilibrium to her life and as soon as she returned home she would dump her schoolbag at the
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foot of the stairs and run two at a time to the top and lock herself in the bathroom to cut some more. It soon became impossible to hide;
her arms were unrecognizable from hundreds of cuts from shoulder
to wrist. There were brief periods when she didn’t cut at all for up to two months and on other occasions when she was at her worst she
could cut up to ten plus times a day, and even then she would feel like she was missing something. Sometimes it didn’t matter how many
times she cut, the pain never subsided and sometimes it intensified it.
Ali could not fathom what was wrong with his wife and did not
know how to help her; he loved her the only way he knew how, in
providing a nice home for the family. If she tried to talk to him, a
look of bewilderment would cross his face, it became easier to bottle
it up and to appear to be the perfect wife and mother at all times.
Ali never questioned his meaning or purpose in life, he was totally
fulfilled and content, his faith never faltered, the path he trod never wavered, he accepted his role; the reason it had been handed to him,
to serve Allah.
Poor Ali, she thought, he was a good husband and he deserved a
better wife. What was it she craved? What was it she wanted? Would
anything make her content?
When Ali found out she had started cutting he had yelled at
her and told her she was crazy. “Repent,” he yelled, “Repent, for
there are no softer penalties for these irresponsible actions which you bring to this house of God and disrupt the balance of God’s peaceful
universe. Draw strength and support from God to practice control
over destructive emotions, for there is no excuse for causing harm to
oneself because one got carried away.”
“I am not happy, Ali, I am not perfect. I am human with human
feelings. Why can’t you understand that?”
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“There is no place for despair in our home because you have
confidence in knowing that it’s God Himself who is in charge of
everything, the All Seeing, All Knowing, and All Fair and Wise
God.”
“But . . . .”
Ali raised his voice another notch. “Seek the life to come by
means of what God granted you, but do not neglect your rightful
share in this world. Do good to others as God has done good to you.
Do not seek to spread corruption in the land, for God does not love
those who do this.” (Quran, 28:77) “And make not your own hands
contribute to your destruction; but do good; for Allah loves those
who do good,” (Quran, 2:195) he almost spat in her face.
She recoiled from him, afraid of this side of him which never
had she seen before; she had never seen him angry before, she had
never seen him express such tense emotion, their religion strongly
discouraged it. She learned to shut up and to smile and say everything
was fine, even though it was burning her up inside. She knew that she
had hurt Ali, that she had disappointed him and committed a sin in
the house of God. But that just brought her more pain and made her
reach for the razor yet again.
Why won’t he hold me and tell me everything will be alright? Why
can’t he understand? Am I such a horrible person that he has to yell at
me all the time? I just want to be happy and normal. I try so hard to be
perfect but I always fail and let everyone down.
She would lie in bed awake, wondering what was wrong with her
as her husband snored softly besides her, believing that the situation
had been dealt with. She felt so confused and lost. And now she felt
even more alone.
*
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Linda had been shocked when she had approached Sienna several
weeks into her latest admission, desperately struggling with her
obsession to cut. She felt like she was being tortured slowly, being
punished by the system that was supposed to help her, they had taken
away her one coping mechanism for survival. Agitated, she trashed
her room, which hadn’t served to make her feel any better. Sienna
had purposely left her to it, knowing that now was not the time for
conversation. Eventually Linda had confronted her with her inner
rage and torment.
“What am I doing to myself ? Why am I ruining my life? Why
can’t I STOP?” Why am I like this? Why am I a freak to society?
Maybe I am just . . . crazy . . . . oh, how I hate that word.”
Sienna had sensed her pain, and although her progress report was
looking promising for that week’s ward round ( has not self-harmed
for one week), Sienna could now see that no progress had been made at all; Sienna did, however, see her anger as progress. Sienna decided
to utilize the hospital policy regarding self-harming patients. She had discussed the situation over with Tim and then spoken cordial y with
Dr. Ridgewood, who had sat curious and quite fascinated with her
theory and expectations. She had gained the consultant’s permission.
Sienna had handed Linda a sterile blade and sat silently with
her while she cut herself. Sienna ensured her wounds were not too
detrimental, and then provided Linda with dressings and aided her
to protect the lacerated skin along her arms. No one would see it;
Linda’s clothing always covered her too well. Respect, acceptance
and understanding developed from that moment shared between
the two women.
Linda slept solidly for twelve hours that night for the first time
since her admission.
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*
Linda allowed her swing to slow to a halt. In her mind’s eye she
pictured the angelic innocent faces of each of her seven children
and smelled their scent. Her tears unleashed at last, and rolled
freely and silently. Holding onto their smiles, she exchanged private
conversations with them, conversations which they would read one
day for she had carefully penned each of them a letter. She pictured
Ali’s carefully sculpted Pakistani features and his kind smile. She
was doing everyone a favour; they didn’t need her influence in their
lives, they would be much happier without her.
Feeling exhilarated and alive, her eyes glistened with a mixture of
excitement and anticipation as she stood and began to walk towards
the railway bridge that spanned over the park. The nine o’clock train
would be arriving soon. Striding her way across the grass, Linda
marveled at the beauty of the world going on around her; the world
had never seemed so vibrant and alive. Linda knew what she must
do. She should have done it a long time ago.
Allah would forgive her, he was calling to her right now, and this
was the way out that he had prepared for her:
“So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief: Verily, with every
difficulty there is relief,” (Quran, 94: 5-6) she mouthed to herself her pace quickening, “And for those who fear Al ah, He always prepares a
way out, and He provides for him from sources he never could imagine.
And if anyone puts his trust in Al ah, sufficient is Al ah for him. For
Al ah will surely accomplish His purpose: verily, for all things has
Al ah appointed a due proportion.” (Quran, 65: 2-3)
*
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Sienna ran towards Mal ory Park, her gut instinct shouting louder
and louder the closer she got. Linda had often spoken of the park
where she had grown up and had told her stories of how she had felt
at peace on the big swing underneath the big oak tree. She stalled as
she reached her destination and saw no sign of her, the swing empty
and sighing softly in the breeze. But the essence of Linda was there;
the trace of her spirit still sat in the playground. Sienna moved on,
she knew where to go, she began to run. A sense of urgency and panic
alighting in her senses, she knew what Linda was planning, she had
to reach her quickly before it was too late. The train station, another half a block and she would be there.
*
Linda stood at the railway bridge looking over onto the train
tracks. She felt a sudden rush of adrenalin pump through her veins
as she prepared to take flight. Climbing up onto the stone wall,
she sat with her feet dangling over the edge. She was grinning, her
face exuberant with excitement. A young couple passed and looked
at her strangely, as they hurried on. The train was approaching, it
sounded its horn as it thundered along the tracks, fast and furious
and pounding like her heart in her chest. She felt euphoric.
The sound of ‘Unchained Melody’, her wedding song, played
through her head, the day when she had devoted herself to Al ah. The
orchestra flooded her mind, the sound of the violins getting louder
and louder, drowning out the sound of Sienna running towards
her, yelling at her to stop; the train hurtled towards her and Linda
grinned, exuberant, with joy as she yel ed out to her God, her saviour, her escape, her meaning and sense of being and purpose in life, her
beginning and ending to life.
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“Allah, wait for me, wait for me!” Her heart leapt as she gave
herself over to him, whol y and completely and eternal y. Al ah would
take care of her. She launched; she threw herself off the bridge into
Allah’s waiting arms, her arms outspread like wings, her traditional
dress bil owing around her frail frame as she plummeted to her death;
the train, unforgiving in its actions, killed her instantly. Broken by
the harshness and existential hollowness of her life, Linda was at
peace.
*
Sienna’s piercing scream escaped from her lips as she watched
the surreal image of Linda’s body disappear; heard the train slam on
its breaks and screech to an extended halt along the steel tracks; the
piercing sound of metal on metal seared through her every nerve-
ending as red and orange sparks flew into the air. She stumbled
blindly down the concrete staircase towards the platform, towards
Linda; towards the person she was supposed to be keeping safe, and
sunk to her knees as she watched Linda’s blood stain the white carpet
a bright red.
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Chapter 13
Most relationships don’t work and most marriages fail
because people do not understand the intricate working
of themselves. Failure to know yourself results in failure
to know anyone else. If you don’t understand your own
behaviour how can you hope to understand another’s?
Creative Goth
April looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, half past six.
Gavin should have been home from work by now, that’s
if he was coming home tonight at all. She stirred the stew
she had made for his dinner, just in case. Every night she maintained
the status quo, in case he came home. He normally came home at
some point, to throw his dirty laundry at her, eat and then he was
gone again. He acted like nothing was wrong, and she didn’t dare
challenge him about where he had been or what he was up to. She
jabbed a fork into the potatoes to check they were cooked through,
a