The Possessing Things

Things I know for certain:

One. I’m sitting on a black swivel chair in an old-fashioned office, like the one I used to work in as a teenager, back when a person could still smoke at their desk and sleep with their boss.

Two. The woman opposite me is impossibly beautiful, like a goddess floating in water. Her long, dark hair shimmers, glows and swirls in the light flooding in from the window behind her, catching her sari as it does so, red and gold and orange, a sunrise I want to lose myself in.

Three. I can’t can’t move, I can’t feel anything.

‘How are you feeling?’ The woman asks, her voice soft, comforting. She looks like my neighbour from number 83. Lovely woman. Always has a smile on her face even though her husband left her with 3 small children for an orange-skinned air hostess called Tanya Thompson with a bleached white smile.

‘Sorry…’ I want to lean forward and touch the woman lightly on the back of the hand but I’m still frozen, incapable of movement. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. All these years we’ve been neighbours and I…’

‘It’s okay,’ the woman breathes. ‘Take your time.’

I sit in silence for a moment, working hard to manage the panic assaulting my chest. I had some certainties a moment ago, I’m sure I did. I was counting them, the certainties, I mean. Repeating them, learning them so I’d have something to hold on to. Seconds, minutes, hours pass and I’m buffeted in the woman’s breeze, swirling within the folds of her sari, as if she is the entire world and I’m a new-born, caressed in her embrace.

Focus. I’m interviewing for a job. That’s why I’m so stressed. That makes sense. Job interviews are always stressful, aren't they.

‘How are you feeling?’ the woman asks quietly. Her voice is soft, drawing me back to reality, into the nearly-familiar surroundings of the office we’re sitting in.

Am I going for a promotion?

For some reason I feel like I already work here or at least I used to. Perhaps I’m climbing the corporate ladder, so to speak. Although I don't feel that I'm the corporate ladder type, to be honest.

My body clamps tightly around me and it’s a relief to feel it because sometimes when I get like this, when I get so stressed out, I don’t feel anything, it’s like I’m not even present.

I rub my fingers together, the scratching sound of skin against skin magnified for a moment, like it’s the only sound in the universe.

I close my eyes, centring my thoughts, listening to the sandpaper scratch, scratch, scratch of my fingertips as they sail over each other again, again, again.

The seat is hard beneath my buttocks and I can feel the criss cross of its thin fabric cover pressing into my skin. It’s irritating. Invasive. Also, why can I feel the seat fabric in the skin of my buttocks? Am I naked? Oh my God, I can’t be naked, I must be–

‘You’re not naked,’ the woman says softly.

‘Am I dreaming?’ I ask desperately.

‘You’re not dreaming.’

I remember this office. It’s where Brian Bates told me he’d convert my temporary contract into a permanent one if I went down on him during lunch break. I said no at first, of course I did. But I needed the job, he knew that. What was I supposed to do?

‘It will be okay,’ the woman says, flashing an enormous smile that lights up her smooth, dark, unblemished skin. Kindness pulsates from her, as if the light behind her is travelling through her body and capturing it before washing towards me, warming my face and neck, my arms and hands.

‘It will all make sense soon enough, I promise,’ she continues.

I wish she’d reach over and grab me or better still, rush around the table and hold me in a tight embrace and stroke my hair over and over again, whispering ‘shhhh’ into my ear, saying ‘it’ll be okay, I promise it’ll be okay, you don’t need to worry.’

Maybe she does… maybe she's been doing that for eternity, maybe I’ve been soaking in her kindness for hours, days, weeks, months, years.

‘What do you remember?’ the woman asks eventually, back in her chair, if she ever left it, fingering a set of rosary beads in her right hand.

‘Rosary beads?’ I frown. ‘I mean, aren’t you… I don’t mean to presume, it’s just… the sari. I didn’t think you’d be Christian, I thought…’

‘Sari?’ the woman replies, shaking her head slightly. I stare, realising she’s not wearing a sari at all, it’s more like a nun’s habit. How strange to have confused the two.

‘Things will settle,’ the woman says gently. ‘At the moment, your beliefs are all over the place. You’ll settle on something soon, most people do.’

I sit up straight, hands clasped together tightly in my lap, the white purple of my knuckles so pronounced, they almost glow in the dim light of the room.

Why is it twilight now? The light was cascading in from the windows only moments ago but now it’s dim and dusky. I glance around, fixating on the massive blue statue with several arms in the dark recess of the back corner. This is Brown and Root, I’m sure of it. I worked here for years when I was younger. Except… except it’s not quite Brown and Root. We never had religious statues lurking in dark corners.

The light is constantly changing. Now, it’s faintly yellow but not the comforting yellow it was before, not the woman’s sunlight caress, more a haze of nicotine that fogs the room, seeping out of the walls and heading towards me, engulfing me, choking me.

‘Concentrate,’ the woman’s voice penetrates the fog. ‘I’m here, you’re not alone.’

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember who I am and why I’m here, without success.

‘I know you’re confused,’ the woman continues, her voice a soft touch to my skin. ‘But try to remember something. Anything that will anchor you.’

The screaming, the snap, so loud, so unexpected.

I open my eyes again, panicking and clutching at my neck and throat. I’m fine, everything is fine.

‘Trust me,’ the woman says gently. ‘Try to clear your mind and the memories will come, they always do.’

The smoke in the room gradually seeps away and I can see her clearly again. Her features don’t seem the same, her skin isn’t as dark as before. The more I try to focus on her, the more out of focus she becomes..

Things I know for certain.

One.

I swallow, fists clenched tight, trying to find a memory or certainty to cling to, something that makes sense. I can feel the tears on my cheeks, the snot running from my nose and I angrily wipe them away, glancing back at the woman, embarrassed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, trying and failing to smile, looking instead like a snot-covered gargoyle. ‘I’m not feeling myself. Could we perhaps do the interview another day? I know that’s probably not the done thing but…’ I pause, realising my voice is wobbly, weak. Fresh tears bubble up and escape, warming my already-moist cheeks.

Nobody should cry in an interview, that’s no way to get ahead.

Head. Brian Bates. You do what you have to do when you’ve got a family, don’t you. When you have kids.

Children. I had children, two beautiful baby girls.

Things I know for certain.

One. I have daughters, two of them.

Two. I’m in some kind of job interview.

Three. I’m crying… Jesus Christ I’m crying in the middle of a job interview, blowing snot bubbles from my nose like a little girl.

The woman shuffles a huge pile of papers on the desk in front of her and stares at me for a long time before she speaks. I shift uncomfortably, fidgeting and fingering my clothing, my neck, my hair.

‘It’s a bit jumbled for you,’ the woman says softly. ‘That’s normal, try not to worry.’

‘Am I here for a job interview?’ I ask quietly. ‘I’m so sorry, everything is a little foggy and I…’

‘You’re not here for a job interview.’

‘Then why am I here? I’m so sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ the woman replies calmly. ‘Nobody has clarity straight away because… well, it’s impossible for anyone to, isn’t it? And you… well, you’ve got a lot of ideas running around that head of yours, lots of possibilities. Thank God you do, though…’ She pauses, running her finger down the page in front of her. ‘It's the ones don't believe anything that...’ she pauses. Shudders.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say quietly. ‘Are you sure this isn’t a job interview?’ I whimper.

‘No. I mean yes, I'm sure.'

‘And you aren’t my neighbour from number 83?’

She smiles. ‘No.’

‘Who are you, then?’

Another tear runs down my cheek, an insect scrabbling across my skin. I want to swat it, crush it, kill it. Instead, I calmly wipe it away and stare at the woman opposite, wishing that I had my glasses on, that I could discern her features more accurately.

‘Who would you like me to be?’

‘I don’t…’ I reply, stuttering. ‘I’m not sure…’

The woman grabs a pad and begins scribbling some notes on the papers in front of her.

‘Let’s start with something simpler. Who would you like to be?’ she continues confusingly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a bit fuzzy, that’s all,’ the woman says, waving her hand towards me as if she’s making sense.

‘Fuzzy?’ I repeat, glancing down at my arms, old skin, liver spots, juddering, out of focus, like an old video tape on pause.

‘I don’t mean you look fuzzy,’ the woman laughs, as if it’s funny. ‘I mean…’ she trails off for a moment, making eye contact with me, holding me to her. ‘I mean you’re not sure who you are,’ the woman says gently. ‘Let alone who you want to be. Try not to worry, it’ll come… and as I say, you did believe something so you aren’t just... going to the void. Take some comfort in that.’

‘The void?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ she soothes.

‘You aren’t making any sense,’ I say again, stress making my voice high-pitched and whiny. ‘Of course I know who I am, I…’ I pause, remembering Brian Bates as he opened his flies, indicating I should get on my knees in front of him.

Silence. The woman smiles her endless smile. She’s starting to irritate me now. Nobody is that calm or nice and if she were, she’d be giving me some actual answers.

‘Where’s your nun’s habit gone?’ I ask, trying to regulate my heartbeat, the irritation mixed with rising panic that threatens to take hold and take over. ’You say I’m fuzzy but at first you were all Indian goddess, then you were a nun and now you’re completely bald…’ I pause, swallowing, clenching back tears before bursting out: ‘You had lovely hair and now you're bald!’

I feel like a child. Afraid, alone, no parents to comfort or guide me. Instinctively, I raise my knees up and tuck them under my chin, hugging my legs close to my chest. I see that their skin is smoother now, younger, less wrinkled.

‘Do you remember?’ I continue. Small. Fragile. ‘That series where a beautiful young woman played that bald monk.’ I trail off as she blinks, revealing bright blue eyes that only moments ago I’d have sworn were brown. ‘Tripikata, wasn't it? Why can I remember Monkey and Brian Bates but not my own name?’

‘This is all quite normal,’ the woman says.

‘None of this is normal!’

‘You’re seeing… I don’t know how to explain it. An explosion of thoughts, beliefs and memories. Even this place,’ the woman waves her arm around to indicate the office we are sat in. ‘It’s from your head. You worked here, didn’t you? As a teenager. Had an affair with your boss.’

‘I wouldn’t call it an affair,’ I reply quietly.

‘No,’ the woman nods empathetically. ‘Quite right. Not an affair.’

‘Please,’ there’s weakness and desperation in my voice and I hate myself for it. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening to me.’

‘I know you don’t,’ she replies softly. ‘Give it time.’

‘You keep saying that but give what time?’

‘Your beliefs in life. You’ve no idea how important they were. They will determine everything for you now.’

‘You’re not making sense.’

‘You’re not really sitting here with me,’ the woman smiles, standing up and pushing her papers together into one messy pile and picking them up.

‘You said I wasn’t dreaming?’

‘You’re not.’

‘Can you just,’ I rub my face, covering my eyes for a moment. ‘Can you just stop talking in fucking riddles and tell me what’s going on? Have I been drugged?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you what’s going on. There are rules, I’d lose my job. You have to remember yourself.’

The woman pauses, lips pursed together in empathy, before she looks down at herself, at her robes and sandals. ‘Well now! You've turned me into a Buddhist monk,’ she continues, laughing lightly.

‘I haven’t turned you into anything!’

‘Oh really?’ she says, starting to walk away from me. ‘Anyway, follow me,’ she says, moving towards the open glass office door at the back of the room, leading out into a long, grey corridor. ‘Let’s see what other rooms we have, see if there's anything there that will help job your memory a little!’

She glances over her shoulder to make sure I’m following her, pausing as she walks out of the office door into the corridor.

I pad mutely behind her, head down, staring intently at the grey carpet tiles of the office block floor, not wanting to look up at the endless corridor stretching out before us, door after door after door.

‘Each door contains a memory from your life. To help you remember,’ she says, smiling over her shoulder at me with brilliant, brown eyes.

I stop still in the corridor, reality creeping over me, slowly at first, like a shawl drawn over a lifeless body. I reach up to stroke the back of my neck and a memory rushes forward at speed, screaming, snapping, tumbling.

‘I’m dead, aren’t I?’ I whisper. I want to run, to escape, but my body feels alien, light, non-existent.

‘Yes,’ the woman turns towards me, reaching out and touching my arm, ‘for now, anyway.’

Things I know for certain.

Absolutely nothing.

[Note: this isn't my usual genre - I usually write contemporary/lit fiction - this was chapter 1 of a novel I abandonned writing last year... but it's still pottering around in my head, so if you're interested in knowing what happens next, let me know and I'll write chapter 2 and post it up here...]