Fiction: Astrid

Peter Pierre
Post grad student
Curtin University, Western Australia
E-mail: peterpierre@iprimus.com.au

Astrid

lies on her side on the narrow iron bed. A wisp of grey-yellow hair falls across her face and she pushes it back, pulling the ends tight around her ear. Her sky-blue robe hangs in the small wardrobe in the corner opposite the bed, behind the door leading out into the corridor. She hung it up before getting into bed, so she knows it's there. The material felt like water between her fingers as her hand lingered. She would like to get up and check on it, just to make sure, but they are hovering just outside the door, pacing up and down the corridor. She knows it's in there; she hasn't looked away once since getting into the bed. Except there was one moment, when she turned around and walked over to the bed, that she didn't keep watch.
     Just concentrate on what you know, her daughter keeps telling her when she visits. Tell yourself what you know is true; you locked it, you turned it off. No one is staring at you; it's all in your mind.
     Astrid whispers to herself: it's in there, it's in there. She traces the pattern of the linoleum on the floor, running her fingers in the small grooves, scraping up dirt, cleaning it with her ragged nails.
     It's in there; it's in there. She moves slowly across the floor, her feet illuminated by the light leaking in under the door. Someone's shadow darkens her progress, and she shuffles back into bed just in time.
     Astrid? You up? She can barely hear his voice above the noise of the music coming from his Walkman.
     He says: Astrid, did you get out of bed? You can answer me; it's all right, you won't get into trouble.
     She stays quiet, tapping her fingers against her thumbs, counting two, four, six. The light from the open door suddenly disappears, but she keeps her eyes closed. Do they think she was born yesterday?
     It's in there; it's in there. Her hair has come loose again, and she tugs at it, pulling slowly. She rolls the grey-yellow lock into a small ball between her fingers, adding more when it gets too small.
     It's in there; it's in there. She nibbles the edges of the ball, brittle strands of hair crackling between her teeth, as addictive as salt and saturated fats. The leftovers are placed under the pillow, with the others. She rolls over on her back, and jams her hands under her. Concentrate on what you know is true.
     This last night drags on, and she lost track of time hours ago. Alfie should be here by now; he is running late. She has no watch anymore; they put it away somewhere safe when she arrived.
     They said: It is such a lovely thing; someone might steal it, so why don't we keep it for you until you need it?
     She complained, but there was no time to do anything about it then; her daughter was in a hurry.
     She said: I'll sort it out next time, ok mum? Please, don't make a scene.
     Before she left, she gave her mum the blue robe, holding it in front of her, showing everyone the quality of the silk; anyone could steal it when Astrid was asleep.
     At least the watch was safe, locked away at the staff station. Once, when she walked past, Jones was showing the other staff something; the door to the safe was ajar. They were clustered around him, craning their necks to see what he held in his hand. They all looked away when they saw her, and Jones turned back to the safe, quickly closing and locking the door before she could see what they were looking at. She knew, though; she wasn't born yesterday.
     Where are you, Alfie? She says to the darkness flooding the room. They are still patrolling the corridor, spot-checking rooms, lurking, waiting to ambush anyone caught walking around after lights out.
     Alfie, where are you? She scrapes at her scalp, adding to the hoard under the pillow.

     When she wakes, the darkness covers the room, an impossible blackness that sucks the air out of her lungs. A figure squats next to the wardrobe, blending in with the dark, visible only when he moves.
     The robe.
     She scrambles out of bed and lunges at the door, clawing at the handle. The material is smooth, cool on her skin, and she recognises the figure by smell; it's impossible to see.
     She says: Hello. You're back. How are you?
     He doesn't answer, only sits there, looking around, scraping his nails along the wall, fingers like the legs of a spider. His stillness makes her nervous.
     She asks: How are your people these days? It's been an awfully long time since I saw any of you. She slides down the wall, settling with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around her legs, like a young girl.
     It's alright; everything will be fine. The move is for the best, you will see. As long as the two of us are together it doesn't matter where we are, does it? Alfie?
     He smiles and nods.
     His t-shirt is covered with dark stains, and he is barefoot. His arms are lit from the sparse light coming in from under the door. She reaches over and runs her fingers over his scars, soothing him.

     Astrid hesitates when she reaches the scars around his wrists. These are different than the ones on his arms; these are from imprisonment and humiliation. She tries to lock her fingers on either side of his wrist, tries to cover his blemishes, his shame. Alfie just smiles; he doesn't seem to mind.
     I'm sorry for your life, Alfie. I truly am.
     She reaches behind her and runs the silk between her fingers. Sweet; erotic shame runs through her. She moves closer to Alfie, rubbing her shoulder against his, knees knocking together. Alfie smiles, teeth stark white in the suffocating darkness.
     Her voice is loud in the small room: You'll see Alfie, it will be alright. He isn't here now; my husband is dead. You don't have to be afraid. Wherever they take us, we will be together.
     Her nails plough furrows in her arms, scraping, dead skin falling on the floor like snow. They are pacing the corridor, up and down, ready to pounce, to tie you down and leave you in your own waste for days. Alfie and Astrid sit, just inside the door, holding each other, waiting for the light to come, waiting for the bus to come to take them away.

     Astrid wakes to pale light through the window. The pacing outside her door has stopped and Alfie is gone, leaving the door to her room open as he left. She puts her pale-blue silk robe on immerses herself in the fabric as she walks hesitantly into the hospital corridor. The linoleum is faded from the constant pacing of the staff and patients. The walls are rough, with paint like sandpaper; she walks in the middle of the corridor so her robe doesn't get spoilt. All the doors are wide open, clothes and personal things are scattered all over the floor, and she takes care not to step on any of it. She has respect for other people's things. There is a blue dog on the floor of one of the rooms, dead and motionless. Astrid pulls her robe tighter around her, hesitating.
     Should I go in there? It's none of my business, really. But it's such a small dog; maybe it is still alive, suffering even.
     The thought rushes life into her legs, and she hobbles towards the bundle.
     Funny looking dog. Who in the world would dye their dog? The closer she gets, the slower she walks, until she reaches a stalemate two meters away. She looks around for something to poke it with, or to fend it off with. She gathers up her robe and tucks it into her knickers; better it bites her legs than the pale-blue silk. She finds an abandoned crutch and, with it raised, approaches the dog.
     If I wasn't already in the nut house I would definitely be committed if anyone saw me now. The thought makes her giggle; the sound is as foreign to her as it is to the building.
     Little dog? Come here, boy. There's a good boy, come here. She prods it and steps back quickly. Nothing.
     What should I do? She walks around it and sits down on the edge of the bed. The fabric of her robe is like Valium between her fingers, and she picks at her scalp, gathering more hair, rolling it up, putting it in her mouth.
     Where is everyone?
     She scrambles up and walks over to where the carcass lies and prods it with her bare toe.
     God, it's light. She nudges it some more, moving it slightly and pushing her foot all the way under it. It is wet and sticky, bloody on her skin. She yelps and falls backwards, hitting her head on the hard iron edge of the bed. The thing on the floor has flipped, and black, coagulating blood drips off it. Astrid's head swims and nausea grips her before she can breathe it away. She vomits quietly, shamefully, rolling away from the mess of hair and bile. As she lies on the floor heaving, she realises what the thing is. It's a wig. No--it's real hair.
     The room spins and she crawls under the bed, pushing linen and clothes out of the way. The dark under the bed soothes her, and she counts the cross-springs under the bed, first in one's, then in two's. Sleep tries to take her, or maybe it is a concussion. She drifts away, robe safe in her knickers and her leg smearing vomit over the floor. She isn't alone under the bed; a woman lies tucked in between the floor and the bed, sort of dangling, suspended in the air.
     I have to get help; there is something wrong with that woman.
     Astrid surrenders to the darkness on the edge of her vision.

     She returns from the dark when someone pulls her out from under the bed. A migraine has taken hold while she was sleeping, and she is almost blind from the pain and the light.
     Alfie? She says. Is that you?
     The scent is different, stronger, but an imitation of the night before. She gets to her feet. The shape walks out of the room, and she follows; anywhere is better than here.
     Wait. Wait; who are you? Alfie, is that you? Please say something. I think I hurt my head. Wait.
     There is a staircase at the end of the corridor, and she follows the figure and goes up to the next floor. The narrow stairway is filled with crumpled shapes draped in sheets, and she pushes the thoughts of corpses away, continuing up the stairs, following, avoiding. As they go up and up, a faint breeze grows stronger and the bundles on the floor thin out and disappear completely. They stop when they come to a massive wooden door. She fumbles for the handle, turning it in vain.
     It's locked. What do we do now?
     The other moves its hand over the door, and it swings open, and a torrent of light makes her stumble backwards, pressing her back against the wall behind the door.
     I can't go out there; my eyes hurt. The light is too strong.
     The robe is pulled out of her underpants. The rip of fabric is unbearably loud in the small foyer. Astrid tries to scream, but there is no air, and only a whimper comes out. A sliver of silk is tied around her head, covering her eyes, and is soon soaked with tears.
     Why did you do that? Why?
     The sun is merciless as she is guided out into the courtyard. The material cuts out some of the light, but not all, and she squints behind the silk blindfold. It's like all the noise in the world has been burned away by the sun; not a bird, or a car, or a child can be heard. The yard stretches on forever; from where they stand she cannot see a corner or a wall, just white, wide-open space. The cobblestones are cool on the soles of her feet. The air is so hot her skin seems to crisp and curl up on itself, forcing her to bend over or she will split open. Bending, bending until she is crouched down, resting on the balls of her feet. The pain rolls through every part of her body until she is too wracked with it to scream or even breathe, it seems. But still it goes on, flooding her, deeper and deeper, until the pain is as white as the stones she stands on. The robe flares out around her, covering her so that only her head is visible. If someone were looking from a distance, it would look as if her head was resting on a mound of silk. She turns around and looks for the stairs, looking for an escape, but the opening they came out of is drifting away, farther and farther away as she watches. She looks around for her guide, and it is moving away as well. With the last of her strength she crawls towards it, pulling off her blindfold as she goes. The being is white, almost transparent, and naked, standing with its back to her, mumbling to itself. She crawls towards it, finally collapsing at its feet. The pain is immense, insurmountable.
     Oh God, what's happening? Where am I? Please help me, I can't stand the pain. As she crawls, the ground turns translucent, and a steady red glow radiates up toward them.
     She rolls over on her back and looks up at the shape towering over her. It has no mouth, no nose, no facial features at all, except a pair of eyes. They shine like the glow underneath her; and she wonders briefly if it is a reflection or if the fire is inside the creature's head. Maybe it makes the fire; maybe everything around her, under her, over her, comes from it?
     It is Alfie's eyes that stare at her, and the last of her hope burns out.
     As she rests her head on the ground, the remnants of her hair catch fire, and burn slowly, painlessly, shining like a halo.
     The shape starts to walk away, gliding over the fire burning below. Slowly, slowly it moves farther away, until it's only a vague shape.
     She calls out to it: What about me? What will happen to me?
     The reply is felt, rather than heard:
     This is all there is for you now. This is your eternity. Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to the light; the prison strong.
     She tries to close her eyes, but she still sees; everything, nothing, all at once, all in a distance, above her, under her, around her, untouchable, unreachable.
     She floats in nothingness, staring at the fire that burns her, but never consumes her.

     One of the fluorescent lights flickers above the doctor as he massages her chest. He stares at the nurse across the bed. She is quite spectacular. On every four count she pushes air into the patient with the Oxyviva.
     "So, what are you doing tonight, then?" he says.
     "Not sure yet. The girls are going to the pub after the shift, but I haven't made my mind up."
     They go through the motions of her revival.
     He's not bad for a doctor; looks fit enough.
     "Okay, that's it. Time of death, 19:37 hours." He straightens up and rips the rubber gloves off his hands, tossing them into the bin next to the door. "Could you get someone to contact the family, babe?"
     Babe? Who are you calling babe? She replies, "There is no family."
     "What? No children? A husband, or a sibling? No one?"
     "Don't you know who this is?"
     He studies the corpse of the old ruined woman on the table. "No idea--who is she?" He should know.
     She sighs and moves away toward the phone. "It was all over the papers a few years ago. She killed her kids and her husband. Burned the house down while they were asleep. I think she claimed that some aborigine told her to do it, or something."
     "No kidding?" He walks back over to the table and looks into the eyes of the dead woman. "I wonder what they see when they are dying."
     She picks up the phone and dials the number for the morgue. "I don't care what this one saw. I hope she burns in Hell."

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