Shattered: A Shade novella Read Online Free PDF Page A

floor, bracing myself for the next question: what do you dream of? I can’t tell her,
because I only dream of that place, that nothingness. If she asks, I will run,
or vomit, or perhaps curl up in a ball on this sofa, clutching the teddy bear.
But I will not answer.
    To my
surprise, Dr McFarlane just nods thoughtfully, then
puts on her glasses to make notes.
    I use
the brief respite to try to pull myself out of this spiral, step away from the
haunting remnants of my nightmares. That’s
all they are, just dreams. They can’t touch me here in the daylight.
    A
trickling noise captures my attention. There’s a small ceramic fountain on Dr McFarlane’s desk. I watch the water dribble out of a
tilted pitcher to flow over a bowl of smooth stones. As I count the blue
pebbles, then the brown ones, my nightmares loosen their grip, and my next breath
is smooth and slow.
    ‘Now,’
she says, ‘excluding the events of the summer, have you experienced any
outstanding traumas in your life? When you were younger, perhaps?’
    ‘You
mean besides three years of English boarding school?’
    She
laughs loud and full, a pleasant surprise. Amusing my psychiatrist will come in
handy.
    ‘Aye,’
she says, ‘besides three years of English boarding school.’
    My
memory seizes upon something to distract her from ‘the events of the summer’:
the near-drowning of Martin’s wee brother, Finn. I tell her how I saved him,
how we both almost died, how the accident made my parents move me away from
everyone and everything I knew and loved. How I still bear the scar.
    The
more I tell, the more hope rises in my heart. This will be my salvation: Dr McFarlane
will teach me how to deal with my old trauma, then I’ll apply the same method
to my new trauma. I can cure myself without anyone knowing what happened at 3A. Fuckin ’ quality, as Martin would say.
    I
almost smile as she gives me an array of scripts to fill at the chemist, as we
arrange our next three appointments, as she suggests exercise and meditation to
combat my anxiety until the pills can take effect.
    I can
do this.
    Martin’s
waiting outside. He hastily puts out his cigarette when he sees me. ‘ Awright , mate?’
    I
know it’s merely a greeting, the equivalent of ‘Hey’, and he’s not literally
asking me if I’m alright. But after sixty-one days of solitude, the mere
acknowledgement of my existence feels like an embrace. Here’s a human being who
sees me, a human I can see in return. Something so basic, yet peculiarly
marvelous, like a gift on a day that’s not your birthday or Christmas.
    ‘I’ll
go with youse tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll be good
to watch live football again.’
    Martin
smiles. ‘Ye might take back those words after ye see how Partick Thistle’s playing.’ He elaborates on the Jags’ recent difficulties,
illustrating his points with mind-spinning statistics. I absorb every word, as
if no information has ever been so important as blootered shots, stinging tackles, and sitters missed.
    It’s
life, these numbers. Actions and reactions on the football pitch, as real as
the ebb and flow of Sauchiehall Street traffic. The
smell of car exhaust and cafes, the rumble of wheels over concrete and the whir
of breeze through the trees, it’s all so worldly. I suddenly can’t get enough.
    I
turn to Martin. ‘What time do you have to be at the pub for work?’
     
    *    *    *    *
     
    Dr McFarlane said to exercise, so here I am, dragging
my arse (and Martin’s) to run about the main loop of
the Botanic Gardens, one of my favourite parts of
Glasgow. Then again, on this, my fourth day out of captivity, everywhere feels
like my favourite part of Glasgow. I never want to
leave.
    I
wonder if Aura would like living here. As an Italian-American, sunshine is in
her blood. Would the light in her eyes grow dim after days on end of Scottish
rain?
    No,
not once I’ve shown her the brilliant reds, yellows, and pinks of these
gardens. The vivid green of the