The Dark Threads by Jean Davison Page B

eyes.
    â€˜Since you came into this place you’ve changed beyond recognition and … and I can’t stand to see you like this. I’m sorry but I … I just can’t.’
    â€˜It’s OK, Danny, I understand,’ I murmured sleepily.
    â€˜You want me to go? You want us to finish?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s for the best,’ I said, though I didn’t really know what I wanted, except to ease the pain I was causing him and make it easier for him to leave if he wanted to.
    A long silence followed.
    Finally he said, ‘I might go back to Devon, see if I can sort myself out.’ His voice was shaky and there were tears in his eyes.
    My eyes remained dry; I felt too drugged and distant for tears. I didn’t say anything. There seemed nothing left to say.
    â€˜Oh God, I … I’m sorry,’ he said standing up. ‘I can’t bear it any more.’
    I followed him to the door of the ward where we kissed goodbye. Suddenly he took hold of me by the shoulders and shook me: ‘Please, Jean, don’t …’ His voice faltered but his grip on my shoulders tightened till it hurt. ‘Don’t allow this to happen to you.’
    With these words he walked out of the ward and out of my life. I never saw him again.
    Jackie visited me just once towards the end of my stay. We’d been friends since primary school but now I felt self-conscious with her, aware of how four months in this institution had taken its toll. She didn’t disguise her shock at seeing the pathetic, drugged creature I had become.
    â€˜My God, what’s happened to you? You’re a big fat zombie!’ She screwed up her forehead in shocked surprise.
    â€˜Let’s go sit down,’ I said, nodding to the visiting area. Since I’d greeted her at the door of the ward she’d remained standing there, looking reluctant to come right inside.
    We went to sit down and she continued to stare at me. ‘Your eyes are half closed, your speech and movement is all slow, your body is swollen and your face is so bloated you look like you’ve got mumps.’
    â€˜It’s only a temporary thing ’cos of the drugs,’ I said, attempting to make light of it.
    â€˜But, Jean, I’ve never seen a person change so much and in such a short time as you have since coming in here. I’m absolutely staggered.’
    â€˜Hey, steady on, it’s OK, Jackie,’ I said, smiling weakly. ‘I’m still the same person underneath.’ I was desperate to convince myself of that. But I feared I would never be the same again.
    And when the transformation was complete; when I had lost my job, my boyfriend, my self-esteem, and had turned into a fat, spotty, zombie-like creature who moved and thought slowly, when I had become withdrawn even with my closest friends (with whom I’d never been shy before), when I felt worse than I had ever felt in my rotten, lousy, fucked-up life and wished I could sleep for ever in a deep, dreamless kind of slumber, they finally decided I was ready to be discharged.

CASE NO. 10826
    Progress:
    None. There was no essential change in the patient’s state in spite of treatment.
    Condition on Discharge
    Not improved.
    Final Diagnosis
    Schizophrenia.
    Dr Sugden

PART TWO
    THE TUNNEL
    Selves diminished
we return
to a world of narrowed dreams
piecing together memory fragments
for the long journey ahead.
    Leonard Frank, from ‘Aftermath’

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I AWOKE AT SEVEN but there was no green light above my bed and no uniformed figures reminding a sleepy ward that it was time to get up. My parents and brother were out, doing their bus-conducting shifts. I turned over, and the next time I awoke it was three in the afternoon. Hunger brought me downstairs just long enough to eat several slices of bread and jam. I swallowed the prescribed dosage of pills, climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets over my head. This is how I spent most of