LiTTLE CHERiNE Book 01 - post147

“Oh Robbie...” the heartbreak in her voice sent me tearing into myself, pain and anger tearing at my sanity. There was a white flash and I felt myself trapped, held by acid cobwebs - and then darkness, no self-awareness that I can remember.

Previous Post 146

581

I was sitting on the ground, the pebbles digging into my palms, my face hurting. I looked up and saw a man dressed in a suit. I saw the face and my blood froze. It was my father. His cold eyes were boring into mine without any emotion as he talked, his voice filled with the utmost contempt and loathing for me.

“I brought you out here to tell you I’ve had enough of you. So many damn years wasted! I have warned you again and again that your fantasising, your ridiculous sentimentality, would bring you nothing but pain. I have tried to be an example, but when you withdrew into your make believe world I realised I was wasting my time - you are a child of your mother; you think love is the answer to everything. You are incapable of learning that to be a man and make a place for yourself in life you have to be strong and hard enough to protect what is yours.”

I stared up at his face, as if a part of me was fascinated by the disdain he was showing and the cold anger in his eyes. His eyes bored into mine and for a moment I felt his fury was going to unleash violence. The idea of my cold father exhibiting such a passion of hatred for me held me frozen.

He continued his tirade, “You are a weak and useless good for nothing. No guts to you boy. I have wasted a lot of money on you, so you cannot say I did not give you any opportunities or try to help you achieve what you dreamed of, whether I agreed with your ambitions or not. You said you wanted to be an artist, but all you painted was gibberish. This is the final straw. I paid for your treatment at that nuthouse and now I have done my duty to you. From hereon you are on your own.”

As he pulled out a thick file from his briefcase, waving it at me, incredibly his rage seemed to grow. He threw it on the ground at my feet.

“I read your story or diary, whatever it is you call it! You are disgusting! Even in your imaginary world you did not have the guts to go with grown up women. For god’s sake, how could you dream of sex with little children!! You did not even respect the memory of your mother. You turn her into a disgusting creature and discuss the possibility of having sex with her, even while having sex with your own baby daughters. Your mistake was bringing that Swedish girl into your dream. At least she saw through you. And at the end even your child lovers turn against you, with some of the same criticisms I have used for years to try and make you come to your senses.

Because of the last pages of your diary, the nuthouse said you could be released now, but I do not believe you are cured - there is no cure for weakness. Here,” he threw a slim envelope to the ground, “one hundred pounds. When it finishes you better have a job or you starve on the dole, do not expect another cent from me. I never want to see you again.”

He walked off, stopping once to look back and call out, “Fucking babies, you sick son of a bitch!”

I remained sitting on the ground, stunned. None of this made sense. I felt a pain in my jaw. I fingered it and realised my father must have hit me, which explained why I was sitting on the ground. Why could I not recall his hitting me? I tried to call the girls, my healer. Nothing. Could this be true, had I imagined it all?

I pulled the file to me and saw the name of a British mental institution on the cover. My name was on it with a patient number. I opened it and saw pages of notes and a letter to my father. I read it. The gist of it was that I had withdrawn into an imaginary world and that with the use of drugs and many hours of treatment I have re-emerged. The writer told my father that they feel I need further treatment and he should arrange private therapy. but that I am now able to interact with my environment and so they have to release me; would he please arrange to collect me.

As an addendum they mentioned that as part of my therapy I had been encouraged to set down the details of my imaginary world on paper. The full story, to the moment almost of my recovery, is enclosed in the file and would he please ensure that the file is given to the therapist who will be treating me.

582

There was some of the usual gumph about the National Health benefits he can claim back on expenses he has paid. I skipped that and went to the pages of my story. I felt a lurch in my stomach. This was our story, the one I have been writing on my computer…

Despite myself I began to read. I read till night fell, tears streaming and my heart filled with despair at my loss. If this was a make believe world I was reading of, it was my world, the world of my Cherine who still filled my heart. Of my Dommi and Wendy and all the others, of my three daughters. I lay through the hours of darkness with the file clutched to my chest and I wept without stop.

At the break of dawn I began to read through eyes blurry from the hours of weeping. How every detail brought back a thousand more memories, how every moment of sweetness tore at me. I read for the whole day, stopping at times as sobs tore into me, unable to read from the shaking of my hand, the tears that blinded me. Strangely, none of the sexual scenes moved me or were of as much interest as the other moments, conversations and even fights. Even remembering our friends, Alki, Marian, Tasso and so on, they felt more real than my real life does.

Another cold night of pain brought the next day and I read on. I could not have imagined all this, despite the notes in circles written alongside, analysing parts of what I’d written. Even though not all that was written used the same words I recalled using and I noticed some minor errors in the facts, it was almost exactly the same, all the important parts a true copy of my memories. Of course there were no pictures. Still, Cherine had to be real, I could not love so deeply someone who does not exist. But, if I did not write this copy of the diary, whoever did, he too must have believed in Cherine and loved her, despite her not being real for him, which led me back in a circle to myself again.

I knew that another night in the damp cold and the lack of food would be my death. I had found a stream nearby and used the cold water to fill my belly. I could feel the weakness and lethargy that tempted me to give up and realised it is a time for decisions. It was far too easy to just stay - and hopefully fade away.

“there is no cure for weakness”. The voice of my father, the cold emptiness of his heart would win. My mother would be proven to have been wrong. If Cherine was but a dream, then to live with love for a girl from my dreams would have to suffice. Cherine in any shape or form, real or not, she was worth living for. I could not allow him to win. Hate myself as I did, I crawled back and found the envelope. I would need food and somewhere warm to sleep until I could make my way back to London.

I later realised I would not have made it to the nearest town, as I did not know where I was or in which direction to travel. Fortunately a dog appeared and not far behind him a thickset middle aged man. I tried to stand, the file clutched tightly, my only tangible link to my girls, to ask him for directions. I suddenly felt woozy and collapsed to my knees. I managed to look up at him. He hesitated a moment and approached me cautiously.

“Are you alright?”

“Where am I? Where is the nearest town?”

He came closer. Bluntly he asked, “Are you on drugs?”

583

“No.” I showed him the file. “I just came out. My father brought me here and left, three days ago. I’m lost.”

He took a long look at the file and relaxed slightly, though his dog continued to stare me in the eyes and it did not look friendly, its body tense as it waited for the command to rip me to pieces. “An honest blighter. Come, I better feed you before I send you on your way.”

“Thank you, but it would be better I get to town. Another night in the cold…I feel too weak. I have some money. Is there a hotel nearby?”

“Come with me.” His tone was gruff, but carried a tone of command and I was too dazed to resist as he put his hand to my arm and helped me to my feet and I let him lead me. We came to a farmhouse. He called out to the other dogs so that they left me alone and he pushed me through the door. He took me straight to the kitchen, half pulled out a wooden chair and with a wave of his arm indicated I should sit. He moved around, getting a plate and from the fridge some stew.

“You will have to eat this cold. Hunger is not finicky.”

As I ate he watched me closely. “You better have a bath, you stink. No hotel would take you in looking like that - not that there is one within easy walking distance.”

While I was in the bathroom, he placed a pair of his trousers and a shirt on the bed for me to find. They were far too big, but I suppose it is easier to wear clothes too big than too small, so I was grateful. I put the clothes on and having a spell of weakness sat on the bed. I thought if I could just lie down for three minutes I would feel stronger. When I woke up it was morning and from the light I could see it was late morning, nearly lunchtime. I was surprised at how quickly I had recovered much of my strength.

I quickly washed and tried to slick my hair to look presentable and went looking for the kind Samaritan, to apologise and thank him. I found him sitting in the lounge, my file by his side and he was reading my story. He must have spent the night reading for he was well into it. I was instantly furious it the invasion of my privacy.

“Sit down. I will get you some tea and a bite to eat just now.” He looked up and saw my anger. “For goodness sake, don’t take on so. Sit. We can talk afterwards.” Ignoring me he read for another two minutes, placed the file down carefully so as not to lose his place and went for tea. I felt at a disadvantage, even angry as I was; I had been fed and slept in his house uninvited. I wanted to grab the file and run, but remembered the dogs outside. I would have to wait. I looked and saw he had reached the part where Wendy had come into my life. Just those few words brought tears and the heartache back in a rush.

He placed the tray on a stool in front of me. “Cry later, you will not let the tea grow cold. Come man, eat, you are going to need your strength.”

“For what?”

“This Cherine, she sounds like she is worth fighting for.”

“With everything I’ve got.” I looked at him. “Please do not patronise me because you see I have come out of a mental asylum.”

“Are you admitting, even to yourself, that Cherine and the other girls are not real?”

“No, I cannot do that. They have to be. I have too many memories of them which are not in that document.”

“Then do as I say and eat up. We can talk afterwards. I will be rude and read, I have to find out what happened with Wendy.”

I ate and finished all he had brought, I had not realised how hungry I was. He put down the manuscript.

“Your name is Robert Teller?”

“Yes.”

Next Post 148

^{For those readers who have not understood, when they speak using telepathy, what they say is enclosed within stars, and the thoughts exchanged are in italic.
e.g *Hi, I bet you are wishing you could read thoughts.*?}

I hope you enjoy reading this story of fantasy, adventure and love. Yes, most of all, always of empathy and love.

Αλέξανδρος Ζήνον Ευσταθίου

(Alexander Zenon Eustace)
^{29th May, 2018}

- posted on Steemit 29th May, 2018