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“Cool!” Lisa gasps, coming up behind.
“No, it's not,” Rosetta says, wandering over. “It's sad.”
“Can we take it home and bury it?” Lisa asks.
“I don't know,” Rosetta frowns. “It looks like it's been —”
“Demons killed my parents and sister,” I interrupt calmly. The girls stare at me with round, wide eyes. “One of them ripped my Dad's head clean off. Blood was pouring out. Like from a faucet.”
“Grubitsch, I don't think —” Rosetta says.
“One of the demons had the body of a child,” I continue, unable to stop. “It had green skin and no eyes. Instead of hair, its head was covered with cockroaches.”
“That's enough!” Rosetta snaps. “You're terrifying the girls. I won't —”
“The cockroaches were alive. They were eating the demon's flesh. If I'd looked closely enough, I'm sure I'd have seen its brains.”
Rosetta storms off, Lisa and Laura in tow. Laura's crying.
I gaze sadly at the dead bird. Nightmares gather around me. Imagined demonic chuckles. The last thing I see in the real world — Mike marching towards me, torn between concern and fury.
The institute. Days — weeks? months? — later. Lots of questions.
“Why did you say that to the girls?”
“Do you want to hurt other people?”
“Are you angry? Sad? Scared?”
“Would you like to visit somebody else?”
I don't answer, or else I grunt in response. They don't understand. They can't. I didn't want to scare Lisa or Laura, or upset Mike and Rosetta. The words came out by themselves. The doctors can't help. If I had an ordinary illness, I'm sure they could fix me. But I've seen demons rip my world to pieces. Nobody believes that, so nobody knows what I'm going through. I'm alone. I always will be. That's my life now. That's just the way it is.
The relatives stop coming. The doctors stop trying. They say they're giving me time to recover, but I think they just don't know how to handle me. Long periods by myself, walking, reading, thinking. Tired most of the time. Headaches. Imaginary demons everywhere I look. Hard to keep food down. Growing thin. Sickly.
The nurses try to rally my spirits. Days out — a circus, amusement park, cinemas — and parties in my cell. No good. Their efforts are wasted on me. I draw into myself more and more. Hardly ever speak. Avoid eye contact. Fingers twitch and head twists with fear at the slightest alien sound.
Getting worse. Going downhill.
There's talk of new pills.
A visitor. It's been a long time since the last. I thought they'd given up.
It's Uncle Dervish. Dad's younger brother. I don't know much about him. A man of mystery. He visited us a few times when I was smaller. Mom never liked him. I recall her and Dad arguing about him once. “We're not taking the kids there!” she snapped. “I don't trust him.”
Leah admits Uncle Dervish. Asks if he'd like anything to drink or eat. “No, thanks.” Would I like anything? I shake my head. Leah leaves.
Dervish Grady is a thin, lanky man. Bald on top, grey hair at the sides, a tight grey beard. Pale blue eyes. I remember his eyes from when I was a kid. I thought they looked like my toy soldier's eyes. I asked him if he was in the army. He laughed.
He's dressed completely in denim — jeans, shirt, jacket. He looks ridiculous — Gret used to say denim looks dumb on anyone over the age of thirty. She was right.
Dervish sits in the visitor's chair and studies me with cool, serious eyes. He's immediately different from all who've come before. Whereas the other relatives were quick to start a false, cheerful conversation, or cry, or say how sorry they were, Dervish just sits and stares. That interests me, so I stare back, more alert than I've been in weeks.
“Hello,” I say after a full minute of silence.
Dervish nods in reply.
I try thinking of a follow-up line. Nothing comes to mind.
