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Dervish looks slowly around the room. Stands, walks to the window, gazes out at the rear yard of the institute, then swings back to the door, which Leah left ajar. He pokes his head out, looks left and right. Closes the door. Returns to the chair and sits. Unbuttons the top of his denim jacket. Slides out three sheets of paper. Holds them facedown.
I sit upright, intrigued but suspicious. Is this some new ploy of the doctors? Have they fed Dervish a fresh set of lines and actions, in an attempt to spark my revival?
“I hope this isn't a Rorschach test.” I grin weakly. “I've had enough
inkblots to last me a —”
Dervish turns a sheet over and I stop dead. It's a black-and-white drawing of a large dog with a crocodile's head and human hands.
“Vein,” Dervish says. He has a soft, lyrical voice.
I tremble and say nothing in reply.
He turns over the second sheet. Color this time. A child with green skin. Mouths in its palms. Fire in its eyes. Lice for hair.
“Artery,” Dervish says.
“You got the hair wrong,” I mumble. “It should be cockroaches.”
“Lice, cockroaches, leeches — it changes,” he says, and lays the two sheets down on the floor. He turns over the third. This one's color too. A thin man, lumpy red skin, large red eyes, mangled hands, no feet, a snake-filled hole where his heart should be.
“The doctors put you up to this,” I moan, averting my eyes. “I told them about the demons. They must have got artists to draw them. Why are you —”
“You didn't tell them his name,” Dervish cuts me short. He taps the picture. “You said the other two were familiars, and this one was their master — but you never mentioned his name. Do you know it?”
I think back to those few minutes of insanity in my parents' bedroom. The demon lord didn't say much. Never told me who he was. I open my mouth to answer negatively …
… then slowly let it close. No — he did reveal his identity. I can't remember when, exactly, but somewhere among the madness there was mention of it. I cast my thoughts back. Zone in on the moment. It was when he asked if I knew why this was happening, if my parents had ever told me the story of —
“Lord Loss,” Dervish says, a split second before I blurt it out.
I stare at him … uncertain … terrified … yet somehow excited.
“I know the demons were real,” Dervish murmurs, picking up the pictures and placing them back inside his jacket, doing up his buttons. He stands. “If you want to come live with me, you can. But you'll have to sort out the mess you're in first. The doctors say you won't respond to their questions. They say they know how to help you, but that you won't let them.”
“They don't believe me!” I cry. “How can they cure me when they think I'm lying about the demons?”
“The world's a confusing place,” Dervish says. “I'm sure your parents told you to always tell the truth, and most of the time that's good advice. But sometimes you have to lie.” He comes over and bends, so his face is in mine. “These people want to help you, Grubitsch. And I believe they can. But you're going to have to help them. You'll have to lie, pretend demons don't exist, tell them what they want to hear. You have to give a little to get a little. Once you remove that barrier, they can go to work on fixing your brain, on helping you deal with the grief. Then, when they've done all they can, you can come to me — if that's what you want — and I'll help you with the rest. I can explain about demons. And tell you why your parents and sister died.”
He leaves.
Stunned silence. Long days and nights of heavy thinking. Repeating the name of the thin red demon. Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord Loss, Lord …
Torn between hope and fear. Could Dervish be in league with the demons? Mom saying, “I don't trust him.” I'm safe here. Leaving might be an invitation to danger and further sorrow. I won't improve in this place, holding true to my story, defying the doctors and nurses — but I can't be harmed either. Out in the real world, I might have to face demons again. Simpler to stay here and hide.
One morning I wake from a nightmare. In it, I was at a party, wearing a mask. When I took the mask off, I realized I'd been wearing Gret's face.
Sitting up in bed. Shaking. Crying. I stare out the window at the world beyond.
I decide.
Exercising. Eating sensibly. Putting on weight. Talking directly with my doctors and nurses, answering their questions, letting them into my head, “baring my soul.” I allow them to help me. I work with them. Lie when I have to. Say I saw humans in the room that night. Police come and take my statement. An artist captures my new, realistic, invented impressions of the murderers. My doctors beam proudly and pat my back.
Weeks pass. With help and lots of hard work, I get better. Dervish was right. Now that I'm working with them, they are able to help me, even if we're progressing on the basis of a lie — that demons aren't real. I weep a lot and learn a lot — how to face my grief, how to confront my fear and control it — and let them guide me out of the darkness, slowly, painfully, but surely.
In one afternoon session with a therapist, when I judge the time to be right, I make a request. Lots of discussions afterwards. Long debates. Staff meetings. Phone calls. Humming and hawing. Finally they agree. There's a big build-up. Lots of in-depth therapy sessions and heart-to-hearts. Tests galore, to make sure I'm ready, to reassure themselves that they're doing the right thing. They have doubts. They voice them. We talk them through. They decide in my favor.
The last day. Handshakes and emergency contact numbers from the doctors in case anything goes wrong. Kisses and hugs from my favorite nurses. A card from Leah. Facing the door, a bag on my shoulder with all I have left in the world. Scared sick but determined to see it through.
