Rarely Ever Isn't Never #1

 by Denisa Dobrovodová

This is an extract from 'Rarely Ever Isn't Never', a novel which explores the highs and lows of young womanhood, ruled by the chaos of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

It was exactly as she predicted. She had lost her mind. 

Lisa read the words out loud, her voice jumping from wall to wall. She hadn’t come up with much during the dedicated writing time. Georgia, listening, but mainly watching her, frowned.

“It shouldn’t be written in the third person, Miss Roberts. And-”

“Lisa.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. Maybe. Maybe not. But the energy, the energy was there.

“It shouldn’t be written in the third person, Lisa. And try present tense, please.”

Lisa took a deep breath, or a deep sigh, or something in between. 

“Try again.” It was an order. Therapy, as it turned out, was no joke. 

She bit her lip, always would when she was nervous, to make her feelings known, and turned her attention back to the sheet of paper resting on her lap.

“It's important that you really feel it.”

Oh, she felt it. She felt it alright. Her palms were sweating, fingers tingling, heart rate rising beyond its usual, rapid rhythm. Those two sentences took a lot out of her. 

She gazed at the clock behind Georgia’s head. Still more than twenty minutes to go. She couldn’t get out of it even if she tried. 

“It’ll do wonders for you, trust me,” she sounded exactly like a therapist would. Should. “And trust the process.”  

Lisa didn’t trust her. And she certainly didn’t trust the process. What kind of a lunatic would come up with something like that? It was torture. 

But Georgia was watching her, and she’d already paid for the session, and maybe, just maybe, this horrible exercise could actually help. She realised her jaw was clenched and consciously released it. That’s what her mediation app said to do. 

It is exactly as I predicted. I have-

She stopped, put the pen down, looked at Georgia with what she hoped was a silent plea. 

“Yes?”

She swallowed loudly. 

“I can’t… Not in the first…” Her voice faded by the end of the sentence, like a cheap sound effect. 

To Lisa’s surprise, Georgia nodded, appearing almost kind for a second. 

“Try it with you.”

“You? Like-”

“Like you’re talking to someone. Me. A friend of yours. Boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She was well aware that that fact was beside the point, and, feeling like the ultimate coward, picked up the pen again. 

It is exactly as you predicted. You have lost your mind.

She read it out loud, the same two sentences, the same violent response in her gut. 

“Better,” Georgia noted and smiled, “Now we need to get much more specific.”

The panic was rising in Lisa’s stomach. It was almost visceral. How much more specific was she supposed to get? She… I… You have gone mad. That was the ultimate fear. One of them, at least. 

“Specific?” She whimpered, but straightened her posture, for she pictured Magdelena, laughing at her, laughing at how pathetic she’d become.

“Yes, a specific fear, a specific diagnosis. And be as detailed as possible about how you find out. What does the room look like, smell like? What about the doctor? Is it a man or a woman? And how do you feel?”

Shit. 

She felt like shit. And the room was a small living room-turned-office in Georgia’s house, in the residential area on the outskirts of town. It was pretty cosy, actually, minimalistic, but somehow still warm, less British, more Scandi. Her eyes rested on the metal fireplace in the corner of the room. She wished there were a fire. Maybe improving the ambience would make this slightly more bearable. And Georgia was a woman in her early forties, dark-haired, almost pretty, but overall quite bland. 

“It seems that our hour is nearly up,” Georgia announced as if out of nowhere, and Lisa’s gaze returned to the clock. 

Holy fuck, it was. She must have spent over fifteen minutes on those two sentences. 

Pathetic. Weak. 

“So as homework-”

Surely, she wasn’t going to get homework from therapy. 

“ -I would like you to write a detailed story script. Around a page or so.”

A page or so??

“Choose a diagnosis that currently scares you the most, whether it is, as you have put it, losing your mind or something new that pops up, and really zoom in on the experience.”

Lisa nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. She felt a lump forming in her throat. 

Throat cancer. 

She took a sip of tea that was pretty much cold and thanked Georgia for her time. She stood up, adjusted her sweater and began the multi-step process of bundling up. It was freezing outside. Well, not freezing, above zero, actually. But it felt freezing, as the wind was making the air cooler, and so was their proximity to the sea.

Scarf. Coat. Hat. Gloves. Check. Check. Check. Check. 

“Great job today, Lisa.”

That was an obvious lie. Still, she smiled, nodded, thanked her again. 

Georgia walked her to the door and held it open for her. 

“Next week, we’ll go over your script together.”

Another nod. She was dying for a cigarette. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

“And then you’ll record it and listen to it at least ten times a day. Well, have a good rest of the week!”

And with that lovely reminder of what was to come, Lisa walked out of the house defeated, cursing herself for ever walking in.

……

It wasn’t getting any easier in the solitude of her bedroom. She tried writing on the desk, but it felt like taking an exam, so she moved to the bed and used her economics textbook as a miniature table. She’d been putting it off all week- doing quite literally anything but working on her story script. Also, what a retarded way to call it. The name promised entertainment, creativity. This… this was anything but. 

The room is smelly and beige and claustrophobic and the doctor is a sleazy middle-aged guy trying to flirt with you-

Saved by a text. Relieved she couldn’t continue, she reached for her phone and found a message from Gemma. 

GEMMA: HE is here!

Lisa’s heart began beating faster, differently than in the session. It was a nice faster, an exciting faster. But physiologically, probably quite simiala to receiving an actual diagnosis from the hypothetical Doctor Sleazy.

GEMMA:       GET HERE NOW. 

Lisa jumped up, rushed to the bathroom, checked herself in the mirror. She was looking quite good. A bit tired, maybe, but still attractive. Except for her hair, which was as flat and unremarkable as usual. 

Slavic fucking hair. Child’s hair. That’s how Magadalena always called it.

LISA:      Be right there. 

She worried it might look pathetic for her to just show up there, announced, on call, but if she carried herself with confidence, no one would suspect her. 

She returned to her bedroom/living room/study area, and plugged in the curling iron. Even on the best day, the curls would only last an hour or so (a couple of hours, if she were truly lucky). It seemed worth it, though, worth the effort, worth starting the doomsday clock on her hair, and so she began the slow, tedious process of hair curling.

GEMMA:      Hurry up, before they move somewhere else!!

She hated being rushed. It was its own kind of inferno. 

Managing to finish the whole thing without burning herself, she looked at the fruits of her labour in a pocket mirror. It wasn’t bad. 

And then she burned herself. 

“Fuck's sake. Every fucking time,” she muttered. 

She unplugged the curling iron and made her way to the sink, thrusting her hand into a stream of cold water. It hurt like hell, burned and tingled, but pain never really bothered her that much. Pain, she could handle. 

“Put some mustard on it,” Magdalena would say, and as crazy as it sounded, it also always worked. They must not have had cooling hand creams during Socialism. Mustard, as it turned out, was the next best thing. “I don’t keep mustard in my room, Mum,” she would note and wait for a response along the lines of: “Big mistake,” or “Your life would be so much easier if only you listened to your mother.”

It was still burning when she threw on her lucky outfit, a little black dress that could be dressed up or down depending on the shoes. She wore her black knee-high boots, leather ones, with a little block heel, and threw on a large black coat, sort of vintage looking and chic. No hat. A hat would ruin her carefully crafted waves far before the clock struck midnight. She was gonna freeze. 

“Beauty hurts, Eliza. Beauty hurts,” Magdelana would announce in that profound tone of hers, and John would give her the disappointed “don’t tell her that” look that she so easily ignored when they were together, and even more so after they split. After she split. 

Her handbag packed, her makeup touched up, her hair still on point, she took a last look in the mirror, grabbed the key and rushed out the door. 

She made it all the way downstairs, lit a cigarette, and almost dialled the number for the taxi company. Small town, no Ubers. 

You didn’t turn it off. 

She did turn it off. She remembered turning it off. It was just before she burned her hand. Or was it after? 

You didn’t. 

The cigarette was burning her throat, they only had reds at the store last time. It was good burning, though. Refreshing. 

The hall will burn down, and it’ll all be your fault. 

She called the number. 

Go back.

It rang. She hung up right when a strongly accented voice picked up. 

Go back before it’s too late.

She put out the cigarette, turned on her heel.

So close. 

She was so close. 

……

GEMMA:      Where the fuck are you???

She got the text when she was sitting on the ground in the corridor, on that filthy carpet by her door. She’d entered and left four times. And every time, the curling iron was unplugged and cooled off.

Was it? 

She tested it with her burnt hand, and with the other one, too. The last time she checked, it seemed promising. She made it out of the door. She made it to the corridor. But she couldn’t find it in herself to make it down the stairs, outside of the hall. It was too risky. She commanded herself to get moving, and she did. She stood up defiantly, grabbed her things, and… and sat back down. She should have never fucked with curling her hair in the first place. 

GEMMA:      ???? 

                                    They’re heading out!!

She could feel the tears coming. Not of sadness. Of frustration. 

If you leave, everyone will die. 

LISA:      Got caught up. So sorry. 

She could still make it. Who cares if he’s around or not? She needed a drink. She needed to let loose. She returned to the room, checked the curling iron. Still unplugged. 

But is it? 

Was it? 

She called Mary on WhatsApp. Video call. She picked up after a few rings.

“Hey!! What’s up?” She seemed genuinely happy to hear from her. Not for long, Lisa guessed. 

She smiled into the camera, nodded to say hello. 

“What’s up?” Mary asked again, but in a vastly different tone. She knew. Always did.

“I’m supposed to be at the pub…,” her shame rising as she heard herself say it out loud, “but the curling iron-”

Fucking coward. 

“Show me.” Sometimes, Mary’s kindness still astonished her. She brought the camera over, pointed at the curling iron.

Pathetic piece of shit. 

“It’s unplugged.”

“Are you-”

“Am I sure? Yes, I’m sure.”

Lisa nodded. The pit in her stomach wasn’t leaving. Still. 

“Send me a picture. And get out of the room.” 

Lisa nodded again. That seemed like a good deal. Sensible. 

She’s not here. How can she know? 

She hung up, snapped a picture, glanced at herself in the mirror on her way out. Her hair was falling down her shoulders, straight as straw. 

……

She was waiting for the taxi when Gemma messaged again. 

GEMMA:      Heading home now. Sorry to have missed you xx

It was cold and late, and the pubs would start closing soon. And she still hadn’t finished her story script.

Mary isn’t here. Mary doesn’t know. 

The taxi came, and she got in. 

“Where to?” The driver asked, or might have asked. Lisa wasn’t sure. The Scottish accents of the old ones were so strong that sometimes she had to wing it. 

“Holy Arms.” 

She made it just in time for the last call. She ordered three gin and tonics. No one questioned it, and she didn’t care enough to explain. 

Balancing with the drinks in her hands, she took a lonely spot in the back of the pub, away from students, away from anyone she might know. She drank the first one and cursed herself for having ordered gin. She wasn’t a big fan, but it was a cheap drink, cheap and effective. She slurped the whole thing through a soggy paper straw and pulled out the notes app on her phone:

You leave the room. You’re excited. You’re in a rush. You forget to check if the curling iron is on. It’s on. You hear the screams before spotting the flames. They are jumping out of windows, trying desperately to get out. Some of them, the studious ones, the ones who have their shit together, are still asleep. Burning. Burning alive. You can smell it. The skin and the hair. It’s overwhelming. It’s all your fault. All because you wanted to look pretty for an hour. All because of your stupid, child-like hair. You’re irresponsible, neglectful and you just killed them all.