XLIII | Someone Like Her
❦
Tammie’s still dancing
when I peek
into the studio.
Music’s playing
from a few CD players
at once.
The melodies
of the songs
jumbled up
sounds vaguely familiar.
I don’t go inside though,
I’m not welcome
during practices.
I stand outside, leaning against the wall,
listening to her breathe.
The lyrics
of multiple songs
overlap
like the orchestral version
of something epic.
Or just bad vaporwave.
Someone I loved
had once been obsessed
over vaporwave music.
I
hated it.
The familiar unfamiliarity—
disconcerting.
I’m smiling.
Why am I smiling?
Tammie
sighs in frustration
on the other side of the wall.
A deep breath.
The sound of flesh and metal.
My smile
grows bigger.
So does
my fear of losing her.
I can’t help it.
On the way
to the greenhouse,
I pass by
the storage room.
Stacks of black canvases,
paints and brushes,
an easel with (half-completed?) abstract art.
Art supplies
are haphazardly
stuffed
into messy cubbyholes.
I recognise
the half-completed painting,
and the strokes of paint
came later.
A white blankness
comes to mind.
Along with a name
that’s beginning to fade:
Fa…Faith?
No.
It’s a Malay name.
Fatima.
Something happened here
in this storage room.
I was watching
when it happened.
I stare
at the blank linoleum floor,
concrete grey walls,
I smell the wood and paint.
Tammie told me
I painted pictures for her
before.
Nothing else
comes to mind.
It’s just…
a storage room
that many patients
would have taken things out of.
The important thing now,
is to make sure
Tammie’s not the one
getting removed.
❦
The greenhouse door
is open
when I reach it.
I wanted
to be alone.
But Krishna’s
probably gardening
inside.
She’s noisy.
I don’t want to talk to her.
I turn
to go back
downstairs.
And I see the flash of white.
Nurses.
Two of them.
Not Krishna then.
I step forward
and close the door
behind me.
The new patient
is staring up
at the two rowan trees
through her curtain
of hair.
She doesn’t
move
even a finger
for a long time.
What are you looking at?
I ask.
It’s like talking to stone.
I think she doesn’t hear me
but I wait for an answer.
It doesn’t come
until
I’m about to leave.
Rowan trees can’t grow
in Singapore.
She turns her head.
I see one eye
through her veil of hair.
It’s green—
like a cat’s.
You wear contacts?
She shakes her head.
Her hair shudders
like tree leaves in the wind.
Are you hallucinating me?
Or am I hallucinating you?
I blink.
What?
She looks down
at her bare feet.
Her eye retreats into her hair.
‘I’m Fiona,’ I tell her.
I lean forward
and whisper into her ear,
‘If you talk about hallucinations,
‘they’ll make you take more medicine.’
I hear her giggle
inside her hair.
Her laugh sounds like Tammie’s.
My favourite colour is green.
I like trees.
Even the way
she introduces herself
is like Tammie.
She’s more relaxed
than yesterday
if she’s saying this much.
The greenhouse
with its controlled temperature
and bright sunlight
is probably
(like Tammie)
her favourite place
in the asylum.
Tired by our conversation,
she turns
and walks towards the nurses.
She hesitates,
glancing at me
with one green eye.
Like someone just told her
ending a conversation like this
is rude.
I just wave
good-bye—
we can talk later.
I’m okay.
The nurses follow her out
and I notice
her legs
have splotches of bruises.
She walks
with a slight limp,
exactly like Tammie.
The door clicks shut
but she stays there,
outside the greenhouse,
staring
through the glass
at me.
What’s up with her?
The door swings open again
and she’s walking
back
this way.
I take a deep breath,
No—
it’s not Zuraida
coming this way.
I blink
to make sure.
Tammie smiles
apologetically
and picks up her pace.
Only now
do I notice the stench of vomit
that always accompanies her.
❦
