Part 3

Lately, one question kept circling her tired mind: Who looks after the nurses? Does anyone really want to look after people?

Jane entered the room to find Paul as usual – shaking, on the verge of a psychotic episode.

It was a room like all the others. A single bed, no sheets – patients weren’t trusted with them; they could be strung together and used for self-harm. Cold white tiles, easy to clean. And, of course, the leather wrist and ankle restraints on the sides of the bed for episodes like this.

Paul had been in and out of the facility for years. His family kept sending him back, but from what Jane could gather, they never actually asked him why. Much like her family had never asked her about anything either. Sometimes people don’t want to know uncomfortable truths. They just become secrets that everyone already knows.

Two orderlies had Paul pinned to the bed. He was thrashing, eyes wild with terror.

The therapist was already there, perched on the edge of the bed, with the air of a man who felt he belonged there. He’d done a degree in philosophy and psychology, she’d heard – a mediocre mind, ill-equipped for work that really called for a trained psychiatrist.

He lectured part-time when he wasn’t here. She assumed he was just as condescending with his students as he was with the patients. He had all the traits – the greying beard and the elbow patches she suspected weren’t strictly needed but added a bit of gravitas. There were probably students, early twenties, who found this impressive. Who thought this man highly intelligent. Charming, even. Who thought he could promise them a better life and fulfil the dreams they’d carried since they first read a fairy tale with a happy ending. Probably the same way she’d once thought of her husband, when she first arrived in England carrying her own.

She sat and watched his expression of practiced, unfelt empathy. She imagined his family, proud of his achievements, paying his way through university. She could see how proud he was of himself, and it infuriated her. It showed in every interaction he had, with staff and patients alike.

“He’s in the corner!” Paul screamed. “He’s always been there – since I was a kid! Get him away from me!”

Jane approached slowly, syringe already prepared in her hand.

“Alright, Paul,” she said gently.

She stood in the corner, waiting for instruction, as she always did. Despite technically being in charge of the room, she always waited to be told – the way she’d been taught to, at home.

She had always felt for Paul. She didn’t know what the ghost in his corner was. Neither did the staff. She understood, though, that he could probably never explain it – and wouldn’t want to, even if he could.

The therapists had asked him many times. But she understood, better than most, that some things you can’t describe. Or don’t want to say.

Her sister knew the same thing. Some things you don’t talk about. But the ghosts are always there. No matter how hard you try to get them out.

“Paul,” the therapist said smoothly, “we’re going to give you something to help you calm down. Can you tell me who you see?”

“I told you,” Paul sobbed. “The man who hurt me, years ago. He’s right there. He’s still here. He never left.”

The therapist gave a practiced sigh. “You know we can’t help unless you calm down. Jane’s going to give you something now. There’s no one there.”

Jane followed Paul’s gaze to the empty corner.