Valerie

II: Em

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I thought I'd continue it, as many of you seem to like it. Chapter two.

II: Em

I'm standing outside the Helios Hospital. Through the large frosted glass doors I can just about make out the lobby. The white tiles that pave the floor are gleaming, and the bright white walls are spotless. Even the neat rows of plastic chairs are eye-wateringly clean. I don't like hospitals. They make me anxious and jittery. But I have to go in there. For my own sake, if not for Valerie's. I take a deep breath and push open the doors.

The sickly lavender air freshener barely disguises the strong stink in disinfectant. I wonder what the disinfectant is disguising. 

The brunette receptionist finished tapping away at her keyboard, and looks unsmilingly down at me. There's a cup of half-concealed black coffee sitting by her computer. The sight of it makes me feel faintly nauseous. I grimace, and muster my strength. I give Valerie's name and the receptionist nods, and points me in the right direction. I thank her, and make my way down the endless maze of clean white corridors. The doors are coloured, and some of the doors are labelled with patients names. Others lead to communal wards. Valerie has her own room. The door is painted royal blue, and someone's written out her name, Valerie Argyll, in straight, rounded letters. 

Through the little glass window cut in it, I can see her mother preparing to leave. I take a few moments to ready myself. Mrs. Argyll sees me as she leaves, and gives me a tight smile. Her face is make-up free and greying ginger hair is pulled straight back. I can't tell for sure, but I think she's been crying.

"Val?" 

I enter the room timidly. Valerie's sitting upright on her bed. Her dark green eyes are vacant and melancholy. She doesn't bother to look up, but smiles vaguely when I sit by her. I hand her a sheath of postcards I bought in the Tate National shop on my way here. She likes looking at paintings. We used to go around art galleries during the holidays. Normally she was silent, but occasionally she would tell me about the people and scenes in the paintings. She liked the idea of a story hiding behind the canvas. 

I bought her couple of ocean landscape's by Turner and I few others I thought she might like. There's one of tall, imperious lady with very long coppery hair, a bit like Valerie's, placing a crown on her head. On the back it says that it is Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth. I think she's a character in a Shakespearean play, but that doesn't matter either way. I don't think Val's seen any Shakespeare, and she definitely hasn't read any. Out of the other three, two are based upon the Arthurian legends. One is called The Sleep of King Arthur at Avalon and the other is Tintagel Castle which I vaguely remember being told was the fabled birth place of King Arthur. The other one is entitled Ophelia. It depicts a woman, floating face up in a river or pond. Her long grey skirts blend in with the water and pondweed. The more you look at it, the more you begin to wonder - is she really dead? 

Valerie looks through them wordlessly, studying each one a long time. Then she lays them aside. Her eyes focus on me, wide and vulnerable. 

"How long have you been here?" I ask, although I know the answer.

She shrugs in her usual, nonchalant way.

"A day or two. I don't..." Her words are slightly slurred, her manner effortlessly off hand. "...remember."

She's been here for a week.

"And have they been, y'know, talking to you?"

"Yes." Her gaze suddenly intensifies, and her eyes appear brighter, more alive. "The doctors here, they say I have to ignore them. Some days I can, but sometimes their stronger than me. I give in to them. They tell me that I can't trust anyone. They criticise me for my weakness. They say I need to be stronger. It's almost like they want me not too listen. But by not listening I'm obeying them. I don't understand it." She looks at me almost pleadingly, cat-like eyes imploring me to supply an explanation. 

I nod sympathetically. I don't know what else to do.

"You don't need to do as they say, Val. But you don't need to ignore them. You need to fight them. That way you defeat them."

Her focus slips, and she assumes a vacant expression, which quickly changes to one of alarm.

"I shouldn't have told you that." She begins to tremble all over. I lay a hand on her shoulder. She shakes it off angrily. "Your one of them. Your trying to destroy me, destroy everything that I know." Then she starts to cry silently, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispers, again and again.

She isn't talking to me. 

"Val," I say softly. There are tears flooding my own eyes, but I blink them back. How can Valerie recover if everyone around her breaks down too? "Val, listen to me. Please?"

But she won't. I sit back helplessly, and watch as she repeats sorry like a broken record. She is broken, hopelessly and utterly. I can see now what her father meant when he informed me stiffly over the phone that her condition had "worsened".

I am truly relieved by the soft, yet firm, knock at the door. A short women, with piercing blue eyes, enters, carrying a red, spiral-bound notebook. I can see pity in her face, as she introduces herself as Dr. Joanne Bertrand, and asks gently if she might talk to Valerie for a while. I agree, and ask her if I should leave.

"That won't be necessary," she tells me, "Unless of course you'd rather not sit through the session. Are you Emma?"

I nod.

"Em." I correct her.

"She talked about you. Just once. It was the only time I've managed to get her to discuss something outside of her own mind. Not that she can tell the difference." She smiles sadly. "I wonder if I could have a word with you afterwards."

I say yes, and leave the room, because I need a few minutes alone compose myself. I sit with my back against the spotless white wall, my knees drawn up to my chin, and cry. Several people stop to ask if I'm okay. They don't seem surprised when I tell them its my friend. This is a hospital after  all. One elderly cleaning lady even gives me a Cleanex. I thank her, but even the tissue smells of disinfectant. It makes me cry even more.