A Feasible Lifeline
A Feasible Lifeline By Stella Goppert-Cole
The air in the room shifts and the terse browns and oranges of the grubby lounge room lay charged with energy.
I look before me at the haggard, heaving frame of my father. His bursting gut strains itself against his grimy, plaid shirt. The peeling linoleum he stands on howls with each stiff step he takes toward me.
I feel my breathing stall as his face flushes a dark, crimson red. His ruddy, mud eyes leer at me and his mouth turns up into a snarl. He’s doing it again.
A snake of a tongue flicks out against his swollen lips before his dance begins. He tenses himself as his voice whips out like a lash. I feel its stark intensity reverberate and strike hot against my skin.
“Cass put that down!”, he booms, his voice catching on its faux waver. This constructed alarm springs tears to my eyes and my vision begins to swim.
“Sweetheart”, he starts again, furling his slimy lips into a pout, “You’re scaring me…”. He continues to step forward, his hands outstretched now as he closes the distance between us in the dingy kitchen, pressing me closer and closer to the wall.
“Hmmm, let me guess… You don’t agree”?! The whites of his eyes bulge as he hunches lower into himself. His tone is mocking and cruel, a slow drawl.
His chest heaves and I choke out a nervous laugh.
“Dad please-”
“ENOUGH!!” he barks, his face flushed and temple pulsing.
Suddenly his voice is cold and a cruel smile cuts across his reddish cheeks.
“You made me do this honey..” he drawls, his shoulders beginning to twitch as his bug eyes dart to the landline.
His right-hand darts out and I launch forward.
“Dad, don't! Come on, I can't do this with you again- I won’t!” I cry, tears streaming down my face as my feet curl beneath me on the peeling lino, barely keeping me upright.
The receiver’s in his hands but I have the cord wrapped around my purpling fingers. I choke back a sob as his smile grows. He heaves the receiver upwards and my front foot shifts and I feel my limbs contort as I smack into the ground.
I feebly attempt to nurse my foot as I hear the dial tone. I’m going back.
*
The room is blaring and cold, a blazing white. Bleary-eyed, I squint against the piercing fluorescent lights as they swallow up the room. On my hand lies a limp buckle of a hospital bracelet, my thin, spidery wrist something to contain.
The curtain to my left opens with a laboured squeak and before me stands a shrunken, older woman- her face rutted with deep lines. Her beady orbs zero in on my small frame, cold and exposed under the harsh lighting.
Her eyes appraise me cruelly, but with disinterest. She leafs apathetically through a stack of papers clipped tersely to her clipboard. We are introduced, but I know as soon as her callous steps leave the room she has forgotten everything about me.
Only a few moments have passed when a strangled mewling, sounds from the room over, like the sound of a small child, trying to bury a cry. With trepidation, I gently raise myself into a sitting position, tensing my limbs as I edge over the bed. My head throbs and I worry at how long I was out for.
The hallway is glistening and empty when I reach it, and its desolation claws at my exposed limbs, tearing past the flimsy, patterned gown that engulfs me.
The sound is growing more muffled now, but I’m still able to follow it- just barely. It leads me to a room a few down from mine, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the rank smell of piss and all things foul. I shuffle forward and hunched under a swirl of ratty blankets lies a small figure. Their hair is tousled and grimy, and I can’t be sure if they're breathing.
My pale fingers slowly reach out to the unmoving lump before me. I prod at the scratchy cotton with my finger, and with a start, a boy with flaming eyes whips around to face me.
“Fuck, I didn’t- ”, I gasp out, trying to control my breath. It’s not working and I can feel my body begin to sway where I stand.
His gaze burns into me, his eyes striking against his gaunt cheeks. It looks like he hasn’t eaten or left this biting, dark room for a long time.
“What the fuck are you doing in my room?”, he demands, and I now see that he too is taking hasty, shallow breaths.
My tongue knots and my shaking hand raises itself to soothe my now pounding head.
“I- I’m sorry I heard this thing and it doesn’t matter, I’m gonna go”, I fluster.
“Hey- my bad”, he amends before making an awkward attempt to sit up. All the while his bitten nails dig crescents into my wrist. I realise the reason he’s unable to fully right himself when I spot a grim-looking purplish bruise poking out from the gown near his left collarbone.
He peers up at me now and has let go of my hand. His sickly skin is tinged yellow from bruising and what I assume to be lack of sunlight. His body seems to be in constant conflict with itself as he sits taut and poised, screwing up his face as he tries to shift his shoulders fully down, but to no avail.
“How’d you get that?”, I squeak out.
He furrows his brows and regards me coolly.
“How’d you get THAT?”, he returns, jerkily pointing towards my forehead.
I reach my hand upwards again and carefully touch the spot. The skin is inflamed to the touch. I can’t recall how it got there aside from the lone figure in blue that visited me as I lapsed in and out of consciousness last night.
“I’m Cam. Cameron”, he nods towards me, shooting me a small, strained smile.
“Cass”, I reply and jerk a finger towards myself.
“Do you know how long you’ve been here?” I ask him, my eyes skimming the room around us.
“Lost count”, he replies shortly, feigning casualty as he shrugs to himself. I know better.
My eyes linger on the flaming purple bruise and his face twinges with discomfort.
“Look, we’re all bruised here. Even the nurses, so lay off alright?”
When I don’t respond, he continues “Fuck you can’t look at people like that in here”.
What did he mean by the nurses were bruised too? Where did dad send me this time?
“Sorry. You’re totally right, that was stupid of me.”
I fumble with the hem of my dress and pick at a piece of loose string, not meeting Cam’s eyes.
A dark spat of laughter sounds from down the hallway and two pairs of heels stalk towards us. Alarmed, I shoot a quick look to Cameron before ducking back out into the hall. Luckily, the matrons had paused by the water station, and as my feet crossed the boundary line, I could hear the spooling of water reverberate. Safe again within the confines of the blazing white room, I carefully peel back the stiff sheets and tuck myself in.
I have to leave this place, and I think Cam can help me.
*
I sit limply in a small chair, hardened red jelly crinkled between the cup in my hands. My shoulders lay hunched and my bare limbs flush with an embittered cold.
I look up to the sound of footsteps. Cam. He had been joining me in the dingy rec room for a few days now, sitting contentedly in silence while he jabbed at the unrelenting jelly in his cup. The silence was contemplative and soothing, and it made me feel real. Just like the times when me and mum would sit, basking in the dull glow of the TV together. Battered and decrepit, she was wheeled away, just like the old TV set. Now all that remains is the blood roaring in my ears and the stark tearing of metal through gelatin.
“Hey”, he starts, his voice low and rasped from minimal use.
I flick my eyes to him, apathetic and tired. Dad usually caved by now and hauled me home. But not this time.
“What?”, I ask softly, trying to conserve energy for remembering better days. For remembering her.
“We should do it tonight”, he spits to his shoes below.
I steadily pull myself out of the chair and before stopping, drawn to the alluring bracken and chaos of the bush framed through the barred window. I cross my arms, seemingly holding myself together. For a week now I'd been straining against myself- muscles tensed to breaking in each swelling moment. Looking at this bush this way, something spoke- something deep inside myself. And for the first time in a while, I decided to listen.
I spin around to face him, a flurry of scratched material.
“You mean… leave this place? Escape?”, I demand.
There is a tangible charge to the air now as I hunch back down in the chair, curling my legs up tight to my chest, my lips split as a wide smile draws against my lips.
“Yeah. I have people I need to-”, he chokes out, his eyes pricking with tears. He hurriedly turns away from me but I place my scarred hand in his.
“I understand”, I whisper. Words seemed all too crass and the moment demanded the reverence of quiet strain.
I look at him imploringly, “Who is he?” I encroach, hesitant but wanting to do help. Anything to help this boy, his face flushed and wet beside me.
A sad smile appears in the folds of his screwed lips and with a sniffle, he leans down, grasping at a small picture wedged in his sock.
A small dry laugh sounds and I look up at him with a start. I’ve never seen him smile so, his whole face aglow under the grimy tears that streak his reddened cheeks.
“Jasper”, he manages, his voice beginning to break.
The picture, now unfolded, shows a dimpled boy with brown curls baring his teeth to the camera, as he lunges for the person behind it.
“He’s lovely”, I say, a small smile appearing on my face. It feels strange to sit in this horrid place and fondly reminisce. Not in this place of pallid bruises, of screaming and snapping tired nurses. Not here in this rec room of gloom, a frazzled TV stuck in static, drooping patients muttering to themselves in corners.
“Is he why you’re here?”, I ask softly, stroking his back as he places a heavy head on my shoulder.
All he can do is nod.
“We were caught and you- you should have seen how my father looked at me-”, he’s unable to finish.
“You want to know that he’s ok- Jasper, I mean”, I finish for him.
“I’m tougher than he is, and to think that he might also be in a place like this I-” a sob wracks through his body, forcing him forward.
“I just couldn’t bear it-“, he finishes, solemnly, worn out from crying.
“I don’t have anyone like Jasper”, I mutter softly, “Only mum and I haven't seen her since- ''.
He looks at me, and all the unsaid words hang between us. We understand each other.
Tonight’s the night. It simply has to be.
*
We plan to meet in the rec room after the first round of bed checks has begun. From there, the plan is simple, if vague but I don’t allow my anxious mind to wallow and swirl in those thoughts.
The small seedy TV perched overhead tells me it’s 8:58 pm. It’s time.
I creep stealthily to the door and peer into the corridor. Its gleaming plane weeps under the dingy lights, seemingly cascading for miles and miles in every direction.
Steadily, I pace the cold floors, and goose-bumps prick my arms. My mind is beginning to whir again. Flashes of the tall wrought-iron fences, looming and sombre flash by, coupled with darting visions of the watchful, stern brick of the building. Now I’ve arrived and in the dimness of the room, I see Cam shuffling anxiously by the window.
Cam had made himself sick at lunch to gain access to the sick bay, which was right next to the nurse’s main office. He told me he’d been placed there before, locked in the shabby little room with a sink and a bed for 4 days due to ‘bad behaviour’. In reality, the nurses had been so understaffed that week, that was the only way they could keep an eye on the more prominent cases in the ward, the more ‘extreme’ or complex.
While he was there, he was able to view the working schedule for the week and was intrigued when he saw fervent, scratchings of pen circling today. June 19th. This puzzled him. However, as he pored over the schedule he told me heard footsteps approaching, which caused him to retreat to the bed and screw his eyes shut. Two strained nurses had entered- one in tears.
“Christie’s refusing to come in. Her panic attacks have come back again”, one had moaned.
“Does that mean the cow’s not coming in for her shift this week? She can’t keep doing that”, the other had snarled.
Thus, we figured, whoever was stationed tonight by the gate in the scant metal hut, would not only be mighty pissed off, but out of their mind with fatigue. Christie, according to rumours, was not the only one refusing to come in, leaving the rancorous staff with no choice but to drown their sorrows each night and during multiple intervals during the day. The healthcare system had deserted them, much like our parents had deserted us. We were too much for them, our parents, or not enough. Me and Cam were still trying to figure that one out.
After racing the rest of the way to the delivery entrance at the side, we made our way into the stinging night air. The gate was only a few metres away now and curled up in the metal box, a small reddish head of hair could be seen. Sure enough, as we crept closer we saw the deeply grooved face of Mrs Halsey, cradling a bottle of spirits close to her breast. At this, Cam couldn’t help but chuckle, causing me to elbow him harshly.
“Fuck Cass”, he swore, careful to keep his voice below a whisper.
“Cmon, it’s not safe to hang around”, I replied- hastily pulling him forward toward the foot of the looming iron fence.
“Alright, should be simple enough”, he remarked, blowing into his hands to warm them up. He proceeded to crouch down on his hands and knees, jerking his head back to motion for me to climb up on top of him.
Shakily I placed the weight of my right foot on his back, reaching out for the desolate, black iron. The damp, sweet tang of the bush called us forward, the pungency of its smell a feasible lifeline, pulling the rest of our small frames up and over the fence.
After safely reaching the other side, our feet dropped into the cracked and dry bracken, and our bodies felt charged with possibility. We were free. Over the din of the roaring cicadas and scuffling of possums in the dark nest of the bush, the night embraced us. Scrawny gums swayed gently as we passed, slowly trekking further and further from the mania and retention of Klora Institute. I reach for Cam’s hand now as he shoots me a soft smile. Both of us have tears in our eyes. Mum. Jasper. We will see you soon. The bush will lead us to you.
Rationale for ‘A Feasible Lifelife’ By Stella Goppert-Cole
The purpose of my gothic text ‘A Feasible Lifeline’ (2022) was to provide a social commentary on the continued experiences of patriarchal oppression faced by minority social groups, with an emphasis on the experiences of female and queer oppression. My text was interested in exploring how these oppressive systems intersect with institutions such as mental health facilities, particularly if the patient has not consented to be institutionalised. This connection to the genre is examined through the text’s exploration of how even in a supposed ‘post-feminist’ world, members of the queer community and women (particularly those poorer women and queer people of colour) are still subject to disenfranchisement that stems from patriarchal control. This strongly correlates to the gothic genre’s desire to explore the social anxieties of respective social contexts. In my text, this is evident in how Cass and Cam were both institutionalised as a means of social control exercised by their fathers. Moreover, the text’s investigation of the decimated healthcare system within Australia through the emphasis on staffing shortages and worker fatigue, and his failure manifesting as a plot device that allows the protagonists to escape, cruelly emphasises the impact of this contemporary political issue. Furthermore, with my text, I wish to elevate and contribute to the discussions about the perseverance of oppressive social control in contemporary contexts. However, through this analysis of contemporary social anxieties, I want to thematically convey the importance of resilience and community in the face of oppression.
Within my text, I employed many gothic conventions in my use of setting, through the implementation of traditional gothic imagery. For example, I reference Victorian Gothic imagery in my use of “barred windows” and “wrought-iron fences”, set against the more gritty, darkened and stark bush setting that is traditional of Australian Gothic. As well as gothic imagery, my text uses juxtaposition within the blazing and clinical white light of the hospital to the ‘alluring bracken’ of the bush. This was emphasised in order to subvert the more traditional ‘fear of the unknown’ convention in gothic, and for the known to be feared. This was conveyed through the violence of the nurses, and the horrible conditions of the institution, contrasting to “the damp, sweet tang of the bush… the pungency of its smell, a feasible lifeline” (Goppert-Cole, 2022, p.6). Furthermore, the problematic trope prevalent within Australian Gothic in this idea of the “missing white child” or the framing of the bush to be this predatory and ominous setting more broadly, is subverted and found to be a place of salvation in the ending of the text for both the main protagonists (Romenksy,, et al., 2017). This is evident in the elation they experience at being in the bush, this place of safety after they escape: “...our feet dropped into the cracked and dry bracken, and our bodies felt charged with possibility. We were free. Over the din of the roaring cicadas and scuffling of possums in the dark nest of the bush, the night embraced us” (Goppert-Cole, 2022, p.6). This is impactful because the effect of these subversions is jarring and demands that our post-colonial relationship with the bush, and the fear of all its ‘mysticism’ in our gothic texts, be re-evaluated.
However, these subversions are strengthened by the traditional gothic conventions they coincide with. For example, the text follows the conventions of having the text centred in both an isolated and decaying setting. This isolation is evident in how the Klora Institute is positioned right next to the encroaching bush, whereas the decay exists in regard to the healthcare system. This decay is evidenced in the staff shortages and worker fatigue that culminates in an inability to protect their vulnerable charges. Thus, this idea of decay being an integral gothic convention manifests in the plot of how the protagonists escape. Additionally, these wardens are evidenced to have beat their patients, as well as sustaining bruises themselves. This infers the abusive and toxic environment is all-consuming, and no one is safe from it. All these elements relate to traditional conventions of the gothic genre, particularly the violence and grotesque nature of Southern Gothic, and serve to ground the reader in the genre when other elements are subverted.
My text has drawn thematic and visual influences from a range of texts. For example, the idea of exploring isolated and institutionalized women and other vulnerable social groups- one female protagonist and one queer protagonist in my text, as a means of social control, is influenced by the feminist themes of ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ (1892) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. This is because, within her text, she explores the patriarchal oppression of women through confinement (Qasim, Mehboob, Akram & Masrour, 2015). This echoes this idea of institutionalisation and the devastating impact it has on all vulnerable social groups if they haven’t consented.
Moreover, stylistically, I was influenced by the likes of authors Jane Harper in her novel ‘The Dry’ (2016) and Tim Winton’s ‘Breath’ (2008). This is because of the stark, brittle imagery employed by both authors that really resonated with me in their description of the Australian landscape. For example, within ‘The Dry’ (2016) descriptions that emphasised the benevolent element of nature were very inspiring: “A huge eucalyptus had grown tightly against a solid boulder, its trunk curving around to trap the two in a gnarled embrace” (Harper, 2016, p. 108). This, coupled with my desire to emulate Winton’s ‘transcendent wisdom in nature’ to construct this subversion through characterising the bush as 'welcoming' and a place of safety in my text (Crim, 2008).
My text also drew influence from contemporary political issues and the broader social context of 2022. Thematically, I wanted to echo the idea of this ‘post #MeToo’ and feminist era that we live in, and how this is a false narrative because social control is still being exercised over minority groups as a result of the systems of oppression we exist under. Moreover, the current social context is reflected in my narrative through the disparaged social systems such as healthcare, and the lack of mental health resources for young people that contributes to so much harm. The fatigued workers in the text contributing as a primary plot device for the kids to escape is very reflective of the crisis of social services due to toxic cultures, underfunding and shortages right now (AMA, 2021).
References
Crim, K. (2008, June 01). 'Breath' by Tim Winton. LA Times. Retrieved June 10, 2022 from https://www.latimes.com/style/la-bk-crim1-2008jun01-story.html
Harper, J. (2016). The Dry. Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd. Public hospitals in cycle of crisis, AMA warns. (2021, October 15). AMA. Retrieved June 10, 2022 from https://www.ama.com.au/media/public-hospitals-cycle-crisis-ama-warns
Qasim, N., Mehboob, S., Akram, Z., & Masrour, H. (2015). Women's Liberation: The Effects of Patriarchal Oppression on Women's Mind. International Journal of Asian Social Science, 5(7), 382-393. https://archive.aessweb.com/index.php/5007/article/view/2742
Romenksy, L., Parker, F., & Printz, J. (2017, January 17). Miranda Must Go campaign aims to recognise Hanging Rock's Indigenous history. ABC News. Retrieved June 10, 2022 from https://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-01-17/campaign-to-recognise-indigenous-history-hanging-rock/8187942