Flash Fiction

“I’m okay—really. I’m just a little anxious about my upcoming exams.”

“You’ve written exams before… I’ve never seen you look this stressed.”

“I just haven’t been feeling well. I’m nauseous all the time. And I’m exhausted. It must be from too little sleep—I’ve been staying up late to study every night.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Well, I guess there’s that, and…”

“What? What is it? You can tell me. You can trust me."

“It’s nothing serious. I’ve had a tiff with Chris, but really… I’m fine. I’m okay. Everything will be okay.”

Chris. Mona’s boyfriend. Two weeks ago. I heard voices behind the closed door at my neighbour’s party. Normally I wouldn’t have listened, except the voices kept rising and it made me worried. It sounded like a woman and a man—they were arguing. The woman was crying, the man was drunk. Mona and Chris.

“What else do you want me to say, Mona? I have my whole life ahead of me.”

“So do I! How can you be so cruel? It’s immoral, what you’re asking me to do… I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

“I’m not asking—I’m telling. You can choose: either you do this, or you’re on your own.”

“That’s not fair, Chris… this isn’t for you to decide alone.”

“Well, that’s the way it is. I refuse to give up my entire future because of your stupid mistake.”

“It wasn’t just my mistake! You’re a part of it, whether you like it or not.”

“No. No, I’m not. If I were you, I’d get it done before it’s too late.”

“Please, just listen to me… we have other options.”

“Like what, Mona? There are no other options… or do you plan on telling the dearly beloved Marjorie about your little accident?”

“Our accident. And don’t you dare. You keep my mother out of it. She can never know. She will never forgive me.”

Marjorie. Mona’s mother. The day before yesterday. I was on my way home from class when my phone rang. I took it out of my pocket; Marjorie’s name flashed on the screen. I hesitated before I answered. I could taste the threat of catastrophe on the salty coastal air. She sounded worried, on the edge of hysteria. I took a deep breath and plunged into the drama.

“Aunty Marjorie… is everything alright?”

“Oh, my love, sorry to bother you… I don’t mean to be paranoid—I know I do that sometimes, but…”

“Yes? It’s alright, I don’t think you’re paranoid. Is this about Mona?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. You haven’t seen her today, have you? I’m probably silly to be worried, but I haven’t heard from her, and, well…”

“How long has it been? When did you last speak to her?”

“She left the house yesterday afternoon—said she was going for a walk on the beach—but she hasn’t come back yet, and I can’t… I don’t know… I just have this terrible feeling gnawing at me.”

“I’m sure she’s okay, Aunty M. Maybe she’s at a friend’s house?”

“Oh, sweetie, you know Mona doesn’t have any friends, except for you, of course. And that lousy… I phoned Chris too, and he said he hasn’t seen her either.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. What do you need me to do?”

“Oh, I’m probably overreacting. I always do. It’s just that she’s been acting so strange lately, you know? She’s so quiet, and pale, and she’s tired all the time… It’s probably just the upcoming exams. I shouldn’t have let her go to the beach in the first place—she should be studying. She can’t be wasting her time with walks on the beach.”

The beach. The tiny patch of green. I take hold of it with my thumb and forefinger and pull it out of the wet sand. It unearths itself, unravels into something long and thin. It’s a damp scarf. It’s bright and light and slightly translucent—what does it make me think of? Mona’s scarf. This past weekend. She sat across from me, and her green scarf perfectly matched her green eyes. It was tied loosely around her neck. Her pale hands fluttered about it, fiddled with it nervously whenever she thought I wasn’t looking. She looked scared. Her voice rose shakily against the din of the restaurant. I wished I knew how to keep her safe.

“Mona, whatever it is… you can tell me. You can trust me.”

“There’s nothing to tell—I promise. I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Whatever it is, everything will work out for the best. You’ll see.”

“You’re right: everything will work out. This is for the best.”

We talk about the weather. It's windy today, you say; maybe it's a spring wind, I say. I don't want to be your friend, Radiohead says – I just want to be your lover. We wonder if we misunderstood: we wonder if, in this life, we were just supposed to be friends. But we fell in love in the rain, in the dim light of a wet Johannesburg suburb. We don't want to be friends, even if it means living in a house of cards.

It's hot in my borrowed leather jacket, but the warmth is comforting after a terrible winter. You sing along; your voice is still husky from the cold you had. Tom Yorke sounds like a dusky spring afternoon. Your voice breaks a little and suddenly winter is back. The sun sets and suddenly winter is back. The warm afternoon fog lifts and suddenly winter is back. We drive past a tree with large red blossoms. You say it's a fire tree, and I laugh. The streetlight flickers. Soon the summer rains will start again.

“Carlson. Dr. Adrian Carlson. I moved in with him three months ago.”

“There’s no one in this building by that name, ma’am.”

“Apartment 905. You always call him ‘Doc’.”

“Apartment 905 is empty, ma’am.”

“What? What about his car? Check the parking bay—he drives a silver Suzuki.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but apartment 905 doesn’t have a parking bay. None of the apartments on the ninth floor do. I’m sorry, I can’t help you, ma’am.”

“C’mon, you just saw me, I waved at you when Adrian and I walked out this morning. Your name is Gift; I always greet you when I see you.”

“That’s not my name, ma’am. Would you like to sit down while I call the building manager?”

“I’ve been living here for three months. Surely you must remember me… Remember? Remember? Just let me in and I’ll show you the apartment. All my things are there, my phone, my keys, my purse. I need my things. Just let me get my things and I’ll show you. I moved in three months ago. I’ve been living here for three months. Please. Remember?”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but your biometrics aren’t registered on the system. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to enter the building.”

“But I was just here.”

“I’ve never seen you before, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am, but you were never here.”

But if I wasn’t there, then where was I?

When I was 17, I watched Shutter Island for the first time. I was horrified at how deep a delusion could run. Andrew Laeddis was so convinced that he was a US Marshal named Teddy Daniels, and I just couldn’t fathom that someone’s brain could lie to them so successfully. But suddenly I had an inkling of what he must have gone through: what do you do when everything you thought you knew turns out to be a lie? When you lose track of your things, of yourself, of reality? Was I suffering a psychotic break? Was I in the midst of living a delusion, or had I just escaped from one, and was left stranded in reality? Alzheimer’s, dementia, amnesia, schizophrenia. Had I somehow slipped through a wormhole into a different world where I did not have a boyfriend who drove a Suzuki and lived in apartment 905? Time travel and parallel universes. A glitch in the matrix. Maybe I was a clone. A character. A figment living in the mind of a butterfly. Imagination, hallucination, reincarnation. Dreams. Delusion. Death. I held my head in my hands and rocked back and forth on the spot; a woman asked me if I was okay. Yes, other people could see me—that was proof that I was real. But how did I know that they were? If I was psychotic, where was my psychiatrist? Where were the nurses with their grim resoluteness and their needles? Where were the aliens who had fucked up my day? Or the mad scientist who had dropped me off in the wrong place and then ditched me with no further ceremony? When was the butterfly going to wake up? When would I realise I was dead?

My name is Mary du Rand, I chanted. I am 30 years old. My boyfriend’s name is Adrian Carlson; his apartment is on the ninth floor. My name is Mary du Rand. I am 30 years old. My boyfriend’s name is Adrian Carlson. He was there this morning, and then he wasn’t. How could he not be there? My name is Mary du Rand. This is what I know. My name is Mary du Rand. What do I really know? My name is Mary du Rand. I am 30 years old. My boyfriend’s name— I needed to phone Adrian. I didn’t know his number. Who else? My mother? Dead. My father? Overseas. Our old landline? Disconnected more than 10 years ago. Those were all the numbers I knew by heart. Maybe I could walk somewhere, go to someone’s house. Who did I know in the area? Michelle—too far. Megan—I didn’t know where she lived. Jay–I wasn’t even sure that was his real name. Maybe Gift would help me? Gift always helped. But Gift did not exist; and anyway, the person I thought was Gift thought I was crazy. My name is Mary du Rand. This is what I know. I also know that human beings take up space; as long as they’re alive, they exist somewhere. Where did I exist before I found myself here?

The nature of reality: a question that’s been bugging philosophers for thousands of years. According to the Bhagavad Gita, everything is maya, illusion. René Descartes thought, therefore he was. George Berkeley believed things only exist as long as they are being watched; and the only reason we continue to exist peacefully is because God watches all of us, all the time. Maybe God had taken His eyes off me. Maybe God is part of the illusion. Maybe God doesn’t think, therefore He cannot be.

I stood on the sidewalk for what felt like hours, watching the people rush by and thinking, thinking, thinking. I wanted to shout at them—my name is Mary du Rand, and I am 30 years old. But who was Mary du Rand? Were I my name, my age? Were I my face, my hair, this body that was now stranded in the middle of the city? Were I my hobbies, my interests, my education, my job? Were I the things I wrote about myself when I journalled, or the things other people said about me when I wasn’t around? Were I a mere perception—the way I saw myself, or the way other people imagined me to be—or did I have an identity independent of everything I did, said, thought? Did I really exist, or were I just a complex collection of ideas? Maybe my name wasn’t Mary du Rand; maybe I wasn’t 30 years old. Maybe I should not have been thinking things that might not have been true.

"Are you okay, hun’? You look a little upset?”

A woman looked at me sympathetically; I knew what it must’ve taken for her to speak to me in a country that was riddled with crime and danger and scams. If that was still the country I remembered. I wanted to thank her, hug her, tell her everything.

“Yes, uhm, no, uh… I don’t— I don’t know where…”

How could I tell her everything? Where could I begin?

“Now, now… Here, take this. C’mon, come with me. I’ll take you somewhere they can help you.”

She took off her red shawl and draped it around my shoulders. Then she took me by the elbow and lead me in the direction of the hospital. Or the police station. Or the asylum. Decisiveness. Assertiveness. I let her guide me through the CBD lunch crowd.

“Babe. Here you are—I've been looking everywhere for you.”

The freezers in Woolworths were working at full tilt; I gave a tiny shiver.

“Are you cold? C’mon, let’s go. I’m done with the shopping; let’s get you back home. You look exhausted.”

I took one of the grocery bags from him and we walked back to the apartment building. Gift waved at us happily as we walked through the lobby door.

“Doc! You’re back! Hello, ma’am! Did you have a good morning?”

“Yes, we did, thank you, Gift.”

We took the elevator up to apartment 905. My keys were in the blue bowl by the front door, my phone was on the kitchen counter. It started to ring the moment I picked it up. It was Gift, asking me if I had dropped my red shawl in the lobby.