The Mind's Eye by K.C. Finn Read Free Book Online Page B

dancing at a fete, feeling the cold
metal of my chair against my useless legs.
Bickerstaff
wound his way to a small, single bed with starchy sheets, into
which he climbed with that awful feeling still weighing down his
chest. He checked his watch before he flicked off the light, but in
the darkness of his small bedroom he was just laid there staring at
the ceiling. I had been to some depressing minds during my
dreamtime visits, but there was something different about his.
Perhaps it was just because I knew him that it was all so awkward.
Perhaps someone somewhere was trying to teach me to hate him a
little bit less.
But he didn’t
have to sleep with dirty great slabs of wood strapped to his limbs
that bruised him all night as his joints resisted them. Aside from
whatever thought was troubling his mind, his body lay healthily and
comfortably in his crisp little bed. As my own sour thought
overtook his deepening sadness, I felt a cold shiver travel through
me. It seemed to travel through him as well, making him shift onto
his side. Bickerstaff finally closed his eyes and soon we were both
asleep.
***
I thought I
could have done without the creepy and depressing experience of
being inside Doctor Bickerstaff’s head, but when I went to my
appointment the next day I was surprised by how much less
intimidating he seemed after my little excursion. When he wheeled
me briskly to his room I cared nothing for his smug, sharp-suited
façade; I rather thought he must have noticed because he even gave
me a curious smile when he took his place opposite me next to the
desk.
    “ You seem very relaxed Catherine,” he observed.
    “ I really do prefer to be called Kit, if you think you can
manage it,” I answered. It seemed the sight of him, depressed and
alone in his navy pyjamas, had done wonders for my
confidence.
Bickerstaff
almost laughed, haughty and oblivious to the source of my
amusement.
    “ I do hope you’ll be putting this newfound spirit of yours
into your treatment,” he said in his schoolmaster tone.
    “ We’ll see,” was my reply.
    “ I’d like you to try and stand again,” he said.
Confidence, I
learned then, is a very fragile thing. My sense of superiority
flooded away as I remembered the embarrassing display from the last
time the doctor had ordered me onto my feet. I thought about
refusing to do it, but I had an idea that Bickerstaff was stubborn
enough to just keep me there until I did as I was told.
    “ Do you enjoy seeing me fall over then?” I asked, gripping the
arms of my chair as I forced my feet to find the lino
floor.
    “ Not as much as you think I do,” he answered. I was annoyed
that it wasn’t a clear ‘No’.
To my
surprise he stood up after that and crossed the small gap between
us, waiting patiently for my upheaval. Dragging my torso up by the
strength of my elbows was just as painful as the last time I had
tried it; I felt the familiar burning of the strain as flames of
pain seared up and down my arms. I persevered, shifting myself
forward forcefully onto my unsteady legs as I had before.
For the
briefest of moments, I thought I had done it. I was standing. But
it was just a few seconds of false hope, and this time as my knees
gave way the doctor at least had the courtesy to catch me around
the waist and drop me back into my chair. I felt the red flush of
defeat in my cheeks, turning my face away from him and chiding
myself for my own stupidity. I don’t know why I thought I could win
against him, because every time I fell back into that chair I had
lost. And I would always fall back into the chair.
Bickerstaff
was writing in his file when I dared to look again. At least I had
stopped myself from crying this time. His pen raced across the page
he was turned to.
    “ You’re not practising moving around enough,” he said without
looking up from the page, “Your elbows ought to be
stronger.”
I bit my lip
to resist answering him back. There were a lot of things about my
body that I