The Dead House - Kurtagich Dawn (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация TXT) 📗
Kaitlyn, enough. This isn’t a game.
[Silence]
(CJ): Screw you, Lansy-pants. You never listen.
(AL): I think that will do for this evening.
(CJ): I want to see Jaime.
(AL): That’s enough for this evening.
(CJ): I said that I want to see Jaime! I’m entitled to see my little sister every month. It’s been three.
(AL): Kaitlyn, that is enough.
[Scraping of chair, followed by footsteps receding]
(CJ): [From a distance] You never listen! You can’t stop her from visiting. Keep trying that, and you’ll see what you push me to!
[End of tape]
Dr. Lansing Therapy Notes
Session #45: Carly/Kaitlyn Johnson
Tuesday, 31 August 2004
Carly continues to dissociate into Kaitlyn. Continuing attempts at deception indicate the need for an adjustment in her medication. Delusions also persist with regard to “the Voice.” Consider readmittance to Claydon Psychiatric Hospital, inpatient department for a few more months.
A visit from Jaime Johnson is long overdue. I have been reluctant to grant one in hopes that Jaime could be used as a restraining tool, but withholding visits has had an adverse effect, as tonight’s was the first dissociation into Kaitlyn that Carly has experienced in at least a month, as far as I can tell.
Dr. A. Lansing MBChB MD PhD
3
Several recovered fragments of Carly’s journal remain intact. One has been replicated below; chronological integrity is maintained.
Diary of Carly Luanne Johnson
Wednesday, 1 September, 7am
Claydon
12 blue pills
4 white pills
16 yellow capsules
I don’t know what else to write.
This morning my mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and old beer, and I dreaded opening my eyes, because sometimes Kaitie leaves me in strange places. She forgets about me. It might be on the roof or under the bed. Once it was a closet, and I understood what she meant by dark that day. That’s why I’m so careful about where I am around sunset. I don’t want to discard her in the middle of a conversation (if she has any) or cause a scene. Because Mum used to say that some of our transitions could be pretty weird-looking. Eyes rolling, all that stuff. So I’m careful.
I asked Kaitie to behave again last night, but I guess two nights of behaving were too much.
I had to mentally scan my body before I felt brave enough to open my eyes. Just like the old days when our biggest problem was Mum not understanding Kaitie’s life. Her loneliness.
Dear God, save my sister.
I know she was drinking again last night. I can taste it. I really don’t know how she manages it. Getting out of Claydon, especially at night, sounds impossible. And terrifying. But she did it, because here is the waxy coating on my tongue.
Leaving to go back to Elmbridge High School in a few minutes. Bags packed.
I’m sorry, Kaitie. I know you wanted us to do this whole diary thing, but I don’t know what to say.
10 blue pills
3 white pills
14 yellow capsules
Left her a Post-it. “Don’t flush my pills. We need them.”
4
Carly Johnson returned to Elmbridge High School on Wednesday, 1 September 2004 at 7:54 AM. Naida Chounan-Dupre, an aspiring journalist and key witness to what was to follow, compiled a video diary of her final year at Elmbridge High School. This video diary, which was posted online to a secure blog (MalaGenie.com) at regular intervals, and was pulled from the online archive after the discovery of the Johnson journal, reveals much that was previously unknown about the Johnson Incident.
Video footage has been transcribed by [name omitted at request] and included at relevant sections throughout this testimony.
Naida Camera Footage
Wednesday, 1 September 2004, 4:00 PM
Elmbridge High Common Room
The image shakes for a moment, and then rights itself. We are staring into the face of a striking girl with pale, almost colorless eyes and black, curly hair. She puts the camera down on a shelf and steps back. She wears the Elmbridge school uniform, consisting of a white shirt sporting the Elmbridge crest and insignia, a blue tie, and a blue-and-green kilt fringed in white. Around her neck hangs a large necklace with thick black beads, and at the center, an amulet. She winks at the camera, fluffs up her corkscrew hair, and blows a kiss.
“This is it,” she says. Her voice is slow and languid, a faded Scottish accent lilting every word. “Elmbridge Truthful, Episode One, Final Year, Sociology 101. Seeking documented evidence of the daily teen experience. Main players—the Best Friend, Carly Johnson—”
She picks up the camera, and it spins before focusing on Carly, a slight girl with blond hair and haunted eyes that seem shadowed. She glances up from the book she’s reading. Her face waxes a deep shade of crimson, and the shadows beneath her eyes seem to lighten, chameleon-like.
“Oh, Naida—don’t film me. Please.”
“Come on, C!”
Carly hides behind her book. “It’s invasive. Besides, you’re the only one who decided to do the camera thing. You know… I think he was joking… I think he meant we should do journals. Most of us are.”
“Mr. Triebourn isn’t going to reward the sheep, hen,” Naida says as the camera angles around the room. “He’s going to reward integrity. With a shiny, beautiful A. I’m a journalist and a sociologist.” The camera turns back to Carly. “Aye, I will capture your secrets—”
“No.” Carly’s face, which exudes a gentle timidity, shutters closed, and her eyes grow unexpectedly hard.
The camera drops, and through the blurry screen we hear Naida say, softly, “Please? I really need this for my Royal Holloway portfolio. If I don’t have it, I won’t get in, and if I don’t get in, I’ll have to take a job as a hack or something—for a tabloid newspaper. A tabloid, Carly! Are you going to do that to me? Really?”
The camera lifts, refocuses.
Carly frowns, visibly uncomfortable. “That is completely forbidden emotional blackmail, I hope you know.” She eyes the camera with a sort of wariness, as though expecting it to be aggressive. After a moment, however, she nods, mutters, “Fine!” and then goes back to reading, subtly shrugging her hair over her shoulder to hide her face.
“Yes! Secrets shall be had, sugar… Nothing to be done about that.”
“Yeah, yeah, paparazzi,” comes a male voice from offscreen.
The camera turns to capture a lanky boy with dark skin, a little over six feet tall, with a slim frame and black hair, entering the dorm with a McDonald’s paper bag dangling from his fist. He grins at Naida behind the camera.
“Turning into a scandal scavenger now?” he asks.
Naida laughs. “Subject number two: Scott Fromley, the Boyfriend, but don’t ask me why. He’s a clown, a slob, and a jerk most of the time.”
Scott grins, looking over the top of the camera, which then jiggles as Naida leans in to kiss him. Briefly we catch a glimpse of the contact, Scott’s arm wound tightly around Naida’s waist, as he presses her close.
