she said it, a loud, deep, heavy sigh of relief seemed to echo its way around the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Diana Ross
B eing described as dull and boring by Hank was difficult enough to take, but Mrs. Anna’s assessment of me as dead was simply unacceptable. True, I may not have the most electrifying personality in the world, and I would certainly never describe myself as particularly perky or bubbly, but I’d always considered myself as someone possessing a certain low-key charm with an understated, almost indefinable animal magnetism. Clearly this was not a view shared by all.
“Mrs. Anna,” I said, firmly. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair of you and I resent being described in such a way.”
“Oh, so sorry. Perhaps your sensitive soul prefers it if I say ‘the dearly deceased,’” she said, with mocking concern.
“What are you talking about?”
“What – your penny hasn’t dropped the other foot yet?”
“What penny? You’re not making any sense. You’re talking rubbish.”
“Look, you don’t exist anymore – is that plain enough? You’re dead…like the doornail.”
“I most certainly am not,” I said, with a nervous laugh.
“You say you’re not, I say you are. Either way you’re dead,” she shrugged.
“Of course I’m not dead. Are you mad?”
“Or at least, dead in relation to the idea of what you thought you were when you were alive,” she added.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s all relative in a cosmic sense…more or less. Anyway, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you, according to the guidebook.”
What guidebook? Why was she suddenly talking nonsense to me? I considered the possibility that she was simply having a bad day, and on such occasions found some sort of unhealthy gratification in tormenting her guests with insults and gibberish. However, I wasn’t about to take the bait.
“Mrs. Anna, look at me…I am very much alive. Here I am. I’m living proof of me. I just…am,” I said, calmly.
“No offence,” she jeered, “but have you looked in the mirror lately?
“That’s another thing I meant to bring to your attention. There aren’t any – not even in the bathroom.”
“So, then pinch yourself.”
“What?”
“Pinch yourself. Remind yourself of who you are.”
This was getting sillier by the minute. “No,” I said, flatly.
“Why not?”
Her confident insistence was beginning to get to me. She spoke with an air of tired authority that gave me the distinct feeling that whatever I said was already irrelevant in her eyes. However, rather than confess to the unease that had begun to sneak up behind me, I decided to give her the best excuse I could come up with as to precisely why I should not pinch myself. “Because…it hurts,” I said, utterly lamely.
“Ah, but such a small pain for such a big affirmation,” she said, with just the slightest hint of a smile – the type that a gambler might have when laying down a winning card.
“I don’t need to,” I whinged, sounding more pathetic with each utterance that stumbled unconvincingly from my lips.
“Don’t need to or afraid to?”
“Don’t need to. I’m alive. Look at me – I’m here now.”
“Are you?”
“Of course – look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“And what do you see?”
“An image of you.”
“There you are.”
“Images lie.”
“Oh, what nonsense. All right, I’ll prove it,” I said. At this point I’d had enough. I felt rattled and unnerved and realised the only way I could bring an end to both this ridiculous farce and the unsettling feelings it had stirred within me was by doing as she’d asked. I pinched my arm, bracing myself for the sting that would follow, but…there was none. I pinched a little harder, thinking I must have been too timid the first time. Still nothing. I slowly raised my eyes to meet Mrs. Anna’s.
“You see?” she said, sounding more bored than victorious.
“It
CHAPTER SEVEN
Diana Ross
B eing described as dull and boring by Hank was difficult enough to take, but Mrs. Anna’s assessment of me as dead was simply unacceptable. True, I may not have the most electrifying personality in the world, and I would certainly never describe myself as particularly perky or bubbly, but I’d always considered myself as someone possessing a certain low-key charm with an understated, almost indefinable animal magnetism. Clearly this was not a view shared by all.
“Mrs. Anna,” I said, firmly. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair of you and I resent being described in such a way.”
“Oh, so sorry. Perhaps your sensitive soul prefers it if I say ‘the dearly deceased,’” she said, with mocking concern.
“What are you talking about?”
“What – your penny hasn’t dropped the other foot yet?”
“What penny? You’re not making any sense. You’re talking rubbish.”
“Look, you don’t exist anymore – is that plain enough? You’re dead…like the doornail.”
“I most certainly am not,” I said, with a nervous laugh.
“You say you’re not, I say you are. Either way you’re dead,” she shrugged.
“Of course I’m not dead. Are you mad?”
“Or at least, dead in relation to the idea of what you thought you were when you were alive,” she added.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s all relative in a cosmic sense…more or less. Anyway, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you, according to the guidebook.”
What guidebook? Why was she suddenly talking nonsense to me? I considered the possibility that she was simply having a bad day, and on such occasions found some sort of unhealthy gratification in tormenting her guests with insults and gibberish. However, I wasn’t about to take the bait.
“Mrs. Anna, look at me…I am very much alive. Here I am. I’m living proof of me. I just…am,” I said, calmly.
“No offence,” she jeered, “but have you looked in the mirror lately?
“That’s another thing I meant to bring to your attention. There aren’t any – not even in the bathroom.”
“So, then pinch yourself.”
“What?”
“Pinch yourself. Remind yourself of who you are.”
This was getting sillier by the minute. “No,” I said, flatly.
“Why not?”
Her confident insistence was beginning to get to me. She spoke with an air of tired authority that gave me the distinct feeling that whatever I said was already irrelevant in her eyes. However, rather than confess to the unease that had begun to sneak up behind me, I decided to give her the best excuse I could come up with as to precisely why I should not pinch myself. “Because…it hurts,” I said, utterly lamely.
“Ah, but such a small pain for such a big affirmation,” she said, with just the slightest hint of a smile – the type that a gambler might have when laying down a winning card.
“I don’t need to,” I whinged, sounding more pathetic with each utterance that stumbled unconvincingly from my lips.
“Don’t need to or afraid to?”
“Don’t need to. I’m alive. Look at me – I’m here now.”
“Are you?”
“Of course – look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“And what do you see?”
“An image of you.”
“There you are.”
“Images lie.”
“Oh, what nonsense. All right, I’ll prove it,” I said. At this point I’d had enough. I felt rattled and unnerved and realised the only way I could bring an end to both this ridiculous farce and the unsettling feelings it had stirred within me was by doing as she’d asked. I pinched my arm, bracing myself for the sting that would follow, but…there was none. I pinched a little harder, thinking I must have been too timid the first time. Still nothing. I slowly raised my eyes to meet Mrs. Anna’s.
“You see?” she said, sounding more bored than victorious.
“It
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