DO YOU BELIEVE Ch.1
Author: Catherine E. Grant (
avatar_31@angelfire.com)
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Disclaimer: "Sally," Mrs Ramplings, the mouse on the clock and Greenhalls Institute belong to me. Minerva McGonagall or anything/anyone else familiar is the property of J.K. Rowling.
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A/N: After receiving some interesting comments on the prologue, I've decided to clarify a few things.
Firstly, can I please say that none of my Minerva fics are in any way related to each other? You'll notice that in some storylines I contradict what I define in others. This isn't meant to confuse anyone, it's just that I had a different idea and decided to run with it.
The name Sally Wilson was picked blindly from mid air. It has no real relevance except as a kind of "John/Jane Doe" kind of thing. You notice how amnesia patients etc get given names just so the people looking after them can refer to them, such as in the episode of the Pretender where Jarrod names a lost girl 'Violet' because he sees he playing with such a flower.
Finally, for the origin of the word 'garn', may I draw your attention to this little scene of My Fair Lady:
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Professor Higgins: "…I suggest she be taken out and hung, for the cold blooded murder of the English tongue!
Eliza: Garn!
Professor Higgins: Garn! I ask you sir, what sort of word is that? It's her 'ows', and 'garns', that keep her in her place! Not her dirty clothes and dirty face! Why can't the English teach their children how to speak…
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Now that I've gotten that out of my system, we can continue to the story.
Finally.
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DO YOU BELIEVE pt. 1
"Sit down here, please." I obey. I sink against the padded backrest of the seat. Mrs Ramplings glares at me over her glasses. The certificates on the wall behind her tell me that she's qualified to dissect and psychoanalyse me. It does not inspire confidence.
I am not supposed to have confidence. I am a patient. I am a number. I am a new text book study.
"What is your name?"
"Sally. Sally Wilson." The answer they have assigned me comes by rote to my stiff lips.
She frowns. "No, child. I mean your real name. Who are you? You have answers. I know it."
I do not. Would I be sitting here if I did?
I want to scream at her, jump out of my seat and tower over her, tell her she is wrong, I don't remember anything!
Mrs Ramplings taps slowly against her desk with her pen. "Very well. What do you remember?"
"Waking on the road. Lots of people. Being taking here, sleeping a lot, then just stuff here. Nothing before."
She raises an eyebrow and I suppress a sigh. It is harder to explain each time. Something lurking within her eyes tells me this woman does not believe the answers I am forced to give. What can I say about the dreams that I have? They are strange, and puzzle even me. I think perhaps I had too much of that mushroom soup at dinner last night, because when I woke up this morning I could have sworn I was flying in my dream.
It's a very eerie feeling. The wind, rushing in my hair, flowing cold against my skin in a way so exhilarating. I dive steeply. The broomstick follows my commands and I level out just above the ground. I stretch out my hand and with it, I clasp a little golden ball. I hear cheering.
And I wake.
The dream fades, but the strangeness remains. I do not belong here. "Ja," as Mrs Ramplings would say, "No one belongs here. I hope you can soon leave us."
I am praying for that day. Greenhalls London Institute of Amnesiac Care. We are "good" patients; we are not psychiatric cases. We do not scream at the moon or froth at the mouth or through ourselves against the walls of our padded cells. We have nice, though small, rooms, regular meals and daily sessions with our psychiatrists, doctors and exercise yard.
The girl across the hall from me thinks she's a teapot.
It's driving me crazy.
I glance at the clock. Tick, tock. Tick. Back and forth, the pendulum swings. There is a mouse on the clock face. It winks at me.
I stare at it, and it winks again. It wiggles its tail a little bit. What in the world?
"Sally! Sally! Miss Wilson, please. What have I said to you?"
"Uh, sorry. What did you say?" I try to look earnest. "I'm awfully sorry, Mrs Ramplings, it's ever so hard to concentrate today."
"Huh." She does not believe me. Not surprising, I wouldn't believe me either.
And the mouse didn't just move again. I am not imagining this. Pictures don't just move.
Right.
"Christmas."
I blink. "It's only July, Mrs Ramplings." She glares at me again and I wince. What have I said now? Guiltily I sneak another glance at the clock. Five past twelve. That stupid mouse kept distracting me.
She sighs. "Word association. I will give you a vord, you will tell me what it makes you think of. We will start again." She consults a large pad and adjusts her glasses.
"Ministry."
"Ah…government."
"Book."
"Reading."
"Dementor."
"What?"
"Hmm…Witch."
"Salem."
"Dormitory."
"People."
"Neighbour."
"Teapot."
"Flight."
"Mushrooms." There had to have been something in that soup.
"Magic."
"Abracadabra."
"Broom."
She's not looking at me but she's reading something on that paper in front of her. Something about me? What does she know? And how does she know my dream?
"Stick."
"Bumblebee."
Huh? "Uh, buzz?"
Mrs Ramplings makes a few more notes before replacing the pad in her desk draw. "Hmmm….Miss Wilson. Unfortunately, what I had expected but still, necessary. And so in that regard, I don't see any sense in keeping you here any longer. You appear well adjusted despite your unfortunate memory loss; there is no sign of the possible psychological trauma that can arise in such situations and is the focus of the Greenhalls Institute. Perhaps we could progress further with your case if you were to remain, but I believe that you would benefit more if you were transferred to a regular clinic. I am not mistaken when I think you would like to get out of here, no? The relevant State authorities will be given your details and shall attempt to identify you. Your transfer will occur tomorrow."
She holds out a hand and I shake it. Then she bustles me out the door and I am left standing along in the cold corridor while she rings for an orderly to collect me.
I am to leave this place, finally!