Wonderland

By D.P. Strickland

Winner of the ORB's HT26 Short Fiction Prize, judged by Kate Greathead.

Today, Kalima tells me about a cyclone which formed in Paris in 1896, resulting in the deaths of five people. Gusts of two hundred miles per hour (category EF2 on the Fujita scale) uprooted trees and lifted horses from the ground. Books flew around the Place Saint-Sulpice, rising in higher and broader circles until they reached the clouds.

I ask what the Fujita scale is, and Kalima taps her head. Ted Fujita, she says, Mr. Tornado. A meteorologist who invented a scale to measure the damage of wind to human-built structures and vegetation. He discovered microbursts and suction spots. Kalima is always reading, so she knows a lot of things. Her hands lift and then drop again, becoming themselves. Tornados are completely individual, she says, hitting my hand repeatedly.

They dance, just like you.

We lie back on the bed, making circles with our legs and Kalima carries on telling me about the cyclone. It passed through the sixth, tenth and nineteenth arrondissements, tearing across the city in under three minutes. Let us remember Jean Portal, a young coachman with two children. His carriage overturned on the Orfèvres bridge, and he died from multiple skull fractures. We never know what life has in store for us.

Kalima names the other deceased and then we sit in silence. My eyes hurt, I say. Her hand squeezes mine in rhythms. I've made a song for you—do you want to hear it? Kalima climbs out of bed and turns on the piano console on her desk. She presses on the drum buttons do-cak-be-do-do-cak as the pre-recorded synth plays. The rhythm makes me think of the Honey Drippers, but the music is its own. There is no room to floor-dance, so I pop my shoulders, my hands moving back and forth like fish; the notes circle, lifting higher and higher until my skin buzzes pleasantly.

second, third, fourth

Kalima received an A in Sociology that final year whereas I received two fails and one E. Every hour, a bell screamed out across the classroom, and I would crouch on the floor with my hands over my ears. Each time this happened, the others laughed.

On the last day of college, I walked away without speaking to anyone. A Hot Chip song played endlessly in my head: Do it, do it, do it, do it now. Say it, say it, say it. As I walked past the bus stop on Effra Road, I split into four selves, all my future lives in front of me. In the first life, I was a lawyer with an alcohol problem, and after thirty-six years of hiding myself, I would die by falling. This life was already unlikely. In the second, I lived in residential care and wrote poems to distract myself from suicidal thoughts. In the third, I was locked up after a violent altercation, finally being released into the community aged fifty-seven. In the fourth, I was a street dancer and I was happy. These four selves lived equally inside my body, not one life existing but all of them, it was impossible to know what might happen next. I tired myself out with the permutations, swapping them around as buses howled and shop doors slammed. The bright sun was blinding, and I walked home as quickly as I could.

At the corner of the street, someone was waiting. I recognized the soft purple shoes immediately. My four lives continued and Kalima was in every one of them.

first

The empty tin of August feels unbearable now that college is over. The days and weeks are shapeless. Psoriasis grows on my hands and the insides of my thighs—I am covered in fish scales. My father watches me from the kitchen table. In him is the same rhythm—I will see this fully in all my four lives and, in the end, I will forgive him. I clack the ice tray on the counter and little blocks fall out like pebbles. My father looks up at the sound and seems surprised, as if he half expected my mother to walk in and ask him what he wants for breakfast. We'll be in my room, I say, but he is studying the table again.

Upstairs, Kalima presses her head into my stomach. She has chosen to read The Brothers Karamazov. Her head squashes my intestines, sweat rises on her arms like milk. I got into trouble at the supermarket, she says. My manager told me I was upsetting the customers. But he was talking too fast, and the cages were grating, and no one listened when I said I needed a break. There is a pause, and then she carries on: Fifty-eight percent of people institutionalised in this country are like us, did you know that? The numbers have doubled in the past five years. Kalima lets out a heavy breath—I am going to become a lawyer and sue the government. How do you become a lawyer? I ask. The door slams downstairs. Her hand reaches up, touching the underneath of my chin, and my whole body stiffens. Let's not talk anymore, she says. Kalima rolls over and removes her t-shirt and leggings. I try to stop my mind from thinking. Instead, I kiss her stomach, pinning down her legs. Music spins inside my head, each track becoming another. Kalima's skin is rough, then smooth. Her body makes small movements, resisting my weight. Once I have found the right point, I circle around it, gentle but insistent, I use my fingers too. Concentrating on the rhythm, listening for her breaths. Kalima tells me to keep going, she pulls my hair and then she cums and it is the first time this has happened, and everything is hot, my hands are hot and my tongue pants and everything about it, everything about it, and I fall back and Kalima climbs on me, kisses my lips and laughs.

third

In October, my father was sent to prison for aggravated assault. That last morning, he was in the kitchen, silent and fixed as always, and when I came home later, he had gone. I visited Kalima's house more often and watched the world grow around her. She had thousands of followers and posted three Instagram reels each morning, educating people on differing support needs, and the intersectionality of marginalisation. By lunchtime, she was exhausted. We would nap together in the afternoons, and I often forgot to set the alarm. I can still picture her face close to mine; her eyes scrunching into little balls when she laughed. Most of the time, Kalima was with me and not with me; spending hours on her research, reading the DSM-5 over and over. She did not like leaving the house and would lock and unlock the doors. Her followers kept increasing and this made Kalima happy. Then, one day, a man came along and ruined everything. I had convinced Kalima to go outside with me; they were showing a zombie film at the Ritzy and she liked the director. As we waited at the bus stop, Kalima jolted her head back and forth, pressing her fingers into the metal post to distract herself from the noise. A man walking past shouted something mean and Kalima's face stiffened. By the time we reached the cinema, she had started drinking, empty tins of Wonderland rattling inside the plastic bag. A gust of wind blew the bag out of her hand and the tins rolled away. Kalima's fingers became like earthworms, moving by themselves. I sat her against the brick wall, trying to calm her but I was heightened too. Black clouds hung over the clocktower, and the wind blew people across the pavement. Cars spun past with their blinding lights. Kalima threw her head back and howled. A policeman came to ask if we were alright. Are we alright, I repeated, but he was looking at Kalima. I'm going to need you to stand up, he said, but Kalima couldn't stand up. My throat let out a whine and then he muttered into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder.

Two more officers approached; their bright jackets bent against the wind. The first one knelt in front of Kalima. Have you been here long? he asked, but his face was too close and Kalima thrashed her arms and then all three men pinned her to the ground. I tried to say something but my mouth wouldn't work properly and someone was taking a video the tiny pin of light burning my eyes and my four lives revolved on a sphere and I stepped towards the officer who had their knee on Kalima's leg and noticed the lines on the back of his neck and the wind blew rubbish into the air and the sounds wouldn't stop and I considered pulling the officer's head back until his wrinkly neck snapped and because I considered it, I managed not to do anything; a moment later, others had pushed past to shout at the officers and Kalima was dragged screaming into a waiting car.

Once at the station, the police strip-searched Kalima on suspicion of possession of drugs. I waited for hours on a metal bench in reception. Kalima's parents came to collect her and there was a lot of shouting. The arresting officer claimed that Kalima had been aggressive and so there was reasonable cause. After Kalima was discharged, her parents drove us home and we climbed into bed. My mouth hummed and ticked. Kalima's body felt so soft that I worried I might crush her. I kept imagining the police officers peering in through the bedroom window. We fell asleep as the sun came up and didn't wake again until midday. Kalima's parents brought us coffee and we both felt glad of them. They asked if I would like to stay but I told them it was fine—I couldn't be that close to Kalima, it would be like living on the surface of the sun.

In the weeks which followed, my tics worsened. I forgot to eat. The old rhythms had disappeared, and I didn't know how to find them again. Kalima posted even more than before, but her agoraphobia was unrelenting. I visited every day, bringing small items I had collected while thinking about her. A few days before Christmas, someone rung to explain that my father wasn't going to be released. They asked if I was getting on alright and I told them I wasn't. They asked why and I said that one life had ended, and I didn't know how to find another one. They went quiet after that. A few minutes later, they hung up.

fourth

In spring, Kalima manages to go outside without melting down. She says she can't be scared anymore, otherwise the police will have won. I wait for her on the path as she locks and unlocks the door.

The sun reflects off the cars as we walk along the street. People shout to each other from their windows. When I look over at Kalima, she is frowning. Do you still see that care officer? she asks. Not anymore, I say—they told me I need to think about my options. Kalima shakes her head. People are ignorant, that's all. It's up to us to change things. I nod my head, unsure of where we are going.

At the end of the street is a church where a new dance group is running auditions. The sky above the church is bright pink. Kalima squeezes my hand and grins. Inside, people take turns at looping, splitting, rolling, spinning on their heads. The group leader has a baggy top with No One Rules Us written on it. Let's see what you've got, she says and beckons me forward. Kalima whispers in my ear—Now you've started your fourth life. I step forward on my toes, let go of Kalima's hand, and start to dance.

D.P. STRICKLAND is a proud fabulist, just like his dog.

Art by Cordelia Wilson