STORY: The Second Boris Zaleski
Another short story. Boris wakes up in hospital after a head injury and finds that while he still has all his memories, his reaction to them has changed. As he probes into his memories, he realises that he has undergone a deep-lying personality change.
No objectionable content.
The Second Boris Zaleski
Christina Nordlander
*
He didn't dream, but neither was he fully unaware. Every now and then he woke up in the darkness from something changing. When light started seeping in, he almost wanted to withdraw into the unconsciousness to be able to study the changes.
“Boris, are you in pain?” someone said.
It felt like it took several minutes before their features became distinct. The white backdrop had to be a hospital ward. His family was there, and Angela, blonde and long-lined.
He got to rest, and a doctor told him what had happened - the accident, the operation -, tested his reflexes and let him fill in questionnaires. During that time he was detached - not because of any kind of brain damage, because he could recall his focus to the doctor's office, but with the returning memory. The sunlight on the construction site had been an explosion. He'd walked in the shadow under the scaffolding on his way to the cement mixer, and darkness had fallen as if someone had flipped a switch. (The doctor said it had been a beam that had come loose and hit him on the head. He'd never seen it.) He'd heard a scream, but didn't know whether it had been his. The pain was gone from the memory.
He asked what the operation had entailed. It was routine treatments, picking out shards of bone and draining the blood. His head was starting to hurt. It was the kind of pain you could stand.
“I'll drive you,” Angela said on their way to the car.
“As if I was drunk, I guess.”
He was joking, because he'd started to feel a dizziness that reminded him of intoxication.
The sky was still clear behind the scattered clouds; the sun was down. His gaze drifted across the housing estates and the strip of trees along the road. It took a while before he noticed how tensely he was sitting, and why: he was on the lookout for something that wouldn't stir any memories, and preparing himself for the following confusion. Was he that influenced by bad thrillers where head injuries always led to amnesia?
Angela sat silent. He saw a slice of her face and straight yellow hair in the rear-view mirror.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
His voice sounded as hoarse as if he'd been long sick. He hadn't been in hospital for more than a day.
“I shouldn't be joking about this... I mean, it was easier for me, I wasn't conscious. You had to go through all of it.”
“I'll get by.”
She stood by his car door when he got out, as if she were ready to help him in case he faltered.
*
He could have gone back to the site as soon as possible, but he stayed home a few days to make the doctors happy. He woke up without having dreamt anything that he could remember, and washed carefully with rubbing alcohol on the shaved area under the bandage. His hair was the only thing remarkable about him: it had a colourless pallor that looked unnatural. People he knew used to assume he'd gone grey early, but it had had that colour since he was a kid.
He might as well take it easy during this time, like back when he'd got to stay home from school, so he played computer games and read books from the shelf in the living-room. It was almost exclusively Angela's books. He hadn't brought many when he moved out.
There came a point where he needed to test his memory. He lay back on the soft quilt and looked at the neutral colour inside his eyelids.
It wasn't amnesia. He remembered everything, even the things that it wouldn't have mattered if he had forgotten: fights with dad, the wood-panelled ceiling in the summer cottage, football games in primary school. At first it felt like the memories were weaker than they should have been, but he could zoom in on them till he saw the details. Everything was still there, it just wasn't associated with the same emotions.
Perhaps that ought to have made him panic. The realisation came to him like the memories and didn't disturb him.
He waited for Angela to get home, and mentioned it while they were eating.
“Do you think I should get in touch with the doctor?” he asked.
On the other side of the table she jolted.
“Boris, I don't know anything about these things. I guess you phone them if you think you need to.”
The memories shied from Angela. That must have been what made him focus on them.
*
If you lifted the tablecloth in the kitchen, you could see a pale orange stain on the wallpaper where he'd thrown a saucepan full of bolognese. He could remember hefting it in his hand but not why, or whether Angela had been in the room. He had moved the table a bit so that the tablecloth would cover it. He had been able to feel shame.
*
That night he turned off the computer and went out into the living-room where she was reading the newspaper in the couch. He sat down in the slim retro easy-chair that she'd got from some relative, a bit outside the circle of light from the floor-lamp. He waited for her to put the paper down before saying anything.
“Angela? I think we need to have a talk.”
She shook her head to get the fringe out of her eyes and looked at him. For a moment the whites of her eyes were large, then she got her face under control.
“I've treated you badly, haven't I?” he said.
It was the wrong way. He lifted his hand and went on:
“We don't have to talk about this now, if you don't want to. I'm just... afraid.”
She picked up the paper again.
“I doubt it,” she muttered as if she hadn't heard the rest.
“I didn't abuse you physically. But psychologically... did I?”
He'd searched his memories for blows and not found anything. Perhaps he hadn't searched very closely, because he hadn't wanted to know what might be there.
She'd stopped looking at him.
“I don't know whether I'd call it psychological abuse.”
“You should have thrown me out.”
She didn't respond, so he sat down in the couch and put his arms around her as if she were a fragile little animal.
“I won't do it again. Won't you believe me?”
Her skin was hot and smooth, her perfume smelled a bit stately for her age. Three years they'd been married, before his accident. At least at the start he must have been attracted to her. Now he only admired her beauty as if it were that of a painted sculpture.
*
He'd been angry. Not sadistic; the anger had been like a predatory animal that he'd had to control and that was sometimes stronger than he. Angela hadn't been its only victim, but perhaps the one who had suffered most frequently because she was closest. He hadn't thought it was abuse, just arguing, the way all couples argued. He remembered even that.
If he'd still been in that state he could have justified it, maybe not even justify, analyse what had caused it. The guys in primary school, perhaps, who had called him Slagski and imitated his accent. The teachers who'd helped others who were bullied and not him. He no longer had to, because it wasn't him.
When he hadn't been angry he'd been crude, unsophisticated. He didn't read, did that make anyone a worse person? He'd dropped out of college without a diploma, rather than redoing the course. Chicks and beer were the things he'd cared most about. It had felt like he was entitled to frivolities like that while he was hanging with Bogomil and the guys from college: he couldn't change overnight just because he'd started working. Again, nothing that made him a bad person.
*
He'd gone to bed and turned off the light, and Angela left the light on in the hallway so that she could see to put her pyjamas on. He saw her as a slim silhouette against the glow.
“If you want a divorce, I'm not going to stop you,” he said.
Tiredness made his voice indistinct. She let out a little noise that was supposed to be a laugh.
“Why would I want that now, now that you're finally treating me well?”
“But I'm not the same guy as when we got married.”
They were too tired to talk more about it. He didn't dream that night either.
*
After Angela had gone to work he sat in the bedroom window with its smooth white curtains. The trees were a metallic green wall on the other side of the yard.
He'd prayed when he was a kid, not since then. He hadn't given religion enough thought to be able to say that he was an atheist.
“God, if you exist, can you tell me how to help others? It's the only thing I ask.”
After a while he added:
“Because I have been helped. Can you show me what to do?”
Was he supposed to have felt anything? He'd been talking to the sunlight in the window. He sat there for a long time, searching for some sensation from outside.
*
He was still on sick-leave, so he'd spent the day at the city library, a quiet building with cork-lino floor and large skylights. He read about all the subjects he could find: science fiction literature, the Devil, anatomy, Swedish dialects. If he couldn't go back to college, he might be able to become self-taught. He would have several hours to himself after the end of the working day.
When he got home, Angela came to meet him. Her face was a stiff mask. Had something happened to her parents, was one of them dead or in hospital? She started talking before he had time to ask.
“I've called the doctor. He said it wasn't guaranteed to help, but he's got you an appointment with a therapist.”
He must have looked stupefied, because she went on:
“If you get therapy, you might be able to get your personality back. There is at least a chance.”
He gripped her upper arms gently. His hands were large around them.
“But this is I. I don't want to get my old personality back. I'm happy with this.”
She stared at him, so he had to go on:
“Don't you think I'm better now?”
She pulled away from him.
“I'm not the one who should decide that, Boris.”
He breathed out. He'd have wanted to sit down, but perhaps that wasn't right any more.
“Does that mean you let me decide?”
Her nod was so small, the previous Boris might not have noticed it.
*
He got to bunk at Bogomil's place while looking for a new flat. Bogomil, two years younger than he, similar to him except that his hair was darker, said:
“Angela thrown you out, then?”
“No, I was the one who left her.”
Bogomil laughed and might have thought that he was lying. He laughed himself, but he didn't want to have badmouthed her.
They sat up talking rubbish and playing Team Fortress. When Bogomil went into the kitchen to put on coffee, Boris leant over to the computer and searched for “human brain,” then “brain surgery.” As soon as he had time he would be able to borrow textbooks from the library.
THE END
No objectionable content.
The Second Boris Zaleski
Christina Nordlander
*
He didn't dream, but neither was he fully unaware. Every now and then he woke up in the darkness from something changing. When light started seeping in, he almost wanted to withdraw into the unconsciousness to be able to study the changes.
“Boris, are you in pain?” someone said.
It felt like it took several minutes before their features became distinct. The white backdrop had to be a hospital ward. His family was there, and Angela, blonde and long-lined.
He got to rest, and a doctor told him what had happened - the accident, the operation -, tested his reflexes and let him fill in questionnaires. During that time he was detached - not because of any kind of brain damage, because he could recall his focus to the doctor's office, but with the returning memory. The sunlight on the construction site had been an explosion. He'd walked in the shadow under the scaffolding on his way to the cement mixer, and darkness had fallen as if someone had flipped a switch. (The doctor said it had been a beam that had come loose and hit him on the head. He'd never seen it.) He'd heard a scream, but didn't know whether it had been his. The pain was gone from the memory.
He asked what the operation had entailed. It was routine treatments, picking out shards of bone and draining the blood. His head was starting to hurt. It was the kind of pain you could stand.
“I'll drive you,” Angela said on their way to the car.
“As if I was drunk, I guess.”
He was joking, because he'd started to feel a dizziness that reminded him of intoxication.
The sky was still clear behind the scattered clouds; the sun was down. His gaze drifted across the housing estates and the strip of trees along the road. It took a while before he noticed how tensely he was sitting, and why: he was on the lookout for something that wouldn't stir any memories, and preparing himself for the following confusion. Was he that influenced by bad thrillers where head injuries always led to amnesia?
Angela sat silent. He saw a slice of her face and straight yellow hair in the rear-view mirror.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
His voice sounded as hoarse as if he'd been long sick. He hadn't been in hospital for more than a day.
“I shouldn't be joking about this... I mean, it was easier for me, I wasn't conscious. You had to go through all of it.”
“I'll get by.”
She stood by his car door when he got out, as if she were ready to help him in case he faltered.
*
He could have gone back to the site as soon as possible, but he stayed home a few days to make the doctors happy. He woke up without having dreamt anything that he could remember, and washed carefully with rubbing alcohol on the shaved area under the bandage. His hair was the only thing remarkable about him: it had a colourless pallor that looked unnatural. People he knew used to assume he'd gone grey early, but it had had that colour since he was a kid.
He might as well take it easy during this time, like back when he'd got to stay home from school, so he played computer games and read books from the shelf in the living-room. It was almost exclusively Angela's books. He hadn't brought many when he moved out.
There came a point where he needed to test his memory. He lay back on the soft quilt and looked at the neutral colour inside his eyelids.
It wasn't amnesia. He remembered everything, even the things that it wouldn't have mattered if he had forgotten: fights with dad, the wood-panelled ceiling in the summer cottage, football games in primary school. At first it felt like the memories were weaker than they should have been, but he could zoom in on them till he saw the details. Everything was still there, it just wasn't associated with the same emotions.
Perhaps that ought to have made him panic. The realisation came to him like the memories and didn't disturb him.
He waited for Angela to get home, and mentioned it while they were eating.
“Do you think I should get in touch with the doctor?” he asked.
On the other side of the table she jolted.
“Boris, I don't know anything about these things. I guess you phone them if you think you need to.”
The memories shied from Angela. That must have been what made him focus on them.
*
If you lifted the tablecloth in the kitchen, you could see a pale orange stain on the wallpaper where he'd thrown a saucepan full of bolognese. He could remember hefting it in his hand but not why, or whether Angela had been in the room. He had moved the table a bit so that the tablecloth would cover it. He had been able to feel shame.
*
That night he turned off the computer and went out into the living-room where she was reading the newspaper in the couch. He sat down in the slim retro easy-chair that she'd got from some relative, a bit outside the circle of light from the floor-lamp. He waited for her to put the paper down before saying anything.
“Angela? I think we need to have a talk.”
She shook her head to get the fringe out of her eyes and looked at him. For a moment the whites of her eyes were large, then she got her face under control.
“I've treated you badly, haven't I?” he said.
It was the wrong way. He lifted his hand and went on:
“We don't have to talk about this now, if you don't want to. I'm just... afraid.”
She picked up the paper again.
“I doubt it,” she muttered as if she hadn't heard the rest.
“I didn't abuse you physically. But psychologically... did I?”
He'd searched his memories for blows and not found anything. Perhaps he hadn't searched very closely, because he hadn't wanted to know what might be there.
She'd stopped looking at him.
“I don't know whether I'd call it psychological abuse.”
“You should have thrown me out.”
She didn't respond, so he sat down in the couch and put his arms around her as if she were a fragile little animal.
“I won't do it again. Won't you believe me?”
Her skin was hot and smooth, her perfume smelled a bit stately for her age. Three years they'd been married, before his accident. At least at the start he must have been attracted to her. Now he only admired her beauty as if it were that of a painted sculpture.
*
He'd been angry. Not sadistic; the anger had been like a predatory animal that he'd had to control and that was sometimes stronger than he. Angela hadn't been its only victim, but perhaps the one who had suffered most frequently because she was closest. He hadn't thought it was abuse, just arguing, the way all couples argued. He remembered even that.
If he'd still been in that state he could have justified it, maybe not even justify, analyse what had caused it. The guys in primary school, perhaps, who had called him Slagski and imitated his accent. The teachers who'd helped others who were bullied and not him. He no longer had to, because it wasn't him.
When he hadn't been angry he'd been crude, unsophisticated. He didn't read, did that make anyone a worse person? He'd dropped out of college without a diploma, rather than redoing the course. Chicks and beer were the things he'd cared most about. It had felt like he was entitled to frivolities like that while he was hanging with Bogomil and the guys from college: he couldn't change overnight just because he'd started working. Again, nothing that made him a bad person.
*
He'd gone to bed and turned off the light, and Angela left the light on in the hallway so that she could see to put her pyjamas on. He saw her as a slim silhouette against the glow.
“If you want a divorce, I'm not going to stop you,” he said.
Tiredness made his voice indistinct. She let out a little noise that was supposed to be a laugh.
“Why would I want that now, now that you're finally treating me well?”
“But I'm not the same guy as when we got married.”
They were too tired to talk more about it. He didn't dream that night either.
*
After Angela had gone to work he sat in the bedroom window with its smooth white curtains. The trees were a metallic green wall on the other side of the yard.
He'd prayed when he was a kid, not since then. He hadn't given religion enough thought to be able to say that he was an atheist.
“God, if you exist, can you tell me how to help others? It's the only thing I ask.”
After a while he added:
“Because I have been helped. Can you show me what to do?”
Was he supposed to have felt anything? He'd been talking to the sunlight in the window. He sat there for a long time, searching for some sensation from outside.
*
He was still on sick-leave, so he'd spent the day at the city library, a quiet building with cork-lino floor and large skylights. He read about all the subjects he could find: science fiction literature, the Devil, anatomy, Swedish dialects. If he couldn't go back to college, he might be able to become self-taught. He would have several hours to himself after the end of the working day.
When he got home, Angela came to meet him. Her face was a stiff mask. Had something happened to her parents, was one of them dead or in hospital? She started talking before he had time to ask.
“I've called the doctor. He said it wasn't guaranteed to help, but he's got you an appointment with a therapist.”
He must have looked stupefied, because she went on:
“If you get therapy, you might be able to get your personality back. There is at least a chance.”
He gripped her upper arms gently. His hands were large around them.
“But this is I. I don't want to get my old personality back. I'm happy with this.”
She stared at him, so he had to go on:
“Don't you think I'm better now?”
She pulled away from him.
“I'm not the one who should decide that, Boris.”
He breathed out. He'd have wanted to sit down, but perhaps that wasn't right any more.
“Does that mean you let me decide?”
Her nod was so small, the previous Boris might not have noticed it.
*
He got to bunk at Bogomil's place while looking for a new flat. Bogomil, two years younger than he, similar to him except that his hair was darker, said:
“Angela thrown you out, then?”
“No, I was the one who left her.”
Bogomil laughed and might have thought that he was lying. He laughed himself, but he didn't want to have badmouthed her.
They sat up talking rubbish and playing Team Fortress. When Bogomil went into the kitchen to put on coffee, Boris leant over to the computer and searched for “human brain,” then “brain surgery.” As soon as he had time he would be able to borrow textbooks from the library.
THE END