ABLE

 

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ABLE

 

By Jorge Gill

Copyright (C) 2016 Jorge Gill

 

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Maria Rojas

I love the prologue :)

I will read the rest of it later.

Prologue

Mental Health Act 1983 Section 1(2)

Mental disorder means any disorder or disability of the mind and ‘mentally disordered’ shall be construed accordingly.

I have been diagnosed as being mentally ill so many times through the years. Arrested under section 136 of the Mental Health Act, which incidentally is a man made law, not one based on natural law or  based on principles and truth, inherent to creation, or based on any scripture or any biblical product that I have ever read, in this life time or another.  Taken to apparent places of safety, detained against my will, against my rights to live independently again, until three people; an approved Mental Health Professional, a Section 12 Doctor and another registered medical practitioner have assessed me. Everytime resulting in my incarceration, being sectioned and taken to hospital, with a right to appeal, but no right to refuse treatment.

I have been involved in the same process, the same malpractice, for many years, you might call me a bit of an expert.

At five years old it was ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, the most commonly diagnosed mental disorder of children, but of course, I was too young to be legally diagnosed as such.

At six years old it was Schizoid, a personality disorder, characterised by the lack of interest in social relationships, having a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, emotional coldness and apathy. I just didn’t like anyone .

A few years later it was Alexithymia, a marked dysfunction in emotional awareness, social attachment and interpersonal relating. I just wasn’t interested in anyone. Then in my teens it was Bi-Polar, dissociative disorder, a mental disorder with periods of depression and periods of elevated mood, emotions that I could never control. Then as I reached adulthood it was Schizophrenia, characterised by abnormal social behaviour and a  failure to understand what is real. I was the only person alive that knew what was real. Psychopathy, distinguished by persistent anti-social behaviour, impaired empathy and remorse, and bold, disinhibited, egotistical traits, again emotions I could not control. And then Sociopathy, characterised by the lack of regard for the moral or legal standards in culture, which would always be difficult for me. You are all wrong, I am right.

At the end, four different Doctors couldn’t agree, diagnosing Multi Personality Disorder, Schizophrenia and Antisocial Personality Disorder of an extreme nature. MPD, APD or the big S. Still, they didn’t know.

In fact none of you know, anything about anything!

I have heard it so many times, ‘I’m mental!’ Don’t make me laugh. Do you seriously believe that you were put on this earth for the way YOU live YOUR lives? Really?

Being told that I am mad in itself is quite crazy, especially when it’s by people who are obsessed by craziness themselves. Those who are consumed by irrelevant commodities, such as the ones obsessed by their football teams? Crying when THEY lost in a Cup final or when THEY get relegated.  

Or by the ones besotted by some celebrity?  Writing to them, trying to dress like them, dreaming about them, crying and laughing with them. Or by those of you who work your whole life for that manmade concept, wealth. Unable to take any of it away with you when you die, teaching your children the very same hypothesis.  

Or for spending endless hours knitting or sewing, or for spending over half  your life doing housework, making sure the house is spotless, just in case you get a visitor. Or for routinely cleaning the car, mowing the lawn, painting the house, or crying because your partner was unfaithful, or for playing computer games, or sleeping with as many people as you can for no other reason but pleasure.  Or for partying until you have no control over your bodily functions, or for any one of the other million reasons that take over your life.

You still don’t get it do you? In fact only twenty percent of our global population do sort of half-get-it, and most of them live in third world tribes.

I have tried to explain the truth, as have many others before me, but it seems that the whole of the civilised world cannot understand.

You see, this is not the real world. This is just the place we dwell in, for the shortest periods of time, to defeat whatever challenge we have set ourselves. Instead, you all continue to drift further from the truth, destined to spend your entire existence living meaningless lives. Dying, then coming back, then dying, then coming back, again and again and again, forever, for the rest of eternity; never learning, making each of your lives worthless.  Making it irrelevant whether you live or die. Filled with worthless emotions, pulling you further away from the truth.

As for me? I’m different. I know the truth. I don’t suffer your weaknesses, the crying, the happiness, the sadness, jealousy, hatred, love or any of the other emotions designed to cloud our minds, to make our challenge harder. You see, I know this is not the real world; I am only here for myself, my own development.

Emotion is both the appreciator and destroyer of the soul.  Good emotions bring pleasure to life, while bad emotion is the venom of evil. It is a vapour from the soul that elicits bodily hormones to arouse powerful desires. It torpedoes the truth and transforms reality into fantasy. It appreciates music and brings pleasure and pain. It is a gentle breeze and a raging storm. Because it is such a powerful indicator between good and evil, one must become his master or its slave.

I had become its master. The only time I ever cried was that moment I entered this world from my mother’s womb, crying with regret, for leaving the sanctuary of home, wishing that I had never  ventured forth. Yes I remember that moment but you don’t have to believe me.

Multi Personality Disorder, Schizophrenia and Antisocial Personality Disorder of an extreme nature. How wrong could you be? Just listen to yourselves and your rationale.

Multi Personality disorder, described by the medical profession as a condition wherein a person’s identity is fragmented into two or more distinct personalities.  Sufferers of this rare condition are usually victims of severe abuse.  Really? So one person can have two extreme characters, shy and outrageous, timid and ferocious, good and evil. Do you really believe that?

Firstly, it is not a rare condition. In fact today I would say that about fifty percent of human bodies, shells or whatever you want to call your physical form, contain more than one personality.

So what is your personality? It is, for your information, who you are! It is impossible to have two personalities. Everyone is different.

The truth is, two spirits have occupied one body.  It is happening more and more. Two spirits, two identities, two personalities have occupied one body.

Not the way life here was intended. Of course only a single soul should enter the embryo, but at a time when spirits are continually failing to achieve their tasks or challenges here on earth, they are more and more eager to be reborn. Realising their mistakes when they return to the spirit world. So desperation takes over, an eagerness to try again, to try and make amends for the mistakes made before.  Of course with desperation comes audacity. Out go the rules, the queues, the order, the well planned freedom of choice. So what happens?

Two or more spirits enter one body, each one fighting for predominance. If they are lucky, the embryo splits and forms twins or triplets, those not so lucky share.

The most dominant spirit will usually take control, the other remains asleep, taking over only at times of stress or weakness.

Think about it, those of you that talk to yourselves, or are full of inner conflict. Torn between two lovers, two paths, two goals driving at yourself in opposite directions. When you love that song but also hate it. When you can’t believe what you did the night before.

The American Indians in fact believed that homosexuality was as a result of two spirits. They considered it to be a spiritual gift, when one body was occupied by a female spirit and a male spirit. When the opposite spirit was stronger, leading to androgynous males or masculine females.

Even in the Bible, the main man, Jesus, shared two spirits, described as the human spirit and the divine spirit. Two spirits, one body.

Or you can just believe that we are mad. With no real scientific evidence to prove it.

Yes, I may have done things that you would not understand, but with knowledge comes power, true power. I am one of them, one who shares my body with a second spirit, a spirit that is grateful for my presence. I have protected her from harm. And to do this, yes, I have killed. With no remorse, because death is not forever, life is.

I am in truth, just for your information, close to the most perfect being.  If there is a name for that,  use it; if not, call me by MY name. Not my birth name, Abigail Windsor, which is her name, which I ditched as soon as I was allowed to. But my name through choice. My choice. Call me Able. That's not as in; ​'she was able to read,' but as in; 'gifted, masterly, virtuoso, expert and brilliant’.  Abigail won’t argue, she is too weak to care, besides she means nothing.

Somehow she managed to sneak into my shell, probably during my moment of distress when I entered this world. Not that I care, I have grown to like her. But when I’m finished I will go and she can return to join you all in your pathetic humdrum, busy-body, hollow lifestyle.

So why have I come back? What is my mission?   I didn’t know until now. I have but one mission to complete before I head back to what you may call the afterworld, and I will succeed, I can’t fail. After all I have the advantage, it’s almost like this world was created just for me. Nobody else, just me.  Most of you are lost, so as far as I am concerned this is my story and as such this is my world. The rest of you are just actors, actors who are either here to help me, distract me or are here to destroy me. There will be of course a few, only a few of you who will have your own stories.

So will I succeed? Don’t make me laugh. I can’t fail.  Like I said, it’s my story.

 

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One

1800hrs 4th August

Finally it has come. I am ready to face my challenge.  Abigail has been asleep for weeks now. I have learned to hide her. To make them think that Abigail is here, cured. A necessity to explore my task, complete it and return home.

The task itself, dawning on me after thirty years on the planet, through sheer luck. I had asked my spirit guide for help over and over again. Then, just by chance, luck, or through magical manipulation, I found myself sitting in front of the television watching a film. Terminator 2, Judgement day. You know, the one about a cyborg assassin being sent back in time to kill a boy, John Connor, son of Sarah Conner. Sent back to kill him because of his destiny to lead mankind against them. A story of how they change the future, thereby saving the world. A film that was made for me. To show me the way home. Our world is on a path to self destruction. People killing each other over religion, manmade religions that bear no resemblance to their original scriptures, when mankind had the ability to contact spirits, gaining knowledge and wisdom from their ancestors, understanding how important their roles were to complete their tasks.

Instead, now we have politicians making rules that suit. Keeping them in charge, in ways that the rich can get richer and the poor have no chance.  Creating a divide over wealth. The wrong type of wealth. Printed paper, shaped metal coins and electronic sums invented by man and endorsed by Satan himself.

Now though, I am ready. No more pretending that I understand you, that I need your help, that I am listening to you. Pretending that I care that you feel sorry for me. 'Poor girl has never laughed, She'll never know what love is.'​ It’s time for me to set the path for the new beginning of mankind. At the time of destruction there will be a new leader.

I look at the clock. Eighteen hundred hours. My door opens and in he comes. He is never late.

"Can I say Able, you look ravishing."

I can see sweat dripping off his skeletal forehead. His grin, showing his misshapen yellow teeth, like overlapping playing cards, adding to his hideousness. I just stare at him, not acknowledging his statement, which I understand is a compliment that should make me feel good. It makes me feel indifferent, but I smile, how I should. He has told me that he is my friend and I let him believe that I believe him. He is in fact nothing but a tool that I need tonight.

"Time for your walk darling," he says, reaching forward as he feels my left breast. Slipping his hand through my open necked silk shirt, straight onto my bare skin underneath, fingers brushing my nipple. I don't move. I don’t have to. It means nothing. A noise from outside the door makes him quickly pull his hand away. I know that he shouldn’t be doing this, but it doesn’t bother me and I need him.

The night nurse comes into my room, singing a Whitney Houston song, something about loving someone.

She stops and speaks, "Able, you look lovely in that suit.  Very professional. Will you need anything for supper tonight? Or are you buying something out on your walk?"

The singing is supposed to make people happy, me happy. I feel nothing, but I smile how I’m supposed to, how Abigail would smile, that's what they like.  

"No thank you Daisy, I think I will buy something out." I’m polite because I have to be. It makes them weak and happy.

"Are you OK Timmy?" Daisy sings to my escort for the night. The same volunteer that I have had for two nights a week, for the past four weeks.  Two nights! My full allowed ration of outdoor activity.

"Yes thank you Ma'am," says Timmy the carer without looking up, "Come on Able. Let's get going."

I pick up my brown briefcase. It matches my designer brown suit. I'm allowed to wear my high heel shoes for my walks and already had them on.  He goes to take my hand but thinks better of it and leads the way.

We walk out of my room, which is just a small bedroom, plain pastel coloured walls, a hospital bed, a chest of drawers and a window that doesn’t open.  We go into the corridor. My heels click and echo on the laminate floor.

Timmy leads me into the communal area, which is full. I notice Jake sat at a table, eyes glazed, staring at the blank screen of the television which is switched off. He’s pulling facial expressions and speaking, answering questions asked by his friend, invisible to us. Perhaps his spirit guide? The lost ones tell him that he is crazy. I know that he isn't, he just doesn’t care.

Mrs Talbot is scrubbing furiously at the calluses on her feet with her painted pebble. Eager to rid herself of the evils her skin has soaked up from her Mephistophelian footsteps of life.

Ashley and Simon are standing at the book- shelves pretending to peruse the contents, but secretly they touch each other in places that they shouldn't. Everyone knows. The two nurses in the room choose to ignore it, as they always do and instead talk about matters that have nothing to do with their employment.

Melissa sits in front of the stainless steel  institution mirror, adoring her reflection while she brushes her hair. You would call her a slut. She looks at me with that weak human trait of hatred. I don't hate, because I can't, instead I smile at her. It makes her feel worse I am told.

"Come on Able, we haven't got all day." Timmy is impatient, he wants me to himself.

We walk through the security doors, unlocked by the key's hanging on the chain clipped to his belt.  Melissa sticks her pink tongue out at me as we pass her. I smile and blow her a kiss in return and she turns away, screaming obscenities.

The nurses in the room are irritated because they might have to work as they hurry over towards her, knowing they have to get to her fast. Melissa is sure to try and head-butt the wall again, as she always does when she scream's 'Fuck'.

We walk into the reception as Timmy locks the door behind us, somewhat dulling Melisa’s screaming.

The receptionist, Pearl, calls to me, "Hello Miss Able. Can I say how lovely you look today?"

Pearl is always nice to me. She remembers the day I was last brought in, screaming curse words, fighting like a demon against the four police officers and staff, while they tried to hold me down so they could sedate me.

"Thank you" I say, smiling how I should, how Abigail should. I can smell the fresh air outside and the sun is shining, for my benefit. It is a very special day in my story.

There are ten empty seats in the reception. Two more seats are occupied. One by a male who looks strong, like a lion. I smile at him because he is staring.

"Excuse me Miss, are you a Doctor?" His voice is rough, husky but strong. He stands in anticipation, Herculean in stature.

"No I'm sorry Sir, I'm just visiting" I lied, meeting his eyes with my own. I wonder if he is like me. Has he got his own story?

"OK, no worries," he answers and returns my smile as he sits back down and then breaks our visual link. He is strong. Men never usually break eye contact with me so quickly, not without flushing or sweating.

"Come on Able," says Timmy. He is flushing and sweating, weak with desperation. Another sensation I will never know.

 

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