252216-E

I have a confession to make, dear reader; I have not been entirely forthcoming with you. Let there be no misunderstanding, I have not lied to you. I have not invented my tales or embellished the details, merely recounted events as they happened. I have, however, withheld certain truths from you. One such truth, and one my family will strenuously deny, is the fact that I have a sister.

The reason my family do not acknowledge her existence is likely because she is not the kind of person you want to admit to knowing, let alone being related to. I imagine you would do the same if she were part of your family.

I have met my sister precisely three times. Each meeting lasted a few, brief minutes, so I cannot say I know a great deal about her. Even then, the things that I do know about her are largely inconsequential – hair and eye colour, height, weight and so on. The only important or relevant thing I know about her is her name – Patient 252216-E.

In order to learn how she came to live in The Hexagon we must first learn of another member of my family; my grandfather, Walter. Walter was a very strict man, but he was also a very kind man. He was the sort of person who would push you to breaking point, but only because he wanted to see you succeed.

Walter was also a very ill man. He had several minor health issues, which were only exacerbated by the fact he was a chain smoker, and had been for most of his life.

Walter’s health and habits eventually caught up with him and, some days after my sisters twelfth birthday, he had a stroke. Although it was only a mild stroke, the doctor was not very optimistic about Walter’s future. He told us in no uncertain terms that my grandfather was on his last legs and that it would be for the best if the old man settled his debts, made his peace and revised his will – That way his earthly business would be concluded and we would have less to worry about when he passed on.

As soon as the doctor made mention of the word ‘will’, the wheels in my sisters’ head began to turn. She devised a stratagem that, while lacking in moral fibre, would yield enormous financial gain.

She reasoned thus: Walter would be revising his will and, since he had lost some of his mental facilities, he would distribute his wealth based on the here and now, rather than things past. Therefore, if my sister spent time with Walter, he would recognise this and give her an exceptionally large pay-off when he eventually passed away.

Initially my sister was content to simply visit Walter before or after school, just to check on how he was doing, but after a while she began to spend whole days with him. These days turned into weeks and, once her truancy had gotten her expelled from school, she devoted all her time to being with Walter, only returning home to pick up new clothes.

The most tragic part of my sister’s reprehensible scheme was not that she was robbing a lonely old man, but that Walter genuinely believed that my sister loved him, cared for him and wanted to spend time with him. If he did know then he certainly did not show it, since he doted on her every bit as much as she doted on him.

Something that brought my grandfather no end of joy was putting my sister to bed. Every night that she spent with him, he would tuck her in, kiss her forehead and sit by her bed, singing to her until she fell asleep. I will grant you this is a fairly unorthodox practice since very few twelve year olds need lullabies to help them sleep, but Walter simply did not care. After all, my sister was doing something for him; she deserved something in return.

Walter’s lullaby of choice was a song called “I’ll get by (as long as I have you).” Rather than try to explain the songs meanings or give my own interpretation of the prose, allow me to recite some of the songs lyrics:

This old world was just as sad a place for me as could be.

I was lonely and blue.

This whole world then changed to paradise for me, suddenly.

Why? Because I met you.

The lyrics continue in the same vein for several verses. I am sure you get the idea what kind of a song it is.

“I’ll get by” held great sentimental value for my grandfather since it had been with him for his entire life. It was the song that inspired him to learn to play the cornet as a child, it was the song that he sang with his company when fighting in the trenches and it was the song he sang to his girlfriend when his girlfriend became his wife. He was more than happy to give the song even more emotional significance by singing it to his precious granddaughter.

But things change, as they do, and Walter’s health eventually got the best of him. He passed away a few months after his stroke. Fairly uncharacteristically for my town, it was not gruesome or prolonged, unwarranted or vengeful. In fact, father always joked that since Walter had lived in this town all his life, served in World War 2 AND spent fifty-seven years married to my grandmother he would probably consider it an insult to die in his sleep.

The funeral came and went without issue and some days later it was time for the will reading. You would be surprised by how many people crawled out of the woodwork to see what they would receive. To give you an idea of just how many people turned up, my grandfather was the third of twelve children and all of his siblings were there, as were their children, their grandchildren and so on.

Even more amazing than the number of people who turned up was the fact that everybody present received something. Even I inherited something and I was barely a few months old at the time.

As the reading went on my sisters’ hope began to fade. She was visibly disgusted with every aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, cousin or sibling that got mentioned, since they were taking money and possessions that she thought, no, that she knew she deserved.

In spite of her self-righteous outrage my sister was the last person to get mentioned in the will. An amendment to the will, made just days before Walter passed away, bequeathed unto my sister, “Everything she deserves”.

My sister was furious. Walter had given her a beautiful, heartfelt sentiment and a Zen moment of peace, and everyone else in the room agreed. But heartfelt sentiments have no monetary value and Zen moments of peace cannot be exchanged for shoes or clothes or make-up. She was incensed that, having spent all that time around Walter, he had not given her some huge cash pay-off.

That night, as she lay in bed, my sister was attacked by one of the most cruel and spiteful monsters of all: perspective. She was angry that she had spent all that time with my grandfather and had nothing to show for it, but she also felt ungovernably sad for precisely the same reason.

For all the time she had spent with Walter the only things she knew about him were the most basic, cursory details. She could not remember any of his stories, jokes, games or anything along those lines. The only thing she knew for sure was that Walter’s favourite song was a scratchy gramophone recording of some woman singing, “I’ll get by”.

Given the mixture of anger and remorse that was plaguing her, it is hardly surprising that my sister had trouble getting to sleep that night. As the hours rolled by she realised there was nothing else for it – she began to sing to herself. Her lullaby of choice was, of course, the delightful tune, “I’ll get by (As long as I have you).”

It worked. By the time she was halfway through the first verse she was back in the guest bedroom at Walter’s house. She was warm, comfy and safe in the knowledge that he was sat beside her bed, keeping a watchful eye on he.

My sister was so wrapped up in her own little world of self-denial that she failed to realise she was not the only person who was singing. In fact, it was only when she paused to take a breath that she heard Walter’s voice, singing a beautiful, harmonious accompaniment to her rendition of the song.

The ghostly singing refused to stop; when Walter reached the final line of the last verse, he simply began the song again. And again. And again.

Perhaps understandably, my sister did not take too well to being haunted. Very few people do, really. My sister did better than most, however, since she realised she could dismiss the spectral voice by drowning it out with her own voice.

Thus, from that point on, my sister devoted every waking moment of her life to making as much noise as she possibly could. Of course, my sisters’ melodious malady was cute to begin with, but it quickly became intolerable. Attempts to send her back to school failed when she was termed a disruptive influence, guidance counsellors refused to see her when their methods failed and, eventually, even my parents wanted nothing more to do with her; all because she would not shut up out of fear that she would begin to hear Walter once again.

When conventional methods failed to fix my sister, my parents did the only thing they could and committed her to The Hexagon. I would like to say they had her institutionalised as a means of getting her some help or trying to fix her, but, really, they simply wanted some peace and quiet. Come to think of it, this is probably why I am so softly spoken; I would much rather remain quiet than spend the rest of my life here. But I digress.

My sister remained in The Hexagon until it closed, at which point she was relocated to a facility elsewhere in the country. As far as I know she is still alive and is still singing in order to drown out the musical spirit following her around. Of course, I could be wrong and she may have died some years ago without my knowledge. Frankly, I am not in any particular hurry to find out.

Do not think I am alone in feeling a total lack of interest regarding my sisters’ fate; nobody else in my family cares. In fact, you can ask any other member of my family and they will all tell you the same thing: I am an only child and I always have been. In fact, mother has gone so far as to destroy my sisters’ birth certificates, baby pictures, anything that would give any hint that she ever existed.

But I know better. I know she’s real. I know I’ve seen her. And I know the selfish little wretch got everything she deserved, just like Walter said.

Some of you may wish to hear the song that led to Patient 252216-E’s breakdown. I shall oblige: