Tell Her Nothing

"Camp politics are like origami—everything looks simple until you're three folds in and suddenly nothing lines up anymore. Also, there's significantly more screaming when someone resets your broken finger."

As I lay on the mattress, still grappling with the intricacies of the camp's social dynamics, the flap of the tent rustled open.

The familiar, yet previously unknown man, whom I now knew as Paul, pushed his way inside.

I'd pieced together a few things about him overnight. Paul was the one whose arm I'd grabbed in the lagoon—the one I'd nearly crushed while breaking my own finger. Luke’s brother, if I'd understood the conversations correctly. Older than Luke by a few years. Something about his face that reminded me of someone, though I couldn't quite place who.

"You two look well," Paul said, his tone casual yet carrying an underlying note of formality.

Do we? I thought. I felt like roadkill that had been scraped off the asphalt and put back together by someone working from a badly translated instruction manual.

"Well enough," Jamie responded tersely, his voice lacking the warmth it had held when addressing me earlier.

The temperature in the tent dropped a few degrees. Not literally—it was still warm, that oppressive dusty warmth that seemed to be Clivilius's default setting—but something in the air shifted. The way molecules rearrange themselves when a storm is coming.

"I'm just collecting my suitcase to take to the other tent," Paul announced, moving quickly to gather his belongings scattered on the floor.

His movements were efficient, hinting at a desire to avoid lingering. Like a delivery driver who's behind schedule—get in, grab the package, get out. No small talk. No eye contact.

"Why?" Jamie's question was straightforward, yet there was an undercurrent of curiosity in his voice.

"Oh, Kain and I thought it would be a good idea if we took the third tent and left you and Joel to have this one," Paul explained, stuffing his clothes into the bag with a sense of urgency. "And Luke, if he ever stays with us."

Luke.

The name landed between them like a dropped brick.

"Hmph," Jamie scoffed, his scepticism evident. "I'm not sure Luke will be spending many nights with us."

Observing their interaction from my isolated spot on the mattress, I sensed the tension between Jamie and Paul.

It was like watching two magnets with the same polarity—they occupied the same space but couldn't quite come together. Every word, every gesture, every shift in posture carried weight I didn't understand.

It was clear that Jamie harboured some form of resentment or mistrust towards Paul. Aside from understanding that Luke was Jamie's partner, the disdain in Jamie's voice suggested deeper, unresolved issues.

What the hell happened between these people?

I was starting to feel like I'd walked into a family reunion where everyone was still angry about something that happened at Christmas three years ago, and nobody would tell me what it was.

Paul, seemingly unaffected by Jamie's attitude, or perhaps choosing to ignore it, quickly zipped his bag and, without another word, exited the tent, bag in hand.

The swift departure left an uneasy silence in his wake.

The canvas flap swung closed, and the tent felt smaller somehow. Emptier, despite still holding two people and two dogs.

I lay there, pondering the complexities of the relationships within the camp.

It appeared that alliances and animosities ran deep here, and I was only just beginning to scratch the surface. Jamie's interactions with both Glenda and Paul hinted at a web of tensions and past events that I was yet to understand.

Like constellations, I thought. Points of light that seem close together from where I'm standing, but are actually separated by vast distances. Connected by lines I've drawn myself, not by actual proximity.

As an outsider, I felt both intrigued and apprehensive about delving deeper into the camp's dynamics.

Back home, relationships were simpler. Mum and me. Garry at the depot, who complained about his ex-wife but bought everyone coffee on Fridays. Mrs. Johnson next door, who always asked about my origami and pretended to be impressed. A small universe with predictable orbits.

This place was different. This was a gravitational nightmare—too many bodies pulling in too many directions, and I had no idea which way was up.

"Hmph," Jamie scoffed again, his irritation palpable.

He turned away, moving towards the cleared right wing of the tent. His actions and reactions to the camp members painted a picture of a man embroiled in uneasy relationships.

Is everyone here someone he's got a problem with?

"Is there anyone... here... that you like?" I asked him, my voice hoarse and strained.

The words scraped out of my throat like sandpaper on rust. But it was a genuine question, reflecting my growing curiosity about Jamie's place in this strange community.

If I was going to be stuck here—and it was becoming increasingly clear that "here" wasn't a temporary pit stop on the way back to Tasmania—I needed to understand the lay of the land. Who was allied with whom. Who to trust. Who to avoid.

Mum had always said I asked too many questions. Curiosity killed the cat, she'd remind me whenever I pushed too hard on some topic she didn't want to discuss.

Well, Mum, curiosity didn't kill me. A knife to the throat did. And look how that turned out.

Jamie turned back to face me, his shoulders lifting in a light shrug.

"I like you," he said simply.

"Hardly reassuring," I replied in a low, exhausted voice, letting my heavy eyes close.

The words came out sharper than I'd intended. But I couldn't help it.

I couldn't help but feel a surge of bitterness.

You've never been part of my life. You've never been there for us. How can you possibly like me? You don't know anything about me.

Nineteen years of absence. Nineteen years of Mum telling me my father was dead. Nineteen years of wondering what he might have been like, building fantasies around a ghost.

And now this stranger was telling me he liked me, as if that word meant something after two days of acquaintance. As if liking someone was the same as knowing them. As if a few hours of carrying me through red dust and helping me undress made up for missing my entire childhood.

The thoughts swirled with a mix of anger and sadness.

You don't know that I fold origami cranes when I can't sleep. You don't know that I can identify forty-seven constellations visible from the southern hemisphere. You don't know that I quit school to support Mum, or that I sometimes resented her for needing me to.

You don't know anything.

"What's that supposed..." Jamie began, but he was interrupted.

"Hey, Uncle Jamie," a young man's voice cut through the tent.

It was Kain, whom I recognised from the previous night's campfire. Short, athletic build, the kind of easy confidence that came from being good at things without having to try too hard. The sort of bloke who probably played football and had a girlfriend and a future that made sense.

Everything I wasn't.

"Anyone else want to interrupt us this morning!?" Jamie snapped, his frustration evident.

Kain recoiled slightly, stepping back as if to leave.

The reaction was immediate—the slight flinch, the withdrawal. Like a dog that had been yelled at unexpectedly. It made me feel oddly protective of him, even though I didn't know him at all.

"Kain, wait," Jamie called after him.

I mentally noted the correct guess of Kain's name.

Small victory. It reassured me that my mental faculties were still intact amidst the physical chaos. My body might be operating at about five percent capacity, but at least my brain was keeping up.

Kain turned slowly to face his uncle.

"I'm... It's okay if you stay," continued Jamie.

The apology was implicit in the tone, if not the words. Jamie's anger had misfired—aimed at the interruption, but landing on someone who didn't deserve it.

Kain hesitated before turning back to face his uncle.

"I... I just wanted to see how Joel was doing," he said, his nervousness evident in his shifting stance.

Me?

The idea that someone I'd barely met would come specifically to check on me was strange. Back home, if I called in sick to the depot, Garry would grumble about rearranging the schedule. Mum would fuss. That was the extent of people caring about my wellbeing.

"I'm fine," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

I wished I could project more strength, more assurance in my words. But my physical state limited me, leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Fine was a lie, obviously. I was approximately as far from fine as it was possible to be while still technically being alive. But what else was I supposed to say? Actually, I died two days ago, my throat was cut open, I have blood that shouldn't exist, a broken finger, and some sort of alien entity has claimed ownership of my soul?

That seemed like a lot for casual conversation.

Kain's concern, however genuine, only served to remind me of my current helplessness. I longed for the day when I could answer such inquiries with confidence and vigour, rather than a feeble whisper.

Kain's reaction to my speaking was one of evident surprise, his eyes widening as he took a few steps closer.

"Oh... you can talk now?" he asked, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Now?

So they'd been talking about me. Discussing the mute corpse that had washed up in their lagoon. Wondering if I'd ever speak again, or if I'd just lie there like a broken machine until I finally stopped working altogether.

"Getting there," I managed to reply, feeling the strain on my throat with each word.

Speaking was like walking through a field of thorns, each syllable a prickly challenge. Every word cost me something—scraped against damaged tissue, vibrated through structures that hadn't fully healed.

But I could do it. That was something.

Jamie crouched beside me with the bottle of water.

"You'd better give your voice a rest, and have more water. Keep your throat hydrated," he advised.

I was frustrated by my weakness, but grateful for his care. I let him help me back down onto the mattress.

The horizontal position was becoming my default state. Lying down, staring at canvas, waiting for my body to remember how to function. Like a computer stuck in safe mode, running at minimum capacity while it tried to repair itself.

Just then, Glenda re-entered the tent, carrying a bag of supplies.

"You ready?" she asked, eyeing me with a professional gaze.

Ready for what?

The question sounded ominous. In my experience, nothing good ever followed "you ready?" It was what dentists asked before the drill. What teachers asked before handing back exams. What Garry asked before assigning me the route nobody wanted.

Kain, looking a bit out of place, asked, "You don't need me, do you?"

"No. Jamie and I can manage," Glenda replied, her focus on the task at hand. "He's getting good practice."

Jamie's response was immediate and sharp.

"I'm not your fucking lap-dog," he barked.

The words cracked through the tent like a whip.

I flinched. Couldn't help it. The sudden aggression, the venom in his voice—it was like watching a dog you thought was friendly suddenly bare its teeth.

The tension in the tent was palpable, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort.

I'm not sure I like this side of my father. Was this the reason my mother had kept me a secret from him?

The thought surfaced before I could stop it. Dark. Uncharitable. Maybe unfair.

But I couldn't shake it. Mum had never explained why she'd told me my father was dead. Had never given me a reason for the lie. I'd assumed it was something simple—that he'd abandoned her, or that she'd wanted to protect me from some shameful truth.

But what if it was this? What if she'd seen this anger in him—this sudden, unpredictable rage—and decided I was better off not knowing him at all?

Kain, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, quickly excused himself.

"I'm going to give myself a quick wash," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, before quietly exiting the tent.

Poor bastard. He'd just come to check on me, and he'd walked into a minefield.

Jamie's outburst seemed to go unnoticed by Glenda, who knelt beside me, her medical supplies at the ready.

Or maybe not unnoticed. Maybe just ignored. Glenda struck me as the type who had seen worse—who had learned to tune out interpersonal drama in favour of attending to the wounded.

"Can you sit?" she asked, offering her arms for support.

Again?

This constant sitting up and lying down was exhausting. Like being a jack-in-the-box with a broken spring. Every time I managed to get upright, something pushed me back down.

I grimaced as I made another effort to sit up, feeling every muscle protest.

The muscles complained. My stomach clenched. My head swam. But I managed it—sort of. Slumped forward like a sack of potatoes, but technically vertical.

In the meantime, Jamie, visibly agitated, declared, "I'm going to get the fucking bucket of water."

He stormed out of the tent, the flap falling into Duke's face. The little dog, ever eager, squeezed through the gap, his paws scuffing up a cloud of dust as he followed Jamie out.

And then there were two.

"Bite down on this," Glenda told me, encouraging me to clamp down on a tightly-rolled t-shirt.

I stared at the fabric. This was the kind of thing they did in old war movies, wasn't it? Before the surgeon took your leg off without anaesthetic. Before someone dug a bullet out of your shoulder with a knife heated over a campfire.

This is going to hurt.

My body, already aching and fragile, tensed up in anticipation of the impending pain. The drama of my father's exit had momentarily distracted me, but now the reality of what was about to happen hit me full force.

I took the t-shirt. Bit down. Felt my jaw clench around the fabric.

Like biting down on a steering wheel during a crash, I thought absurdly. Brace for impact.

"You'll be okay," Glenda assured me, her gaze meeting mine.

Her eyes were full of a professional resolve, but I could detect a hint of empathy in them. The look of someone who knew what she was about to do would cause pain, and genuinely wished there was another way.

"I need to straighten your finger. I won't lie to you, it's going to hurt like hell, but I need to strap your broken finger to your adjoining fingers to keep it in place."

Hurt like hell.

At least she was honest. I appreciated that, even as every cell in my body screamed at me to run. Not that running was an option. Not that anything was an option except lying here and letting this happen.

My face contorted in a grimace as I bit down on the shirt with all the strength I could muster. The shirt muffled my groans as Glenda prepared to straighten my finger.

"You ready?" she asked, her voice steady.

No. Absolutely not. Never.

With a heavy heart and a mind brimming with trepidation, I nodded.

Glenda moved swiftly, not giving me time to reconsider.

Smart. If she'd hesitated, I might have chickened out. Might have begged her to wait, to find another way, to give me something for the pain first.

Through the haze of pain, I saw her wince as she straightened my broken finger.

Even she felt it. Even the professional who did this for a living couldn't quite keep the grimace off her face.

Her grip on my wrist was firm, preventing me from pulling away. The pain was excruciating, searing through me like wildfire.

It hurts like fucking hell!

The thought exploded through my brain in capital letters. Every nerve in my hand was screaming, sending messages of absolute catastrophe up to a brain that could do nothing but receive them.

"Almost done," Glenda's voice came through, tinged with a mix of sympathy and determination. "Now we just need to strap it to your other fingers. You may feel a bit more pain, but the worst is over."

The worst is over.

I wanted to believe her. I really did.

I could barely process her words as the pain intensified. I hissed through clenched teeth, biting deeper into the fabric of the shirt.

It felt like a shark biting down, an act of primal survival. My jaw ached from the force of it. My whole body had gone rigid, every muscle locked in response to the assault on my finger.

Sweat began to bead on my forehead, trickling down my face, a physical testament to the agony I was enduring.

As Glenda removed the rolled t-shirt from my mouth, strings of saliva stretching like a spider's silk bridge, her next words offered a glimmer of relief.

"I'll give you some medication to take the edge off the pain," she said.

Medication. Yes. Please.

The physical relief was welcome. I'd take whatever she was offering. Horse tranquillisers. Industrial-strength painkillers. Actual horse, if it would help.

"Do you have any allergies that you are aware of?"

"No," I croaked out a response, slightly shaking my head.

A bead of sweat rolled into my eye, adding a sting to my current discomfort. As if I needed more discomfort. As if the universe had a quota to fill.

"Okay," Glenda said, her hands busy rummaging through her bag.

"Oh," I interjected, a sudden memory surfacing. "There is one thing, actually."

It felt almost absurd to mention it, given the gravity of my situation, but it felt important to be thorough. Mum had drilled that into me. Always tell doctors everything. They can't help you if they don't know.

"Yes?"

"Hairy caterpillars."

Glenda paused momentarily, her expression revealing a mix of confusion and curiosity, then resumed her search.

Yeah, I know. Weird allergy. Thanks for not laughing.

I'd found out the hard way when I was eight. School camp. A processionary caterpillar nest. Three days of hives and breathing problems that had terrified Mum and left me with a permanent aversion to anything that looked even remotely fuzzy and segmented.

"I don't think you need to worry about any of those critters here," she reassured me, dispensing several pills into my hand. "Just take a couple of these, get some rest, and I'll check on you regularly throughout the day."

"Thanks, Glenda," I murmured, grateful for her care yet overwhelmed by the situation.

"You're welcome," she replied, her smile broad yet fleeting.

Her sudden change in demeanour made my heart sink.

The smile was still there, but it had shifted. Become something else. The kind of smile people wore when they were about to ask a question they already knew you wouldn't want to answer.

What the fuck is wrong now?

My face felt like it couldn't fall any lower.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" Glenda asked, her eyes, intense and probing, seemed to be looking for something deeper than just a yes or no answer.

I hesitated, the words caught in my throat.

What should I tell her?

The question opened a trapdoor beneath me. My mind plummeted through it, falling through layers of memory I hadn't fully processed.

The delivery truck. The house in Berriedale. The photograph of my mother. The swirling colours of the Portal. The men. The knife. The feeling of my own blood—warm, then cold—pouring down my chest.

The void.

The voice.

You are mine, Joel Gibbons.

Caught in a whirlwind of thoughts, I struggled with the decision.

What should I reveal? What should I keep hidden?

The haunting voice of Clivilius echoed in my ears, a sinister whisper amongst my swirling thoughts, guiding me to conceal the truth.

Tell her nothing.

The instruction was clear. Absolute. The same voice that had claimed me in the void, that had told me I was his, that had punished me with sledgehammer pain when I thought too loudly.

I didn't know what Clivilius was. Didn't know if it was the planet, or some entity that lived here, or something else entirely.

But I knew I was afraid of it.

And I knew, instinctively, that telling Glenda what I remembered would be a mistake.

With a hard swallow, I masked my internal turmoil and crafted my response.

"No," I lied, mustering every bit of conviction I could.

It was crucial that I appeared believable.

I'd never been a good liar. Mum always said she could read me like a book—that my face gave everything away. But this lie felt different. This lie felt necessary. This lie was survival.

"Alright, get some rest," Glenda responded.

Her smile, warm yet fleeting, did little to ease my internal conflict.

Did she believe me? Could she tell?

She quickly gathered her medical supplies and exited the tent, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

In the solitude of the tent, I lay back down, my mind racing.

Did Glenda sense the deceit in my voice? Was my lie convincing enough?

I stared at the canvas ceiling, counting the seams, tracing the patterns of light and shadow. Looking for constellations in the folds of fabric, the way I used to look for them in the Tasmanian sky.

Orion's Belt. The Southern Cross. The Pleiades.

Familiar patterns that existed nowhere in this strange world.

For a moment, the constant pounding in my head ceased, offering me a brief respite from physical discomfort.

I savoured this rare moment of peace, fully aware that it was only temporary.

The medication was starting to work. The sharp edges of pain were dulling, becoming something more manageable. Something I could exist alongside rather than being consumed by.

Rest, Glenda had said. Get some rest.

Maybe I could. Maybe I could close my eyes and drift away for a while. Maybe I could forget where I was and pretend, just for a few minutes, that I was back in my narrow bed in Glenorchy, with the streetlight coming through the window and Mrs. Johnson’s cat yowling somewhere in the distance.

Then, just as I was beginning to relax, Clivilius's voice crept back into my consciousness.

It was soft but carried a weight of seriousness that chilled me to the bone.

You are mine, Joel Gibbons. I won't let you forget that.

The words wrapped around my mind like chains, a stark reminder of the unseen and possibly malevolent force that seemed to have a claim on me.

I lay still, staring at nothing, feeling the cold grip of that voice around my thoughts.

Mine.

Whatever I was now—whatever this resurrection had made me—I wasn't just Joel Gibbons anymore.

I belonged to something else.

And I had no idea what that meant.