Vertigo

 This is another creative piece I wrote, about a girl in the 18th century. She was developed from a mash-up of inspirations, such as Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre's Bertha Mason, Mr. Rochester's mad wife, and Sarah Water's Fingersmiths. 

This girl, stranded on an mysterious island is confused and helpless: and as the short piece's story unveils her past, she is forced to acknowledge the fact that she has for so long denied. 

I will not say anymore! Enjoy reading :) 

Vertigo

Boom. Dark, cold rain sliced through her mangled hair. A faded tag with the number “113” floated ghostly white above her heart as her nails dug into the sandy ground. It was as if ink had bled into her eyes; everything was dark. The grey rag that hung from her flesh flashed as a symphony of rage blasted in the sky. The girl suddenly sprang up; fear fulgurated electric blue in her eyes. She felt the sand nip at her callused toes; shards of glass stabbed her flesh. The raindrops crashed at her feet, creating a watery explosion as the sea sent a salty scream and roared from behind, engulfing her. Stumbling, she steered away from the sea, her breaths quick and sharp and shallow. She felt as if she was walking on wire, her head a meteoric merry-go-round. The girl felt light and giddy, and for some reason colorful laughter escaped her bloody, cut lips. Abruptly, she fell into the darkness of the night that welcomed her with wide, open arms. And then, all was black.         

                                                                                                           ***

“No!” she screamed awake, piercing the soft, mild morning air. Remnants of the dream lingered in her head, taunting her. Sonorous songs sung by mysterious birds trickled faintly in the distance, and the beach along with what lay behind it was illuminated. Her arms flailed like the faded trees that crouched behind her and the wind howled in a tone of misery. Everything was too bright: the sun’s fiery fingers incinerated her eyes; the scintillating sand burned in the light and a gust of wind grazed her cheeks and tugged at her dark, grimy hair. It felt like Those Days before: the brightness of it all. She hated white; too crisp, too clean. As she swatted the air, the girl shut her eyes. A pause. Then she threw her head back and uttered a guttural giggle while her legs kicked violently at the sand, eyes closed. A smile plastered from cheek to cheek as she lifted one eyelid: “I’ve escaped!” Beads of laughter ran a marathon. As she opened the other eye slowly, silence deafened her ears. Realization snaked its way through her mind: Where am I?

She gasped, inhaling the salty air. She heard the sashaying waves as they smashed against the sharp, polished rocks. Then it came to her: the many months of meticulous planning to escape, leading to that one fateful day she succeeded – she had hauled herself on a ship that meant to sail her back home to her Thomas. But one mad night on-board, there was a raging storm that frightened her to the core. The next part happened in a blur: unable to stand the noise, she jumped off the ship and plunged into the open mouth of the sea. But where was this place?

As her gaze swept the area around her, she got a better view of her surroundings. The sea, a deep green watery fire licked the grainy shore in front of her; behind, a puff of trees cropped the beach as it built up to a hidden hill; and to her sides lay a stretch of uneven sand. It seemed about midday: the sun blazed high in the sky like an incandescent amethyst. A mirage glistened, radiating the humidity that encircled the island. The girl started towards the mass of foliage, its vines and claw-like leaves beckoning her in. Come, come, and welcome. Her mind blazed back to the prelude to Those Days: the cold, obsidian metal doors opening and coats slapped white and ivory gloves reeling her in whispering: “Come, come, and welcome.”

Come!

She snapped back to the present, and thrashed at the talons of the trees, shrieking. Hatred bubbled black and livid in her heart, as a bitter taste shrouded her tongue. She would never be fooled again. Never. Bursting from the canopy, a squawk of birds swooped into the sky, startled by the sudden eruption of noise. This made her even more furious, and her screams and rage echoed off every wispy leaf. She delved further into the mass of viridescent vegetation: thorns pricking, twigs snapping and leaves snagging. Crying out in pain, the girl stopped. She closed her eyes. 

Letting go a long sigh, she reopened her eyes and marched forward, relaxed. The light wasn’t as violent and the air seemed cooler, surrounded by the breathing and watchful undergrowth. Golden afternoon light that snuck through the tangle of trees and leaves shimmered like gems; an intricate melody sung by birds wavered vaguely afar and vivid, glossed butterflies flitted here and there. She hadn’t experienced such tranquility and soft quiet – in Those Days, her head was wrapped in a cacophony of screams and wailing and distress. Oh, she used to have such a good life: the satin ball gowns, the pearl necklaces, and the house embroidered with intricate baroque carvings on every corner. She remembered the marble floors that seemed to flow with their own natural patterns: the swirl of colours that waltzed in the light. She remembered the extravagant balls and bright lights that flickered in tune with the beat of the music. The girl missed the old days; she missed the grand pillars and delicate embellishments spilling from the walls. She missed her life before Those Days.  

The girl strained to repaint the worn, faded memories of her old life, but instead it sent a streak of pain through her head. She tried to remember why she ended up in that nightmarish place at all: how could it be that one day she would be riding her glossy, groomed horse with Thomas in her lush garden, and the next she is stripped of her prestige and instead locked in a tiny windowless cell? What disastrous thing could have caused such quaking change?

No, make it stop! It hurts to remember. Stop, stop, stop!

The girl stopped trying to remember, but she wondered if they’ve discovered her absence yet: if the whole place was buzzing with disorder, the patients thrashing in their cells and the men clad in their white coats and gloves striding through the dim, whitewashed hallways. Unconsciously, her fingers found the tag sewn onto her tattered rags.

“I don’t belong to you anymore.” Her voice rasped with the thirst for water, yet she smiled triumphantly, teeth yellowed and lips chapped. As her fingers grasped tighter, threatening to rip out the tag, she found herself at an opening. Her breath left her lips as she stood mesmerized on a steep cliff: the sleepy amber sun nestled amongst flaxen cotton clouds; the sky was streaked sapphire as the day mingled with night; and in the distance, the cerulean sea hushed. It was bliss.

Suddenly, she heard it.

Boom.

Once again stunned by the noise, a flock of birds shot from the trees. Ahead, smoky clouds rolled like marbles over the sun, blocking the last shining rays of the day. The leafy wings of the trees turned into pointy piercing pincers as the salty, crisp wind bellowed. The sea heaved a watery sigh and the grey, lamenting clouds cried bulbous tears, almost as if they were sorry for what was to come:

Ba-boom.

Howling, the girl wrenched the tag free from the filthy tatters given to her when she first arrived at the hospital – locked and left behind pale doors, in the dark. At the same time, her rags tore; it fell to the ground by her feet, leaving her stained skin bare and vulnerable. The icy rain left a trail of fire on her skin: slashing, smoldering, and scorching. Thunder cracked in the sky and illuminated the darkness for a split second. Panting, the girl dropped to her knees, defeated, as the stony ground re-opened old wounds, spilling scarlet. She bawled and thrashed. Lightning bled amongst the shadows like snowy roots growing, flaring. The girl didn’t like this; it reminded her too much of Those Days. The doctors would come; gloves slapped tight round their wrists; bony, elongated fingers clutched two ebony rods. She would squeal and resist, biting her tongue till she tasted warm metallic blood ooze out - but alas their strength outweighed hers - and grinning malevolently, they would whack the rods against her flesh sending incandescent electric shocks through her body, leaving her breathless. There would always be an evil glint in their eyes before they strode through the door, till the next ‘therapy’ scheduled.

In that instant, she remembered how she ended up in the Bedlam. Of course, she was never really mad: it was all because of her uncle. As an orphan, the girl had to stay with her rich aunt and uncle and their daughter, Emma. They grew up loving each other like sisters, but that was until Thomas entered their lives. Thomas came from a very well respected and wealthy family in London. He was painfully handsome and charming and a gentleman. He had captured both girls’ hearts in a second. But of course, the two girls could not simply share Thomas: only one could be with him. Needless to say, it was obvious that the orphan girl would be the one: she had dark, raven curls and rosy lips curved like a ribbon and long, lush lashes that fluttered just enough to be known to one as an act of flirtation. Her eyes: the shade of the most prized sapphire drew Thomas in like a magnet; her porcelain skin made Emma shabby and incomparable.

The girl remembered how every day on the brink of midnight Thomas would sing her name from the sleepy garden below her window. He would pronounce each syllable carefully as if they were made of glass. He would call out her name-

-What was her name?

The girl curled into a ball, and rocked back and forth. She scrunched her eyes tight, as if trying to squeeze out her name from the box of memories that rusted away in her head. All she knew now ever since Those Days was that she was simply “113”: the same number that had been sewn on her rags. Five years spent only responding to those numbers. Five years spent in that unspeakable place. Five years spent amongst crazy people who screamed and yelled and thrashed and kicked and bit and spat. She always hoped that the doctors would find out the truth of why she was really there, that she was not crazy at all. But they never did. She was one of them: she was one of the patients now. Yowling, she dug her fingers into the ground, scraping her long, sharp nails against the stones.

Thomas used to call out to her every night he would call and call and call and sing and sing and sing he was so handsome and lovely and oh what a gentleman he sang her name and he sang and sang and sang and Thomas used to call her name-

-What was her name?

Thomas used to call: “Elspeth” every night he would call and call and call-

-That was her name! Thomas used to sing out “Elspeth” every night, and she would climb down and melt in his warm embrace. But one night Thomas did not come: instead, it was her uncle. He grabbed her roughly by her smooth arms and threw her into a dark, maroon carriage. “Take her to the Institute.” He grunted to the coachman, and said no more. He did not even look at her. He did not explain. He left her in a state of shock and confusion. Elspeth, the beautiful maiden who captured the rich Thomas’s heart, the girl who had stolen her cousin’s betrothed, the orphan girl, got carried into the demonic and nightmarish night that would change her life forever.

Instantaneously, tangy tears interweaved with the droplets from the sky as it slid down Elspeth’s upturned face. Eyes closed, all that went through her ears was the sounds of earth’s anger fighting with her own thumping heartbeats. In an instant, amidst the storm, the girl heard a faint voice calling from below. Curious, she peered over the sheer perimeter of the cliff.

Was she dreaming? Could it possibly be him?

Thomas. He was calling for her: beckoning her to come, like all those nights when she lived in the beautiful mansion amidst balls and expensive dresses. She forgot about the gale, the rain, and the confusion. Elspeth grinned, her tears almost rid of any remorse. She tried to scream, to call out back to him, but her voice vanished as the words formed in her mouth. Her throat throbbed with her strain but she ignored the pain. Thomas was waiting for her. All the time spent separated from him made Elspeth mad. The angry sea splashed against the sharp, ragged rocks, almost as if it were impatient. The girl couldn’t stay any longer. She bent her bony knees, ready to jump. She was ready for him.

As her feet sprang off the wet escarpment, water mingled with wind and Thomas’s face changed. It was the doctor’s. Clad in white, he held the two rods. He smacked them together, smiling:

“Come closer, dear.”

The girl shrieked with shock: no, no! It cannot be!

Immediately, his face changed back to Thomas’s. The girl felt confused: she wanted to go back to the cliff.

But it was too late.

In a quick blur, she reached the bottom. She felt his arms wrap around her, but not before she realised a painful sensation raging in her shoulders and everywhere else in her body. It wasn’t Thomas’s arms - they were rocks.

Boom.

 

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