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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