Her reflection changed before her eyes.
Thunder growled and lighting tore through the clouds as the innocent little girl that stood before the mirror took her cursed form.
Silky black locks transformed into reams of matted white hair. Her back grew to full adult size in seconds before snapping forward into an excruciating hunch. Bones elongated and crunched into a tangled form. Fingers became sharp and haggard. Her red dress ripped and tried to cling to the deformed being it ensnared. Ribs were smashed under the pressure of the all too sudden change, and her now fragile legs broke, bringing her to her distorted knees.
In agony, she reached out to her innocent form that was stood watching her in sorrow from behind the blood stained mirror. At her touch, the glass shattered and the transformation was almost complete.
Time stood still, waiting for her to complete the final stage of her ordeal. She grasped a shard of mirror from the floor and dared to peer into it, at her new reflection. Time leapt back into action and with a blood curdling scream, her eyes cleaved themselves from her skull.
Thus, she was left to wander an eternity as a blinded cripple, in anguish for her sins.
Friday, 9 November 2012
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Death of the Novelist
The light from the library windows filled my bones with a welcoming warmth as I braved my way through the thundering storm. Making a hasty decision to head inside seemed the best option before continuing my journey home.
The change in temperature made me shudder as I removed my drenched coat and walked over to the towering shelves of books that would offer me temporary sanctuary from the cold and dreary reality.
I always loved the atmosphere of the library. Old fashioned in its layout, with sections of worn, leather bound books, stained glass windows and the ancient librarian who sits behind her rotting desk, glaring at anyone who makes the slightest amount of noise. Scouring through the endless rows of books, I eventually picked out one of my favourites, Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. I admit, the choice wasn't adventurous seeing as though I have examined its pages almost 40 times but the story calls out to me. It reminds me that there were, and still are, upbringings more difficult than mine was.
I was brought up my evil step-father after my mother died during childbirth and my real father was murdered walking home from work on a stormy night quite like the one at hand. My step-father was a stern man who lived by the teaching that children should be seen and not heard. However, his idea of a child not being heard, I'm sure, consisted of them being dispatched from this world at any opportunity. It wasn't until he was reported by some horrified stranger who had seen him trying to drown my infantile body in a pond, that I was taken into care and I felt like there was hope for me to live a somewhat normal life. Despite the detachment from him, I still bare the scars of his murderous attempts both physically and mentally. Thus for, this book actually provided some comfort through knowing that the little Oliver's upbringing was worse than my own.
I traversed trough the rows of shelves and noticed that my normal seat was occupied, so I selected a high-back, leather chair by the window and settled down to read my book.
The change in temperature made me shudder as I removed my drenched coat and walked over to the towering shelves of books that would offer me temporary sanctuary from the cold and dreary reality.
I always loved the atmosphere of the library. Old fashioned in its layout, with sections of worn, leather bound books, stained glass windows and the ancient librarian who sits behind her rotting desk, glaring at anyone who makes the slightest amount of noise. Scouring through the endless rows of books, I eventually picked out one of my favourites, Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. I admit, the choice wasn't adventurous seeing as though I have examined its pages almost 40 times but the story calls out to me. It reminds me that there were, and still are, upbringings more difficult than mine was.
I was brought up my evil step-father after my mother died during childbirth and my real father was murdered walking home from work on a stormy night quite like the one at hand. My step-father was a stern man who lived by the teaching that children should be seen and not heard. However, his idea of a child not being heard, I'm sure, consisted of them being dispatched from this world at any opportunity. It wasn't until he was reported by some horrified stranger who had seen him trying to drown my infantile body in a pond, that I was taken into care and I felt like there was hope for me to live a somewhat normal life. Despite the detachment from him, I still bare the scars of his murderous attempts both physically and mentally. Thus for, this book actually provided some comfort through knowing that the little Oliver's upbringing was worse than my own.
I traversed trough the rows of shelves and noticed that my normal seat was occupied, so I selected a high-back, leather chair by the window and settled down to read my book.
***
I was only a few pages into chapter 2 when I was interrupted by an elderly man.
"Ahh, Charles Dickens. A mighty fine author and an excellent choice of novel may I add, miss. I see too little people these days reading such classics." He seemed to despair at his last comment and added a polite nod before he ventured over to one of the writing desks. At this point I would have buried my nose back into the book but I took interest into the gentleman's following activities. He removed a roll of parchment, a quill and an inkwell from his satchel and began to scroll intently. Feeling embarrassed at the fact that I had not said anything to him or even smiled when he spoke to me, I felt obliged to carry on some conversation and wandered over to him.
"Excuse me, may I join you?" The man jerked back sharply, obviously scared away from his own world. Thinking I had been rude to disturb him, I immediately added, "Sorry, I'll leave you to your business sir."
"No, no. Sit," he gestured to the adjacent chair. "To be honest, I would be glad of some company."
After draping my coat over the back of the chair, and positioning my borrowed novel on the table, I sat myself down whilst trying to browse over the man's notebook.
"I assume you are wondering about my archaic set up here?"
"Well, yes. I mean, you know that they have invented ball point pens now?" I chuckled and waited for him to show recognition of my joking comment. When none was shown I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I never was much of a comic.
"Yes, well I'm actually writing..." he hesitated, "an auto-biography of sorts." His eyes peered deeply into mine and it became apparent with his body language that he was trying to come to the conclusion of whether he could trust me with something. "It's just a means for me to write my thoughts and feelings on a few things that have happened."
Feeling rather uncomfortable I looked around for something to talk about. Noticing that the librarian was staring at me with discontent I knew she wasn't exactly happy about my little chat with the writer before me.
"Oh don't mind Beatrice over there." He had followed my gaze and smiled sarcastically at her. " She's been working within these walls too long. Starting to lose the last of her marbles." I laughed wildly which was met by an abrupt and strict, 'Sssshhhhh!' Quickly trying to conceal my amusement and I noticed that the man had joined me in laughter. Beatrice sensed our dismissal of her order and stormed off into her office.
"She hates me, always has." remarked the man in between chuckles. "I'm Eugene by the way." he stretched out his hand to me.
"Rose," I reciprocated and shook his hand firmly.
"Well Rose, you ever written anything? Reading the classics provides a lot of inspiration, for me anyway."
"No. Well, yes. The odd poem and short story when I was younger anyway. I hardly ever have any ideas to let my imagination flow these days. Suppressed it I suppose. With work and the pressures of a normal life I couldn't really afford to tap into that dream world any more." A sigh left my lips. That dream world I referred too was more that of an enclosed trap of nightmares too painful to envisage.
"It's not a bad thing to live by dreams you know. It can help with the pressures." He glanced down at the table in apparent sadness, and then made that searching eye contact with me that he had initiated before. "It got me through prison." I gasped involuntarily.
"Ha-ha. Don't worry about it, I get that reaction more than you would expect. The way I am now is quite different to how I used to be. The truth is, I've done some stupid things in my life and I lost everything because of it." A tear leaked from his eye and he pushed back his chair. "Excuse me for a moment please." He stood up and walked with a limp over to the toilets. Whatever he did, he must regret it. Seeing him upset actually made me feel sorry for him.
I glanced back down at the table, and fixated my eyes on Eugene's quill. A magnificent white feather with brown tips and a slight mottling extended from the centre. It had a silver tip with an inscribing of authenticity down the right hand side. The nib was dripping with ink which had created a small blot on the parchment. I placed the quill into the ink well and began to read a small section of the notes that Eugene had recently scrolled.
There was nothing of interest at first but it was obvious he was nearly at the end of his draft. He had sections of religious conclusions such as the one reading; 'Would God offer forgiveness for my sins? Could I forgive myself? The proof will be granted eventually but I deeply regret my decisions of old.' I scanned the rest of the document with growing worry about what Eugene had done to warrant these very deep, personal questions. One paragraph caught my eye, maybe because of a large ink blot. My blood ran cold upon the intake of the words.
"I assume you are wondering about my archaic set up here?"
"Well, yes. I mean, you know that they have invented ball point pens now?" I chuckled and waited for him to show recognition of my joking comment. When none was shown I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I never was much of a comic.
"Yes, well I'm actually writing..." he hesitated, "an auto-biography of sorts." His eyes peered deeply into mine and it became apparent with his body language that he was trying to come to the conclusion of whether he could trust me with something. "It's just a means for me to write my thoughts and feelings on a few things that have happened."
Feeling rather uncomfortable I looked around for something to talk about. Noticing that the librarian was staring at me with discontent I knew she wasn't exactly happy about my little chat with the writer before me.
"Oh don't mind Beatrice over there." He had followed my gaze and smiled sarcastically at her. " She's been working within these walls too long. Starting to lose the last of her marbles." I laughed wildly which was met by an abrupt and strict, 'Sssshhhhh!' Quickly trying to conceal my amusement and I noticed that the man had joined me in laughter. Beatrice sensed our dismissal of her order and stormed off into her office.
"She hates me, always has." remarked the man in between chuckles. "I'm Eugene by the way." he stretched out his hand to me.
"Rose," I reciprocated and shook his hand firmly.
"Well Rose, you ever written anything? Reading the classics provides a lot of inspiration, for me anyway."
"No. Well, yes. The odd poem and short story when I was younger anyway. I hardly ever have any ideas to let my imagination flow these days. Suppressed it I suppose. With work and the pressures of a normal life I couldn't really afford to tap into that dream world any more." A sigh left my lips. That dream world I referred too was more that of an enclosed trap of nightmares too painful to envisage.
"It's not a bad thing to live by dreams you know. It can help with the pressures." He glanced down at the table in apparent sadness, and then made that searching eye contact with me that he had initiated before. "It got me through prison." I gasped involuntarily.
"Ha-ha. Don't worry about it, I get that reaction more than you would expect. The way I am now is quite different to how I used to be. The truth is, I've done some stupid things in my life and I lost everything because of it." A tear leaked from his eye and he pushed back his chair. "Excuse me for a moment please." He stood up and walked with a limp over to the toilets. Whatever he did, he must regret it. Seeing him upset actually made me feel sorry for him.
I glanced back down at the table, and fixated my eyes on Eugene's quill. A magnificent white feather with brown tips and a slight mottling extended from the centre. It had a silver tip with an inscribing of authenticity down the right hand side. The nib was dripping with ink which had created a small blot on the parchment. I placed the quill into the ink well and began to read a small section of the notes that Eugene had recently scrolled.
There was nothing of interest at first but it was obvious he was nearly at the end of his draft. He had sections of religious conclusions such as the one reading; 'Would God offer forgiveness for my sins? Could I forgive myself? The proof will be granted eventually but I deeply regret my decisions of old.' I scanned the rest of the document with growing worry about what Eugene had done to warrant these very deep, personal questions. One paragraph caught my eye, maybe because of a large ink blot. My blood ran cold upon the intake of the words.
'I hope that she is still alive. They never told me what became of her, not that it was wrong of them to do so. I was more than deserving of that secrecy. I just hope that one day I could look into her eyes again and apologise for my monstrous actions.
So Lara, you always loved your books and if you do ever read this, I'm sorry.
Forgive me. x'
I grabbed my stuff and ran. Out of the library. Into the rain. Away from him.
I admit, his name was familiar but I was so young. How could I be expected to remember? It was him, definitely. He wrote, 'Lara.' Standing there in the storm, I made myself think of the nightmares.
When I was taken into care, I was put into the victim protection programme. I had my name changed and birth certificate changed. At 4 years old I had my life changed and rebuilt, and when they had asked me what name I would like, I pointed to the bouquet of flowers on the office desk and said innocently, "Flower." Obviously, I'd pointed to a rose and it was done. From Lara to Rose in a scroll of a pen. I had taken on the last names of the families I had been fostered into but each one was told to remind me of my past. I'd never understood why. I didn't want to be reminded and it had only fuelled my hatred for my step-dad, Eugene Baker.
I was hidden in an alley to the left of the library. For how long I remained there, I don't recall but eventually I saw him. Wrapped up against the wind and rain, satchel over his shoulder, he made his way into the streets. Before I knew it I was following him. I screamed at myself from behind an internal barricade, pleading myself to stop and get away from him. My body just ignored me and carried on.
Closer and closer I got until he peered over his shoulder and halted.
"Oh, I wondered where you'd gone." It was still obvious from his puffy, red eyes and blotchy skin that he had been crying, and rightly so. His words had snapped me back into full control of my body, yet I just stared at him in utter confusion.
"What's wrong Rose? Are you feeling well, you seem shaken....Rose?"
This time words left my mouth; "Hello Eugene Baker you monster."
His face fell from immediate confusion to horror as he realised who I was. "L, La, Lara?" Before another rain drop could hit the ground, he fell. Convulsing and twitching like a rabbit in a snare.
I ran.
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