The Water's Edge

View previous topic View next topic Go down

The Water's Edge

Post by Malkav on 2012-03-14, 01:19

Halfway through reading all the fictions here, I found myself overcome with the urge to write something, myself. Being a little particular about my writing and peculiar in my style, this both took longer than I thought it should and didn't turn out as well as I would have hoped. Still, it's something different, so give it a read if you're in the mood for something strange.

=====

LILLY.

Reacting to the booming voice, my body jerks itself awake with all the vigor one would expect from a startled girl. Plain, unfamiliar beige walls surround me. This turns my confusion into uneasy tension, and I realize only after the fact that my eyes have already scanned the entirety of my surroundings. Opposite me sits a rather large, empty desk made of dark rosewood. It isn't mine. To my left, however, I immediately recognize a lush, dark green uniform dress coat that I always wear, currently folded on the back of a gray folding chair. Hanging on the wall above it, a portrait painting of a mountain lion in the woods meets my gaze, its eyes piercing intimidatingly into mine. While not exactly pleasant to look at, it is nonetheless comfortingly familiar. And that keyboard just behind the chair... as I register its shape, a remembered piano melody comes to life within my head, and my fingertips involuntarily twitch in time with it.

Gradually, my mind begins to clear away the fog of sleep, substituting it with lucidity. This is my bed. This is my room. I am awake. And I am in the Clear Reflections sanatorium.

A husky, wavering sigh escapes my lips. For now, I am sitting up in my bed, steadied by both hands against dark-colored bedsheets that have clearly been subjected to a night of violent tossing and turning. The tangled mess would probably have elicited a frown from me, though I'm still too out of it to care about orderliness quite yet. Several long, dazed moments pass before I recognize the crumpled shape of my pillow on the floor, leaning against the side of my bed like a crippled old man. I can't help but make the connection between how it looks and how I feel.

Why am I awake...? A pointless, necessary question. I already know the answer to this one. It's the questions that come afterward that I will be completely helpless to satisfy. Yet those are the ones that are the most important. Of course, I'm awake because of my dreams. But why? What was I dreaming about? What are these intense emotions that linger within me after waking? Why do I always forget what little pieces I can remember? Why do I feel like I'm forgetting the most important things of my life?

As if in response to my unspoken questions, my alarm clock spits a time of 5:14 out at me. The glowing numbers seem to sneer at me through the dim morning light, as if implying that they were the only answers I was ever going to get. The actual numbers on the clock aren't important to me, though; what suddenly matters more than anything else is the fact that they exist, right now, in a most irritating and blatant manner. Every part of my body tingles with the dull ache of fatigue. My mind craves respite. Yet already, I am completely aware that rest is beyond me, and that I will likely have to spend today in a state of half-conscious delirium. And that's still not taking into account my morning medication, which will be arriving shortly. That healthy dose of Quetiapine is sometimes enough to put me in a zombie-like state on its own. Little sleep? Check. Preoccupied thoughts? Check. 80mg of a sedating antipsychotic? Check. Today will no doubt be nothing short of wonderful.

A groan escapes my lips as they contort into a disgusted grimace, my thumb and fore finger rising over to my nasal bridge and rubbing it for emphasis. In a mechanical fashion--and with no small amount of effort--my body manages to extract itself from the bed without incident, though if anyone observing me caught my expression, they might think I was in an incredible amount of pain. Which wouldn't exactly be too far from the truth, I suppose, though I'm sure 'mental anguish' isn't the kind of pain they'd initially suspect. As I go through the motions of changing out of my sleeping blouse and shorts, I allow my mind to wander.

How long have I been here, again...?

---Several months earlier---

"So," comes the cheerful, gravel-filled voice of the doctor standing in front of me. "You're the Lelenka Visreniy I've heard so much about?"

I briefly look up from my feet to quietly regard the large man for a moment. Despite what my reaction might indicate, he is certainly not what you would call intimidating. Though he likely weighs well over ninety kilograms, he is barely a few centimeters taller than I am. When taken together with his enormous, bushy mustache and the chocolate-tinted crown of hair surrounding a very prominent bald spot, he looks like could be the wonderful grandfather that anyone would have wanted. Even his large, oval-shaped spectacles and flushed, rotund cheeks give him an almost refreshingly cheery demeanor as he mulls over the clipboard in his hands. In normal circumstances, I think I would actually have been smiling along with him.

"Yes," I return at length with a hushed reply. Before he even has the chance to look me in the eye, my gaze makes an abrupt shift back toward the ground. I cannot tell if the noisy breath he lets out afterward is a disheartened sigh or merely the hum of contemplation, though I silently scold myself anyway for my obviously unhappy behavior.

"You know," he continues. "While I'm sure you may have a great deal of preconceptions regarding your incident yesterday, I must ask you not to jump to any conclusions. Professionally speaking, what happened could have been caused by any number of mild physiological malfunctions. Your ability to lead a normal life-- to fit in with everyone else, to go back to 'the way things were'--may not be impaired at all. Not when you consider that you've had no history of psychiatric disturbances. Keep that in mind, and try to keep your chin up."

At this, I flinch ever so slightly, though were he paying enough attention, I'm sure he would have caught it. So he decided to approach the subject head on, after all, I think uncomfortably to myself. It isn't that I think he's lying to me. Far from it. Nor do I have any reason to question his expertise. However, with the incident still fresh in my mind, I guess I find the shock of what happened earlier to be too much of a burden for me to handle just yet. Or at least, too much for me to simply give a casual, stoic response.

As if he had somehow rehearsed it in advance for the precise flavor of dejection I felt, my corpulent visitor adds, "Still, I can understand if you're still a bit shaken by the experience. I don't know many people who would have kept a level head, had they been in your shoes. When you were first brought in, you were inconsolable. The emergency responders said you were absolutely convinced that you had lost your hands. That'd be more than enough to give even me the heebie-jeebies, let me tell you."

A barely-controlled chuckle rolls out of the aged physician, deep from within his diaphragm. Although I don't find it quite as funny, I still feel bad when he catches himself and stops abruptly, his face sobering up in an instant. Perhaps he saw that my expression hadn't changed. Seemingly embarrassed, he places a closed hand to his lips and clears his throat, fiddling a bit with the chart for good measure. I wish he didn't mind himself so seriously on my account. It's not like I'm the kind of person to easily take offense to things, am I? I never used to think so. I hope I don't look like I would be the sort.

It takes me a moment to realize that my fingers are fidgeting with one another on their own, nervously, as if to reassure the rest of me that they're still there.

Well, if I didn't feel bad before...

In a carefully-measured motion, I bring my hands back to my sides, curling them into loose fists. I can't help now but replay the event over once more in my mind. I had awoken yesterday morning feeling more refreshed than usual. It was a very, very lazy morning. Sunlight spilled into my bedroom in a most alluring fashion, covering me with kisses of warmth and relaxation. The sleep from the previous night still hadn't left my eyes. My muscles felt pleasantly loose and rested. A slight cloud of laziness shadowed my thoughts. Even the way my normally unremarkable blouse and sheets felt against my skin was somehow luxurious, and all I could think about was rolling over in my bed to sleep some more. That, or continuing to marvel at the way the world appeared through a fuzzy, out of focus lens made of leftover tears. Of course, by this point, my eyes twitched with the irritation of dust, or some other similarly offending particle, and my fingers instinctively moved to rub it out. In a matter of moments, the itch was satisfied and everything now looked crystal clear.

Well, almost everything.

At first, I thought the strange blur hovering over me was merely a bit of sleep that had stuck on, so I rubbed my eyes again, more thoroughly. It didn't disappear.

"Huh..." was the only thing I could think of to say. Sitting upright now, I moved my head to the right and left of it, more concerned that I might have scratched up my eye in the process of rubbing it clean. This didn't lead to any satisfactory conclusions, so I simply looked over to the window. Bright. Too bright to tell. Alright, I thought. Closet, then. Turning my gaze over to the closet door, I saw...

... Nothing.

Looking back to the ceiling, however, the blur remained in place. Sort of. At least, it remained in place as much as I could tell from looking at it. The important part at the time, I suppose, was that it wasn't doing anything frightening or seemingly dangerous. On that note, I couldn't stretch my brain far enough to think of something dangerous that fit this description. It was just weird, that's all. In hindsight, that's probably why I proceeded the way I did.

"Well, you're certainly a strange-looking thing," I murmured to myself. "I wonder what you could be?"

MYSELF.

In a wave of what I can only describe as overwhelming, otherworldly emotion, I was flooded by the sensation of that one idea, that one thought, suddenly very keenly aware that I was not the entity who had authored it. Although my mind froze with disbelief, I was not panicked. While I could neither hear nor feel anything other than the pounding of my heart in my chest, I was not afraid.

I was...

"I... I don't... understand..."

To this day, there will never be words to describe what I was feeling at that time. I can only remember two things: what I was doing, and what I was trying to do but couldn't. I was staring at what I could now make out as an orb-shaped blur, except 'blur' isn't really the right word. I was speaking to it with a tiny, brittle voice that would have crumbled with even the slightest out-of-place breeze. This amazes me because everything else consisted of things that I was unable to do. The most important thing on that list was thinking. As hard as I had tried, I could not think. I could not move. I could not look away. I don't even remember breathing. All I could do was look and speak.

After waiting what could have been many seconds or many minutes for the response it never gave, the softest of noises made its way through my throat and past my lips: "Why... what are... you? Why here...? Now?"

What happened next defies any attempt I could ever make at an explanation. The way I remember it doesn't make any sense; it's as if someone had taken a part of my memory, cut it into pieces, and then glued them together in a completely random order. Or maybe on top of one another, so that they all appeared to happen at the same time. Perhaps they also forgot to put some pieces back in, in the process. I'm not sure. The only thing I know for certain about the event is that it changed me somehow. Significantly. So much so that I accept the order in which I remember it as more accurate any other order which would 'make sense.'

I remember screams and wails so intense that I could feel the cacophony penetrate into my very soul. Had my eardrums burst, I would probably still have heard them just as clearly. I remember the entity extending a nearly imperceptible tendril over to me, gliding it gingerly over my outstretched hand. I remember waking up cold and confused in an emergency room stretcher, my body strapped down tightly while voices above me chattered excitedly and incoherently. I remember being encased in a world of red and darkness, a world inhabited by sticky flesh and ravenous mouths that chewed and gnawed and consumed everything. I remember another woman taking me from out of nowhere. Somehow, she had incited such shameful lust in me with her primal actions, lust that had previously only ever been induced by boys and men. I remember the roots of a lone liverleaf carefully untangling themselves from the dirt. As it parted from the soil, the flower floated fraily into a dark, cloudy sky, and suddenly, liverleafs everywhere were following suit. I remember staring at my fingers mere inches from my face, watching them rot away amidst a blinding brightness. Finally, I remember yet another wave of alien influence flooding my senses, this one even more indescribably suffocating than the last. And like before, it consisted of but one unadulterated, unyielding thought.

HUNGER.

"... Lelenka?"

I snap my head reflexively up towards the voice, only now realizing that what I mistook for the droning hum of the light fixtures was actually the doctor speaking to me, muffled a bit by the substantial amount of bristly facial hair on his upper lip. His brows have furrowed slightly, and judging by the way his lips are pursed, I doubt I'd be too far off the mark in assuming that his is an expression of genuine concern. The tightness I feel in my face tells me that I must look extraordinarily tense. Silence. Unpleasant silence. I immediately decide that the stillness in the air is unbearable. After what is more than likely a worrying and awkward pause, I manage to force out something that resembles a reply.

"Sorry."

It's the only thing that I could think of. Probably the only thing that would have been appropriate, really.

Studying me with the focused determination that only a true professional can authentically wield, the sagely physician crosses the clipboard across his chest with one hand and strokes his stubbly chin with the other. "Do you remember how you arrived here? What led to your little visit to our emergency ward? I apologize now for my gross oversight, but I sort of assumed that you retained full memory of yesterday's events...."

Do I remember how I arrived here? My demeanor relaxes somewhat at the question. I want to say that I do. I know I do. Sort of. It was one of the many, many pieces that had been mixed together... wasn't it? Yet as much as I strain myself to remember, I can't seem to concentrate hard enough. Try as I might, sorting through those memories is, for the time being, beyond my ability. A defeated sigh falls from my chest.

"I'm sorry. It's all just... it's not very clear from yesterday. My memory. Sorry."

"Ah," the amicable medical professional responds. "I see."

It's only now that the glaring white of the medical room catches my attention. It's relaxing, in its own way. Just as the black of darkness seems to be a primordial symbol of danger and foreboding, perhaps the color white is representative of the most basic, instinctive kind of comfort. Or maybe it's just because hospitals and clinics everywhere seem to favor it so much. After all, what's more comforting than a place dedicated to keeping you alive and healthy? Whatever the case may be, I can't help but find it very soothing right now.

"Well," he continues. "If you don't mind listening to this old man talk for a little while longer, I can perhaps tell you what we saw when you were first brought in."


Last edited by Malkav on 2012-03-24, 14:57; edited 1 time in total
avatar
Malkav

Posts : 63
Join date : 2012-02-20
Age : 28
Location : Illinois

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Al Capwned on 2012-03-14, 08:51

Wow, I want to read more!

Al Capwned

Posts : 12
Join date : 2012-03-03
Age : 23
Location : Under a rock (Georgia)

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Malkav on 2012-03-14, 23:10

Al Capwned wrote:Wow, I want to read more!

Really? I'm glad to hear this. I can't promise it'll come quickly, but I'll certainly work to develop this story a little more. Maybe within a week or so, you'll find another few pages to digest.

_________________
You can't buy more time, so why live with hands bound tightly? Cut the ropes and live free. Take the dive.
If everyone just learned to keep silent, we'd break open the summit and climb the Ivy into the land of accidental Tokarev explosions and the Child of all Creation. Aim for the day when we become mere worms as colorful as we are indecent. Is the kindness of messing up the arrangement what we call arrogance?
avatar
Malkav

Posts : 63
Join date : 2012-02-20
Age : 28
Location : Illinois

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Malkav on 2012-03-24, 14:54

Aaand here's snippet #2. Made a couple small edits to the first one, as well. This would have probably come in a lot sooner, but... well, procrastination and all that. As with everything I produce, critique and comment are more than welcome Smile you're also free to just read it and leave. After all, that's what this is here for!

=============

I'm both rigid with reluctance and impatiently eager to hear what he has to say. I want to forget. I want so badly to forget, even though I'm still not altogether sure why that is. But more than anything else, I need to know. Except...

"... Could I have your name first, sir? You might have introduced yourself already, but..."

"Oh, of course!" He sounds a little more energetic than before, perhaps even relieved, at the interest I'm finally showing in our conversation. "Formally, I am called Aleksey Rykov, Doctor of Medicine, though just 'Doctor Rykov' or 'Doc' will do just fine."

His smile widens, seeming somehow more relaxed than before, and I can't help feeling a little more at ease, myself. Without really thinking about it, I extend my hand towards him in an offered handshake, one that he accepts heartily and with just the polite amount of hesitation.

"Then it's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Rykov," I say, the words carrying a hint of a smile. "Now, you were about to tell me...?"

"Yes, about your arrival," he nods. Sliding into one of the seats next to my assigned hospital bed, he breaks from the conversation just long enough to draw a deep, steadying breath before continuing. I take advantage of the pause to lean back and sit on the edge of the mattress, as my feet have grow numb from the cold tile floor.

"Emergency technicians had responded to a report of a possible medical disturbance. The police had also been dispatched, though they showed up earlier and had more or less handled the situation already. Those available for questioning claimed you had somehow fallen from the second story window. Some had rushed to help after calling for an ambulance. They tried speaking to you, asking questions, seeing how badly you were hurt, but you seemed to be in too much pain to respond, and they feared the fall had left you with severe injuries. After a minute, however, it was said that your pained groans turned into wails and, eventually, full-blown screaming."

Leaning back in his chair, Doctor Rykov strokes his mustache thoughtfully between his meaty thumb and forefinger, seemingly unsure whether or not to continue. Even with the break in conversation, my attention is rapt, and I can't find it in me to interrupt. His pause, thankfully, lasts no more than a few moments before the recounting resumes.

"It was then," he recalls. "That you began violently extracting yourself from your clothes, frightening onlookers in the process. Despite their protests, you acted as if you could not hear them, instead focusing solely on peeling your garments from your skin as quickly as possible. One woman attempted to stop you by grabbing onto your wrists, but so frenzied were you by this point that she succeeded only in being pulled over and toppled by your erratic movements. After a few moments of this, once you had freed yourself from your blouse, you fled. They thought that you might have been on drugs, so the police immediately received summons, as well. Upon their arrival, you were found naked and trembling behind the bushes of a house two blocks away, in complete hysteria. The officers could more or less tell where you had gone by following the trail of torn clothing. Every time they tried to approach, you made out as if to flee. So, instead of running the risk of having to do any actual work, they kept an eye on you and waited for the medical team to take care of it."

Although he maintains a fairly nonchalant air about him as he speaks, the slight dip in tone after that last sentence--coupled with his peculiar wording--makes me wonder what kind of relationship he has with the local authorities.

"The noise of our approaching ambulance upset you greatly, however, so you had to be chased down, regardless. Adrenaline pumping through your veins made catching you quite the feat, and it didn't help that, according to the police report that was filed, you simply 'vanished into thin air' upon paramedic arrival. Hmph. More likely, Dmitri and his squad were too distracted by the shiny lights to pay attention to you. But I digress; my apologies."

Dmitri? A very brief flash of amusement hits me. He's on a first-name basis with one of them; they must have quite the 'relationship', indeed.

Continuing without a second thought about his brief foray into unprofessionalism, the heavy-set Rykov lets loose a sigh that's almost startling in its volume. "It's a shame we couldn't have done more for you than fill you with sedative. The paramedics were quite shaken by the intensity of your panic. Said your screams were like those of a girl mere seconds away from being killed in a particularly brutal or horrifying fashion. And these boys have seen some pretty nasty things working this job, let me tell you..."

"I'm sorry for all the trouble-"

"Don't be," he interrupts my sheepish apology in a stern yet sympathetic voice. "I doubt this is anything you could have helped. We ran drug tests on blood and urine while you were out: everything came back clean. Whatever caused yesterday's episode was not your fault. It was just... a freak accident, of sorts."

As silence fills the gap in conversation, I tentatively let the gravity of his words sink in. I feel... too many different things to sort through. Regret that I inadvertently caused others suffer similar experiences. Shame that I had exposed myself like that in front of total strangers. Confusion from my inability to remember events the way they were described to me. Fear of the greater implications this might have on every aspect of the rest of my life. And some other feeling that I can't seem to...

"... Lelenka," Doctor Rykov addresses me at length. "We would like to run some more tests. Though this could very well have been a one-time ordeal, I do not wish to take the risk that something more serious might be the cause. The tests would be more extensive, more long-term. Some would require that you spend several days at our specialist's clinic. How would you feel about going through with such an undertaking?"

Before I really thought it through, my voice throws out a response that feels almost automated in nature. "Do you have any particular diagnoses in mind, doctor?"

"Nothing specific yet, I'm afraid. Just want to be sure." The wrinkling of his brow, along with what seemed to be a contemplating, averted gaze, leads me to believe he is telling only a half-truth. Yet as much as I feel I should press the issue a little, my dreary mind just doesn't feel up to it. Maybe I'm a bit afraid of what he would have said.

"The tests are not mandatory, you understand," comes his followup remark. "I would simply rather err on the side of caution and run unnecessary tests, as opposed to let you walk out of my office and have something terribly wrong that you're totally unaware of."

He seems anxious, for some reason.

"Are you worried about me?"

"Without a doubt! My dear, why do you think I've been working for so many years as a physician?"

His sudden excitement and display of emotion startle me, and had I not already been sitting, I'm sure I would have stumbled then and there out of sheer shock.

"Look at this wrinkled, fattened body of mine, Lelenka. The deep creases in my face. Try to hear the sincerity in my voice when speaking to you. These aren't the signs of some ambitious, goal-oriented medical student seeking to meet with wealth and fame in the exciting world of medicine. These are the results of a man who has put his heart and soul into helping those in need for as long as he has been able. It's a poorly-kept 'secret' around here that I take better care of my patients than I do myself, mostly because it shows itself so blatantly. I cannot tell you how much of my own money has gone to cover the costs of treatment for some of these people, most of whom would have died without it."

Thinking I've upset him, I want to make some kind of quick apology, but it's clear that the old man has already built up significant momentum and clearly intends to reach a point, his eyes piercing purposefully into mine. What's more, I can't help but feel awestruck by the intensity of his speech. He isn't yelling or even speaking loudly. No, it's the conviction in his voice as he speaks, this almost crusader-like air he puts on, that leaves me helpless to do anything but listen on in wonder.

"Daily, I deal with death, miss Visreniy. Not just death of the body, but of the soul, as well. Everyone assumes that a hospital is to deal only with the former, since it is the type we are taught to fear most. However, the years have taught me that this is merely the most merciful kind of death. People live because of passions, you see. We all have purpose. We all have the potential for our individual magna opera waiting to bloom. Yet all too frequently, many of us fall prey to misfortunes that take this away from us. An illness. A crippling. The specifics are not important. What is important is that, under normal circumstances, these misfortunes crush any hope many of us would have had of fulfilling that purpose we had once felt. It leaves us empty and lost. Without a doubt, this kind of death is every bit as real and significant as physical death. But hospitals--doctors--have the potential to reverse this. They can make an unbearable condition merely uncomfortable, perform life-saving miracles of greater than Biblical proportions, and even cure every minor ailment and discomfort ever conceived. Through this kind of work, they--we--ensure that those who would otherwise have been destroyed can instead live out their passions as they would have before. That, my dear Lelenka, is my life's work."

As he concludes, the now-serious Aleksey Rykov drops his attention to the floor, as if his eyes were overwhelmed with exhaustion from maintaining contact with mine. My hands visibly relax from their joined posture on my lap, now sliding onto the bed on either side of me in a limp, loose fashion. I've just seen a side of the doctor that few people have likely ever glimpsed. There was a reason for his speech; many reasons, in fact. I can feel them flooding my thoughts with tinges and flavors of feelings. Bittersweet. Hopeful. Dejected. Resolute. All suspicions of my having upset him leave me, and the timidity in my demeanor grows into something a little less apprehensive, a little more sensitive. This time, when he does look back up my way, it is I wearing the expression of concern along my features.

With a bit of effort, the grandfatherly doctor lifts himself from his seat, gently patting the top of my head like he would to comfort a small child. "That is why, so long as you are under my care, you should never fret or fear that you are a burden. Nor should you doubt that, when this hospital says you are under its care, you truly are under its care. When we are caring for you, we truly care for you. For the majority of the staff, this is who we are. This is what we do. If it can help an ailing patient, you can bet that we are all smiles just to make it happen!"

At this, he flashes the same warm smile he wore when he first entered my room, but this time, with a hint of...

"Thank you," I say hushedly, the corners of my lips curving slightly upward.

"And you should never forget," he adds. "That when we offer you advice for your health, it truly is because we want to see you get better. We're not going to try to guilt you into doing what we say or make you feel bad... well, most of us won't, I should say. However, seeing patients get better and never have to come back is one of the most rewarding experiences for us. For me. I think someone as young as you deserves the chance to weed this problem out at the root before it gets worse and interferes with your life. And going by what the paramedics described, I'm concerned that, if left undiagnosed and untreated, your condition could interfere to the point that your life becomes unlivable. That, in my opinion, would be the most tragic outcome possible for you."

My portly physician's deep and touching concern moves me almost into another world, and I can feel the red blush burning out from my cheeks. I can't fully explain why my heart simultaneously flutters and throbs from his stirring displays of empathy, or why, at this moment, I would like nothing more than to embrace him in a tight, heartfelt hug. He is so kind...

After a comfortable moment passes between us, I speak up. "What kinds of tests did you have in mind? Will my parents' government insurance cover the costs?"

"Ah... I'm glad you asked."

--Present day--

... That was so long ago now, it seems.

Shaking my head, I focus on the reality at hand. I'm tired of my thoughts lingering on the past. My reason for being in this institution. While I don't mind losing myself in childhood memories--especially those of my parents--dwelling on my psychotic episode and the events following it is something I'd be much happier without.

It's a shame that my morning ritual of changing clothes and tidying up isn't enough of a distraction. On that note, I realize that my body and nerves become exceptionally agitated. I check the clock.

5:36.

Damn.

I'm stuck in my room for another three and a half hours, at least. Well, sort of. It's not like the orderlies lock us in or anything; nobody in this wing is criminally or dangerously insane, so we're allowed to move about virtually as we please. Instead, I face the simple obstacle of everyone else still being asleep, save for the night staff, who aren't particularly sociable. I'd also gotten into trouble with them a few days ago for waking a few people up with my energetic, late-night pacing, so I don't especially feel like pressing my luck. Since the people I normally spend time with tend to sleep in until around 9:00 in the morning, I'm left with no other choice but to keep myself occupied in my room in the interim.

I flop onto my bed, exasperated. What can I do to pass the time? Piano? No, I've already done that a lot this week. It's actually one of my favorite pasttimes, but having done nothing but play on the keyboard for days at a time, it's begun to lose its appeal. Write? I only do so rarely, and only if I'm in the right mood for it. Which I'm not, at the moment. Draw? Ha! That's a good one. Maybe I could throw dice, perhaps? No. My body is too high-strung and full of energy to sit still for that. But then, what else can I do here?

...

Brushing aside a dark, curly lock that has fallen haphazardly across my face, I unsuccessfully attempt to suppress the growl of frustration surging past my lips. This has the effect of instead distorting it into a noise that sounds far more lewd than I had intended, and I wince right away.

Ugh. I hope no one heard that.

Being the newest addition to this part of the sanatorium, as well as one of the shyest, I've not yet made any real friends here, nor even talked a whole lot to anyone, in general. Thus, none of the other patients really know much about me. A sanatorium, however, is still a community just like any other--mental disorders aside, of course. This means that it comes complete with social circles and gossip. Since I've never shared much about myself with anyone--and because the favorite group activity around here seems to be taking guesses at what others' conditions could be, from what I've overheard--this makes me a pretty exciting conversation topic.

So, while I normally try to ignore what's said about me, the idea of other patients thinking I'm a nymphomaniac so starved for sex that she stays up extra late and wakes up extra early just to get in some extra 'alone time' does not particularly appeal to me. This is especially true when I consider that it would mean a lot more attention of a much more uncomfortable sort. I can only barely handle being in the little spotlight they've put me in, as it is. The added pressures of people asking me questions about sex--questions I wouldn't have answers to--and possibly being constantly 'propositioned' would be too much for me to handle.

An unexpected rapping on my door solicits a sharp squeak of surprise from my slender throat, and I immediately curse whatever unknown phenomenon it is that has left me so awake so early with such frazzled nerves.

"Lilly?" a hushed male voice on the other side calls out. "Are you okay in there?"

... Oh, hell.

_________________
You can't buy more time, so why live with hands bound tightly? Cut the ropes and live free. Take the dive.
If everyone just learned to keep silent, we'd break open the summit and climb the Ivy into the land of accidental Tokarev explosions and the Child of all Creation. Aim for the day when we become mere worms as colorful as we are indecent. Is the kindness of messing up the arrangement what we call arrogance?
avatar
Malkav

Posts : 63
Join date : 2012-02-20
Age : 28
Location : Illinois

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Al Capwned on 2012-03-25, 13:38

Dude, you really know how to keep the mystery going. I'm so engrossed in this story's questions. Like what is "Lilly's" disorder/trauma and how is this guy that she dreads. This whole air of mystery thing you got going is really good. Also the prospective of a girl (I'm kicking myself in the head for not realizing this earlier) I think is interesting since most are from the male prospective. My only minor complaint is the length of the flashback. I don't know how important the use of flashback is to your plot, but I would break up them into chunks. I'll say it's pretty safe to assume that flashback will answer questions that the present raises, but making them smaller and more of them will keep alive this terrific air of mystery. Great story! Keep it up! Very Happy

Al Capwned

Posts : 12
Join date : 2012-03-03
Age : 23
Location : Under a rock (Georgia)

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Malkav on 2012-03-25, 14:24

Thanks! Yeah, I wasn't too pleased with making the flashback so long, either, but it was the only way I could see to introduce that information in a way I'd be satisfied with. You'll be pleased to know that any others that pop up won't be half as long, though Wink . You're right; this first huge one is primarily to establish a background for the reader to work with, to give them a feel for who Lilly is and more or less what she's doing in an asylum.

Stay tuned for details about the panty thie--I mean, the mystery man behind door #1! (With any luck, procrastination won't win out again this week)

_________________
You can't buy more time, so why live with hands bound tightly? Cut the ropes and live free. Take the dive.
If everyone just learned to keep silent, we'd break open the summit and climb the Ivy into the land of accidental Tokarev explosions and the Child of all Creation. Aim for the day when we become mere worms as colorful as we are indecent. Is the kindness of messing up the arrangement what we call arrogance?
avatar
Malkav

Posts : 63
Join date : 2012-02-20
Age : 28
Location : Illinois

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: The Water's Edge

Post by Sponsored content


Sponsored content


Back to top Go down

View previous topic View next topic Back to top

- Similar topics

 
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum