3. Alice

Alice

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    user: Alice

    ..the sheets are dirty..

    _Ever noticed how the world seem much more quiet when you lie on the floor, how pain and sorrow all fade when resting your cheek against the cold wooden boards, and you breath in the dust, watches at the cracks and filth, see snuff and hair flutter in the still air. If there are screaming, shouts, it seem much more silent when your beneath them, safer, nothing is quite the same bellow, all becomes surreal as your perspective changes.

    I lay there as they carried Thomas out of the room, the healer claimed he would be fine, but the burns was severe and now he was no long allowed to see me. Father was not pleased, he pulled be up by the neck of my dress, choking me until I stumbled to a stand and then he shook me. He was shouting, the exact words are all lost to me now, but it was rarely anything unusual.

    "stupid girl, why can't you be like other children, why must you always be different, don't you see why people do not like you, how do you expect people to get along with you, you are not normal"

    I would listen until he lectured finished, and he would ask me those questions that never held an answer "why can't you be like other children" he grew angry when I didn't reply, I knew not the correct reply, I knew not what he wished to hear, and after a firm shake and another shout, I would cry out "I do not know, I do not know" and then his hand would rise.

    The floor feels hard, it is painful lying on your side but I dear not move, not while he shouted, the cheek felt numb, the burning pain always comes after the noise, I hate the sound, the slap, it is the realization of what happened, it is when you awaken from the shock of being hit, and it feels like your face is consumed by fire, as if your flesh is raw and now there is once again silence. Tears help, the cold salty fluid running over warm skin aids the pain, aids the shock, aids your screaming from within, and then, it is the final sound, the last shout of warning before the door slam.

    I love the sound of the door, for once it closes, it is over, and it is quiet, and you are alone. I always lie longer on the floor than I need to, roll on to my back and gasps for air, crying louder now, letting it all out, choking, whimpering, pleading with what ever force might be out there.
    I can't quite remember why Thomas made me angry, but he made me so furious that when I moved to push him, blue sparks flew from my fingertips and struck him in the chest. He cried out before he fell unconscious with his mouth open and a dumb expression upon his face. His fine silk shirt had a large hole, and he smelled of burned flesh, no blood traces, but a hideous sight.

    Mother cried when she saw Thomas, and his parents who had been downstairs drinking tea, turned bright red while screaming and waving their arms about as if struck with insanity. I stood in the room awaiting execution like a criminal, I knew what the punishment was, I knew my crime, it had been an accident but there was no judge to hear my defence, only my fathers judgement.

    My father beat me often, I used to sit beneath the covers of the bed and read, but due to lack of light I could summon it and my father used to peek through the crack in the door to see if I slept, throw the covers of my bed and remove his belt to make certain I remembered.

    My mother cried often. She seemed upset when my father let his anger out on me, never raised her voice to stop it, saying it was probably for my own good since I was such a wicket child, and I would grow to appreciate all they done for me, that I would eventually understand and thank them.

    How I resent them.

    I was an ill child. Weak from birth, often sick, more often than the average child, and for this my parents were very overprotective. The local healer visited often, I knew him well and though he had many short term cures, he had never any answers. "some people are simply not as strong as other" was his reply, smuggling me sweets and asking me about these 'sparks' I could summon, when alone.

    Though he appeared understanding and caring it was he who told my parents that allowing me to explore the little powers I clearly held, could mean my death as he doubted a person of my health could control it, and if given the chance it could easily overpower and consume me.

    He saw the marks of my fathers hand upon my flesh, yet he never did comment.
    I saw the children run past my window down to the small lake that lay only a couple of yards away. I wanted to join them, wanted to run among them, play and explore as they did, have the sun upon my face, join in their laughter, but I wasn't allowed. Instead, I was often in bed, struggling to cope with the latest illness, trying to recover so I could at least walk in to the small garden behind our cottage.

    The story of how I had nearly "killed" Thomas spread like wild fire and so many parents refused to have their children come to see me. Rumours followed each tale, one more outrageous than the other. "I was a devil child, white as frost, heartless, my soul only barely mortal, ill due to fact I can barely cling on to this current plane" all rubbish of course, yet it was enough to scare the other kids off. The boys used to gather outside my home and throw rocks at my window, when I opened it to call at them, they laughed, screamed, shouting "white witch" and running as quickly as their feet could carry them.

    I loved the garden, the sun upon my white hands made me feel like I was glowing, and I loved sitting in the grass near the roses bushes watching the bees flying back and forth. My mother insisting I had a cloak around me at all time, and while there I was under constant observation in case a stray cat moved in to our garden, carrying flees or some local disease.

    This was when I first saw him, The Raven, a purple black bird, with kind beady eyes and well groomed wings. He sat upon the branch observing me with a tilt to his head and for an hour we did nothing but watch one and another. I feared that any movement would startle him for I had never seen such a remarkable creature, only read of them in the various books that my parents often brought to my bedside. What surprised me perhaps most was that he didn't move, in fact he was quite content sitting there watching me go about my idle manners, not flying even when I chose to go right up and stand beneath him.

    My mother soon came out of the door, so I pretended I was looking at the sun, she hurried me back inside saying she feared it might rain and she could not risk me catching a cold.

    He never told me his name, until he does I simply call him Raven.
    When he first appeared at my window, I would open and allow him to fly inside, watch him as he settled on the foot of my bed. He never spoke of course, but he didn't seem completely void of intelligence and he did listen. It is quite remarkable but as I told him my tale, my problems, my dreams and my secrets, he watched me, tilting his head left and right, observing me with a scrutinizing gaze and at times I swear it even nodded and winked at me as if replying to my words.

    My father walked in on us, and so began to run hysterically across the room chased it out of the window shouting. He asked how I could allow a diseased creature to enter when I knew I could catch from it some disease.

    He said he would kill the raven, he swore it upon his life that he would see the animal dead if caught within my room again and the way he had gone about chasing it, I feared I would never see it again.

    I cried all night, more so for the loss of my friend than the bruises upon my neck and body from his rage. I lay in my bed, curled up with my knees tucked against my chest and the mattress wet with tears.

    I hated him.

    There was many dreams of the raven since that day, some quite remarkable and in fact rather embarrassing.

    I dreamt, that he would fly to my open window, and when reaching it, he would transform into a handsome figure of a man. He was lean and he was tall, all dressed in black with long wavy raven black hair and those kind beady eyes. But he was human, he appeared to me as a figure from a fairytale, though he never spoke a word, simply moved to sit at the edge of my bed as the bird had once done.

    I reached out to him in my nightgown, pleading him to take me away from my white prison, teaching me to fly, allowing me to escape with him in to the night.

    In some dreams he just smiled at me reassuringly, in others..

    Well..

    He would reach back and touch my cheek, kiss my lips, lean down and undress me, and gaze upon my young body. He caressed and stroked me, and I would surrender to him willingly, pleading to be near him.

    It wasn’t as much the raven as much as what he represented, he became a symbol of my freedom, my escape, he was all that I desired to be, a creature of the wild, with no obstacles.

    He even took the shape of the man I desired, though like the raven, I never knew its name.

    Jack Sprat could eat no fat
    His wife could eat no lean
    And so betwixt the two of them
    They licked the platter clean.

    After one of those.. Unusual dreams, I awoke a bit warm and admittedly aroused with blue sparkles encircling my left arm. Usually I could simply shake them off but the sparks played about my flesh and refused to disappear despite my best attempted to concentrate upon them.

    I could hear the noise downstairs indicating my parents was up and it was just a matter of time before one would come to serve me breakfast. I panicked, trying to wipe at the sparks, but they fizzed and glittered and strengthened with my hysteria.

    The door of my bedroom flew open and it was mother with some food as well as a disgusting potion I was forced to take each morning. She grabbed the blanket of my bed and attempted to pull it down in the usual manner, but today I clung on to it, hiding my glowing left fist.

    She told me I was acting silly and ripped it out of my grasp, in shock and terror I lifted my hand to push her aside, but foolish me touched her shoulder with the effected hand and she was sent head first in to the floorboards with a cry. The breakfast and potion smashing and splattering across the rug, and then there was silence.

    My father came shortly after and he saw what had happened, he saw my glowing hand, and he was beyond furious, he was simply frightening.

    But today things were different, when he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to him, rising his hand to give me the usual punishment, the fear made the sparkles take on a red shine, and as I held my hand up cover my face, a burst of energy was shut out and burned him, causing him to let go and fall on to the floor beside my unconscious mother.

    He sat there is shock and terror gazing up at me like I had taken on some demonic form.

    “You are a child of the devils” he sneered picking my mother up that was slowly coming to, and with her he left my room with no further words. I heard the key turn, and I was locked within my bedroom, my white painted cell, slowly breathing and attempt to calm myself.

    Years passed..

    Before I was fifteen the magic had only barely been present, and there had been little I could do except making “Zorra” the neighbours cat sleep at my will, and create faint light to aid my reading at night. Now that I my body and mind was changing, so seemed the little powers I possessed.

    The energy became frequent, each time I cried, was angered, exceptional happy or aroused they appeared, fluttering about my hands as if my fingers was crowned with stars or even diamonds.

    When caught, my father tied my wrists together with a belt and hit me, leaving me in a curled up position on the floor not untying me until the sparks had all ebbed away.

    I owe my life and sanity to a book of poetry I held dear, for each time my emotions went out of hand and sparks fluttered about my fingers, I concentrated upon one of the many short rhymes and occasionally it was all that was needed to calm me.

    I began a fight with myself and my father, and instead of trying to rid myself of the magic, I learned instead to rid myself off my emotions.

    But sometimes, on a rare occasion, when father decided to punish me, I would glare him in the eyes and an odd dazed expression would come upon him, and he seemed lost. Sometimes he drifted off to sleep, and even once or twice I found him to be friendly, and loving, for a couple of minutes all he desired was to hug me and speak of me in a kind and friendly tone, until the effect vanished and he became the man I had grown to know, resent and hate.

    They made me cold, they made me frightened and emotionless, they taught me to hate what I was, what I could become and I did hate it. They wanted me to thank them for what they did, they said their actions was done out of compassion, they taught me hate because they claimed they loved me.

    But I was afraid of hating, just as I was afraid of loving.

    I was still ill, always catching colds, always in bed weakened, always having the healer visiting and feeding me disgusting potions. He complimented my parents on how well they had brought me up, seeing how I had partly suppressed my supposed ‘powers’ he said that it was probably the cause of my illness, that the ‘gift’ I possessed drew what little energy I had from me and slowly was killing me. He still ignored to comment upon the bruises he found marking my skin.

    It was spring when Raven returned, he pecked at my window and I had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, yet the now well established fear in me made me hesitant to open for him. Instead I simply stood there gazing at the glass, watching the bird pecking away eagerly.

    I decided that he might scratch the colour stained glass, even peck a hole trough it, and so it might be best to open the window if only to tell him to leave.

    I only made a small gap and told it to be gone, said I could not allow it inside, but he didn’t fly, instead he stood there tilting its head left and right in his usually curious manner. Listening for footsteps outside my door, I pulled the window up all the way, and oddly enough the raven didn’t move as I feared, but settled on the windowsill watching me with his kind black eyes.

    I do not know why but when sitting there I found myself starting to talk, confessing all and once I began speaking I didn’t know how to stop. I felt like a river, spilling all that had happened the years it had been gone, the bird just watched, occasionally cleaning his feathers but genuinely listening I believe. I almost half expected it to give a reply but it never made a sound, not even an expression if birds can do such.

    When he flew back in to the night I felt a weight had been lifted off my shoulder, as if I had this bottle within my chest and the raven had pecked off the cork allowing the air to escape.

    I slept well that night, again haunted by dream of a tall handsome man, settling at my bed, reaching to touch my cheek.

    I woke up the next day with no sparkles.

    I began to wonder if I had truly managed to rid myself of the magic that possessed me, and this gave me some peace of mind. I knew there was ways to find out but I dared not in fear I was mistaken and so I went about in my cold emotionless state, drinking my potions of cure and reciting nursery rhymes when feelings grew too strong.

    It was summer when sweet irony came knocking.

    I was sound asleep, and did not hear that men had broken in to my family’s cottage. Skilled bandits crept up the stairs and not before three was in my bedroom did I awaken in shock and terror of the sight.

    One was quick to come to my side, holding a bloodstained dagger near my throat and ordering me to keep quiet. The other two hastily moved through my room, pulling out drawers, emptying cases, stuffing away anything that appeared to be of value, cursing at the lack of reward.

    One asked if this was the last room in the house and the other replied and he believed it to be so. He asked why he hadn’t finished me off yet and the man by my bed answered that he at least had found all he rewards he wanted.

    I didn’t understand what he meant before his hands was upon me and his lips were on my neck. The other two laughed, standing a bit hesitant near the door watching amused the first couple of seconds before leaving downstairs.

    I was crying, pleading, pushing at the man, attempting to get him off me with all my strength. He was quick with his actions, enjoying my screams, and deftly ripped my nightgown, exposing my breasts, and fumbling with the belt.

    For the first time in my life I desired to see the sparkles. I was hysterical and despite my fear, and shock nothing happened, I concentrated as hard as I possible could upon the force, but no energy encircled my skin, no spells, no dozy expression,

    Nothing..

    I lay there helplessly, feeling his hands between my legs, glancing nervously toward the knife. I had surrendered, whispering quiet whispers of help, clutching his arm, pleading to see, a sparkle if just one.

    I shut my eyes..

    I waited..

    I heard a man scream in agony, I heard the fluttering of wings and the cries of a bird. Raven had flown through my open window and was clawing at his face. I was left on the bed and watched as he waved his knife about clutching his left bleeding eye, half naked with his trousers around his ankles.

    The bird soared around him, burying its claws in to his hair and pulling back enough to make him shout out to it, he stumbled and fell once, but I didn’t stay to watch.
    Instead I quickly I crawled from my bed and ran to the door, locked it on the outside and rushed down the staircase/

    I learned why his knife had been stained. As I passed through the living room I heard a masculine moan, and there in the room next-door where my parents slept I found them, both on the floor on a carpet of blood.

    Father was still alive, gasping for air and moaning in agony. He had a stomach wound and pleaded for my help.

    Mother lay silent, a wide cut stretched across her throat, she seemed oddly peaceful.

    “There is a healing potion, in the cabinet in the kitchen” my father cried, and I hurriedly ran to get it, fearing any of the three men would catch me in the act. I crouched down beside father, whispering reassuring words as I uncorked the bottle, trying my best to aid him.

    But as I sat there, mixed with fear, sadness, and despair, offering the potion to him, a spark flashed on my ring finger and a shot of energy burst between us, killing him in an instance.

    I didn’t mean to..

    I didn’t want to..

    I so hate what I am..

    I stumbled outside, weeping, clutching the open healing potion and running barefooted across the cold grounds toward the neighbours house. But before I ever passed our fence I spotted the final two. I turned at them, my eyes red, stained from tears, glaring at them both with a look of fury.

    They were advancing on me, confused to find I escaped, probably wondering what happened to their companion. But before any could get close enough to attack, I had lifted my arms and a burst of white sparkles caused them both to fall back in a deep slumber.

    Looking helplessly around, all I could find was a rock, a bit bigger than my fist but pointed and so I moving to the first man and lashing at him with full force until his scull was broken, staining my body and the remaining of my dress with his blood.

    It was quicker than I had expected due to the spell and I removed from him his knife, simply driving the blade in the second mans throat before I continued toward the neighbour’s cottage.

    I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate what I am, I hate it.

    I had nothing

    Now I have less than nothing

    Except my freedom

    Which is everything_

    **Alice

    ..The end..**


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