DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written.
Tragic, isn't it?
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Chapter One: Innocence and Experience
O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
William Blake. The Sick Rose
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I've done it, I've escaped. Well, I have bribed my out of my room with pearls and retreated to the library, but that feels like a triumph to me. I refuse to think of it in any other way, so don't think less of me for resorting to coercion. It will not be worth your time. I am supposed to be dying prettily in my room right now, wilting slowly like an exotic flower that has been kept out of the sun. But I refuse to lie limply in my bed - saying nothing, doing nothing - and become the human embodiment of such an over exploited simile. I may be many things, but I am adamant I am not and never will be a pot-plant.
I hate being thought of as of a flesh-and-blood flower; it seems a ridiculous conceit, a very silly way to consider life. Human beings are not flowers, despite what the famed poets claim. I am glad life does not conform to poetic delusions, it is strange enough as it is.
I love it here in the library. This place is so big, so peaceful. There are no Goblin Kings here to snarl at me or order me about. There is no one here to confuse and disorientate me. There are no unpredictable moods, no confrontations. I'm free of all that; I'm safe in the company of my books and my pen. I like writing; it's therapeutic. It helps me unburden myself. It helps me calm down.
I had better introduce myself. My name is Sarah Katherine Williams; you will not have heard of me. When I was human I was a complete unknown. You see, I never had the chance to become the universally-adored actress I wanted to be. I was a total nonentity, I don't know why I am thought to be so special now; he acts like I'm sacred somehow. I'm surprised he has not created a religion and established me as its head deity. Then again, saints are never canonized when they are alive. Maybe he is waiting for the day I stop breathing.
He – that is to say The Goblin King - is a mass of contradictions. When he is not worshipping me with intense stares and offerings he is abusing me and masquerading as my lover. Sometimes he seems to exist to assert his power over me; he uses the Sarah he has made me into to remind himself of his own magnificence. Other times he endeavours to make me vain, plying me with extravagant gowns and mirrors that I always turn my head away from.
He wants my fear, that is certain. I am sure he would like me to spend my whole existence quaking in his presence, instead I irritate him by keeping my body as still as a rock. I am scared frequently here but I do not allow the fear to show anymore. Fear is full of good associations for the Goblin King. He considers it to be virtually synonymous with such wonderful qualities as deference and respect.
Interestingly for an arrogant man, he is unhealthily obsessed with me. His devotion has become more intense since the onset of my illness. Since I have been confined to my bed it has been hard to get rid of him. His presence only makes me feel worse, sometimes even physically ill. I loathe the looks he gives me, the ways he touches me, to be specific the way he strokes my cheeks with his cold, gloved hand.
I am sure he likes my illness in a way; it accentuates his authority over me. Not that you could guess that from his behaviour; he is perpetually anxious and affects the persona of an attentive lover. He has always acted, but this act has got to be the worst he has ever performed. He has never seemed more pathetic than he has recently.
I get the impression I am destroying him. Some people would say I have changed him, but I am of the opinion that the destruction of the old persona is necessary if a person is to change in a meaningful way. Does that make sense? I'm not sure if it does now; whenever I think I know something I immediately start to doubt it. I don't know anything anymore. I don't know what I am; I don't even know what I am fighting. I don't like being like this: it scares me. I'm really, really scared, and there is no one here to help me.
I have no real idea why I'm here, although I have been here for months. Like I mentioned earlier, he is contradictory. Sometimes I think he wants a whore, other times a victim, and still other times an idol. Maybe he wants me to be all of those things. That wouldn't surprise me; he is notoriously demanding. Long ago, I thought he would simply want to kill me and be done with me once and for all. Oh, what I would give for the return of those simple, innocent days! Oh, if only he had put his hands around my throat and squeezed until I was still!
Throttling me would have spared everyone a great deal of trouble.
He has given me a room that I like, although I had trouble getting it. I still have trouble getting time alone in it, but that is another story for another time.
Do not allow me to give the impression I am totally subservient to him. I go through stages almost as frequently as he does: sometimes I strong; sometimes I am weak. That is how things are. When I am 'good' my requests are heeded. When I defy him, everything is decided for me. I am never sure what to do or how to act, I love being indulged but loathe being passive, so I have to choose whether my love of luxury will override my hatred of submission. I frequently re-consider my decision; boredom would probably make me feel suicidal if I didn't.
I always used to have my meals with him; there was no such thing as choice when it came to eating. That has changed now on account of my illness, mainly because I have no appetite. Eating is humiliating now because I am fed with a spoon; it makes me feel like a baby. I hate this wretched sickness. I wish it would hurry up and make me die. I only want to put this existence behind me so I can move on to something better.
I'm sure I am being irrational about death. I probably won't die even though I feel like I will. I've felt close to death so many times that the feeling is easy to identify. This is going to sound strange, but I'm reminded of the boy who cried wolf. My mind has tried to convince me I'm going to die so many times I can no longer take it seriously. I'm starting to think I'm doomed to endless life. I shouldn't think about that, though; it only makes me feel depressed and what I have written already is depressing enough as it is.
He keeps a miniature portrait of me in an amulet that he sometimes wears around his neck. I only found that out recently when I sneaked a look at his desk. I consider this discovery to be extremely interesting. I never imagined a monster like him could be so sentimental. I have imagined many other things about him, it is true, but not that, not sentimentality. It is usually hidden away, probably because it would undermine the tyrannical image of the Goblin King he has lovingly implanted in the minds of his subjects.
The portrait of me is a poor likeness. I look very vapid and bland; I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be a slightly altered image of a completely different girl. Though to be fair to the artist, the likeness is probably an accurate representation of what my face looked like when I was endeavouring to be obedient and sweet.
Do not allow this detail to give you the impression that the Goblin King is an overtly sentimental man who prances about in fields of wild flowers as if he were the protagonist of a piece of pastoral poetry. If the Goblin King saw a man doing that he would probably be annoyed and have him castrated. He has an ugly temper, I know even though I have only witnessed his true capacity for anger a few times. You see, every one of those times has been terrifying.
There is something childish about him when he is angry under normal circumstances, but the childishness is occasionally overwhelmed by something else. When he stops being childish – when he falls silent - it is time to worry.
He is a poor ruler. If the Goblins were not completely backward he would have been overthrown long before he had the chance to encounter me. Whenever someone attempts to confront him he descends into a rage, shouting at them until they are silent and no longer pose a threat to his way of thinking. Only the important people who irritate him are allowed to retreat, of course. The individuals he is responsible for simply get thrown into the nearest Oubliette.
I have seen terrible things happen here. The Goblins I will tentatively refer to as his ministers are treated to the worst of his anger. The Minister for the General Well-Being, Excellence, Functioning, Efficiency, and Superlativeness of Everything is treated to barrages of complaints and mockery every time he attempts to approach the Goblin King. I feel very sorry for him. I get the impression he is more intelligent than most of his species and would genuinely like to help his King make things better. The tragedy is that his King does not care about the welfare of his Kingdom.
However, he does care about me. He tells me I should be in bed because I am ill. He offers no further justification and I am sure he does not have any. I was fine walking here and I still feel fine now. My theory is that haunting my room is simply his latest fixation. Staying with me probably delays the onset of the thing he fears most; boredom. He fusses and sits besides me for hours at a time, splitting his attention between me and the gang of Doctors who attend me. He reminds me of an unusually persistent spirit; he sticks around no matter how forcefully you tell him to go away.
He is almost totally oblivious to my feelings about him. Nothing I say makes him react to the fact I loathe him.
I hate my doctors. I could swear they are all members of the Underground's version of the Mafia. They are all slick, oily hair and low conspiring voices. I cannot understand what they are saying because they speak a foreign language. I hate that almost as much as I hate them. They do not even attempt to talk to me. I don't know if it is because they cannot speak my language, if he has told them not to, or if they simply choose to ignore me. The only time they have anything to do with me is when they check my pulse.
The only thing I know for sure about them is that they think I am going to die. That is, judging by the mildly annoyed and/or worried glances they periodically throw at me. He shouts them down every time they try to tell him something, and he only ever shouts at people when they are telling him what he does not want to hear. I am pretty sure he does not want me to die, he has saved me from death too many times for that to be true.
I wish I had paid more attention in H.E (1). Maybe if I had I would know what this illness is. I've lost a lot of weight and my skin is pale, I look like I've been made-up for a Chaplin film. If anyone were to draw a finger across my face and realize it isn't powdered, they'd think I've had all the blood drained out of me; I look unnatural. I'm cold as well, though I'm always cold so that isn't really worrying. Recently, my eyes have become red and swollen. They sting when they're exposed to bright light, so the candle stays on the other side of the table. No one else knows this, but I've been coughing up blood. I think that's bad, and I don't think about it much.
Then again, my vision's getting better as I write and I'm not coughing anymore. I've improved a lot.
I remember reading about a wasting disease called consumption in Jane Eyre at school. That might be what I have; it makes sense, as I do feel like my illness is in the process of digesting me. I was given a mirror after demanding one about fifty times a day; I wanted to see what illness had done to me but everyone around me seemed strangely reluctant to indulge me. I realized why they had been so hesitant when I saw my reflection. My face looked like a skull that had been covered with a thin, translucent layer of plastic. It scared me and I hid my face in my pillow and asked to be left alone.
I am supposed to be convalescing from my illness right now, which has been very dull because I am not supposed to move. However whether or not I'm convalescing at all is questionable; my doctors seem to be under the impression I am not. This means there are no daring escape attempts now, no getting lost in the castle's convoluted passages on purpose like I used to. I have been feeling so tired lately. I am nearly always too sleepy to listen when he reads to me from books.
My decision to leave my room must sound stupid to an outsider. Let me try and explain my logic. My room is as dark and gloomy because the curtains are always drawn, it is always kept hot and the air is perpetually stale. I could swear being in there is aggravating my illness. I am always lonely there; somehow having other people around me constantly, worrying over me, fussing, makes me feel lonelier than I feel when I am on my own. That doesn't make any sense, I know, but it's true.
He does not know where I am now, thank God. As I write this he is probably shouting at the poor, brainless Goblin whose duty it is to guard my door. He's probably rattling it to get it to tell him the truth, holding it with disdain and trying not to make contact with its flaky skin. My pearl necklace will probably slip out of its pocket soon and reveal how I managed to get away.
Is that a raised voice I can hear in the distance? I hope it is not, but I suspect otherwise.
I can tell you exactly what the Goblin King will do if he finds me. First of all, he will glare darkly at my hand as it writes without letting me know he is watching me. Then, without forewarning, he will say my name dangerously. Once he has broken the silence, he will rant about my selfishness, attacking me for devoting my time to something as petty and pointless as writing. He would rather I cling to him, saying and doing nothing.
I can almost here his voice as I write about it. I am imagining the careful control that is always detectable in his tone, the impatience that lies on the fringe of his words. He is ordering me back to the 'safety' of my bed. If I dare to ignore him and continue writing as I write now, he will force me to look at him so he can scare me into submission. He will order me verbally at first and his phrasing will make it seem like I have a choice. He is horrible, a monster, a beast. I can hardly bear him. The sight of him makes me want to shudder.
He hates it when I display my revulsion. He will punish me; he will snatch my arm and force me backwards until my body is pressed against a cold, stone wall. He will then do one of two things to restrain me: he will drop my arm and either put his hands on my shoulders or grab hold of my wrists. He will then watch for some time, studying me, testing how long I can face him for. He does not inflict physical pain on me; indeed the opposite is true, for he handles me with great tenderness. Instead of using outright violence, he uses small amounts of pressure when he wants to be threatening. He will pass a finger over my pulse and press when he detects a vein, or he will use too much pressure when passing a finger across my cheek. His methods tend to have the desired effect; he can always make me shudder.
When he is being frightening there is a certain coldness about him; he becomes a model of self-discipline and limitation. He only becomes unpredictable when facing strange and unfamiliar situations. Being faced with terror stricken people is something he experiences frequently, and he knows exactly how to deal with it. There are other scenarios he does not know as well; for example, pure, bull headed defiance throws him off balance every time. Watching him handle that (and the other situation he does not know well) can be intriguing or terrifying; it depends.
He has only behaved in a completely unforgivable way once, to date. It was an evil thing for him to do, so very evil that thinking about it makes me mildly grateful for the restraint he employs now.
Even when he was being evil he did not harm me in a lasting way. There are no bruises or scars on my body. He's a violent man, but is usually gentle when it comes to me.
I have always thought it is strange that I am treated so delicately. Everyone apart from me is expendable, they are kicked, abused and tormented and he doesn't feel as much as a twinge of guilt. Watching him and knowing I am powerless to stop him makes me feel wretched. I want to say something but know nothing I can say will change his mind. He is convinced that everything he does is right, I could swear he convinced he's infallible.
I have to stop dwelling on him. It is making me upset and undermines my purpose in coming here. I have read many books in this place; maybe I should try and write my own. Maybe I should write down some happy memories instead.
I think I would like that, especially if I can write about the early years of my life. There are many happy memories and it would be healthier for me to dwell on them.
I was born in the July of 1970, which makes me nineteen. My, how ancient I am! Apparently I screamed a lot when I was born, not that I can remember.
My Dad told me I spent a lot of my time with my grandparents, his parents, when I was very young because he was working and Mom was acting. When I asked my Grandma about what I was like when I was little, she told me I was very quiet and liked to be on my own. She told me I would seek out small, quiet corners and sit in them for hours, playing with a doll or a teddy bear, muttering to it as if taking part in a very private conversation.
My first conscious memory features my mother. My mother loved acting regardless of whether or not she was onstage, and in my first memory of her she is clothed in a gauzy yellow dress that looked like it had been stolen from the wardrobe department of a costume drama. We were both in the park close to home, alone and together. I put my little dark head on her lap and gazed up at her adoringly as if there was no one else in the world. Looking down at my devotion, mother laughed prettily and started stroking my hair with her lazy, elegant fingers. Then she recited this rhyme to me, singing it because she had a beautiful soprano voice and loved to show it off:
Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Fridays' child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blythe and good, and gay.
I can even remember the conversation we had afterwards.
"What day was I born on Mommy?"
"A Thursday, darling."
"Oh no." My small face crumpled in dismay. "But why couldn't I have been born on Monday? I wanna be pretty!"
"Don't fret, dear. Thursday is a good day to be born on. You have far to go," her hand moved, and she picked up a piece of my hair, fingering it idly as she continued "That means you will have lots and lots of adventures."
That settled me, and I asked another question "What day were you born on?"
Mother's brow contorted slightly as she concentrated. "I think it might have been a Wednesday."
I scrunched my face up, concentrating and remembering the relevant line of the rhyme and singing it in my obnoxiously loud voice "Wednesday's child is full of woe. What does woe mean?"
She looked slightly uncomfortable, squirming slightly. Eventually, she replied "It means sadness."
I was horror stricken. "But that can't be right! You're not sad! You're happy!"
She soothed me hastily, "Calm down, sweetie. It's only an old rhyme; it doesn't mean anything." I was not convinced and she sighed in exasperation. "It is only superstition. Something my grandmother sung to me when I was small. Now," she smiled, treating me to a wonderful view of her gleaming white teeth "How would you like some ice cream?"
I nodded gleefully and rolled off her, picking myself off the ground and running towards the ice cream stand. I glanced back and saw that mother had picked up her skirts and started chasing me. She laughed loudly; it was the laugh of an excitable little girl.
She left my father for a handsome actor called Jeremy when I was four. I don't have many other childhood memories of her; the only other significant one is brief and undefined.
We were both in the park again. It was another sunny day and mother was reading to me from the script of a play called Labyrinth. The story went as follows; a beautiful, widowed princess had to fight her way through a vast, complicated Labyrinth to save her child from the Goblin King, who had kidnapped her baby so he could use it to force the princess to marry him. He was madly in love with her, you see. I found the character revolting when I was little (he was evil, he had to be because the stage direction that preceded his arrival said; 'ENTER THE KING OF THE GOBLINS, LAUGHING WICKEDLY'). My feelings changed when I hit adolescence. I thought like this; who cares that he was evil? He loved her. He loved her with all his heart. Sometimes, I would lie down and gaze hazily at the canopy of my bed, imagining what my life would be like if a man came to adore me to the same degree as the poor, misunderstood villain had adored the courageous, tragically beautiful princess of my play.
But most aspects of my relationship with the play never changed. I adored it for it was romantic and exciting; the good characters were funny and made me laugh. Mom made every line of it tangible, adopting different voices and inhabiting every role as if she had been born to perform it. Listening to her reinforced my conviction that she was the best actress in the world.
I felt an affinity with my mother that I have not felt since she left. I miss her.
When I was older I would prance around on the same grass I had lazed on with my mother, acting out the play she had read to me when I was four. I tried to emulate her and strove to give the characters as much personality as she had. There was always something lacking in my performances, but they were enough to sustain me.
I loved inhabiting the world of Labyrinth; being there thrilled me beyond measure; and the friends I found there were far nicer than those I had at school. The friends I had at school hardly counted; all of them proved to be completely incapable of meeting my standards. Many wanted to be my friend because I was a pretty little girl and some of the more intelligent children were drawn to me because they had heard about my moderately famous mother. Their reasons for wanting to be friend meant nothing to me. All that mattered was their inadequacy.
My father remarried eight years after my mother left him. His chosen wife was a woman called Irene who wore too much make up and tried too hard to make me like her. I did not forgive my father then, but I forgive him now. I wish I could tell him that, he'd like to know.
I think about my family constantly in spite of him. I know he would prefer it if I forget them and moved on (I quote: 'they are the past; I am the future'), but I can't do that. My memories of them are the last link I have to the past and I am not going to give them up. No amount of coercion or drugged drinks will persuade me to abandon my memories.
Thirteen-year-olds aren't generally known for tact and I was no exception. I did nothing to disguise my feelings when my father and his peroxide-blonde wife told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. They held each other's hands tightly and they both looked terrified as they waited for my reaction.
I surprised them by displaying total indifference. "Are you trying to tell me Irene's pregnant?"
"Yes, honey. In a few months you will have a baby brother or sister."
I shook my head slowly and started moving away from them. "No. Whatever it is, it won't be my brother or sister; it will just be a baby. A horrible, screaming baby!"
I ran out, stormed up the stairs to my room and slammed the door behind me. They left me alone to cry.
Now I think about it, my early life was not ideal. It was full of mistakes, even before I had anything to do with the Goblin King. My exquisitely beautiful mother abandoned me and my short-sighted father married a woman I hated. I was a selfish brat who shifted the blame for my misery onto my innocent brother. When I was very young I was alienated by the selfish behavior of the adults around me; when I grew older I became exactly like those inward-looking people: selfish and vain. It's interesting; I became the kind of person I hated, yet I was oblivious to my own condition. I never considered myself selfish, only betrayed. As far as I was concerned, everything I did was justifiable.
Isn't that all ironic?
When my brother, Toby, was a baby, I behaved wickedly. I refused to hold him, refused to let him have any of my old, babyish toys when Irene told me to give (she said "share," but I knew exactly what she meant) some to him and refused to baby-sit him until I was threatened with the prospect of chores. I didn't let anyone at school know I had a brother; my sibling only became known to my peers when I was sighted in town with my Dad, Irene, and a baby buggy.
Toby was five when last I saw him. It was a beautiful day. I could barely see because the sun was so bright. I took him to the swings in the park and pushed him high into the air, listening to his happy cries. When Toby got bored of that I stopped the swing and we both sat down on the grass, crushing it beneath us as we made daisy chains. I remember speaking to him; our conversation rattled on endlessly. We must have both sounded childish to outsiders but an unparalleled understanding existed between us during that conversation. Speaking to him made everything clear; it made the decisions I had to make easier and convinced me of what was right.
Thinking about how lovable he was fills me with shame because I cannot think about what a wonderful little boy he was without remembering how badly I treated him when he was a baby. I doubt I will ever stop feeling guilty. I will always be aware of my capacity for evil and how it endears me to Jareth.
Or, as I should say, His Exalted Highness Jareth, Goblin King, Lord of the Outer reaches, the Goblin realm, Overseer of the Dukedom of the Bogland Marsh etc., etc. That version of his name does not include his peripheral titles or middle names. One of the Goblins capable of speech told me he has dozens of them.
I find it embarrassing that I have learned his names by heart. Being able to write it all down makes me feel like a parrot that can hold a pen. I haven't been told yet why I have to know his full name, but I have theories.
Before I go on, I would like to say a few things about Irene. Even if I was whipped raw with leather strips, I would refuse to say I like her. I was able to tolerate her towards the end, but the smiles I gave her were always labored. I went through a stage of trying to be co-operative, I tried hard to smile and give the impression of fondness. I tried to unearth common interests that would give us something to talk about, sampling her favorite television shows and listening to the music she recommended to me. However, seeing her blanched, made up face was always enough to make me forget my good intentions. She is one of the few aspects of my old life I can confidently say I don't miss.
I miss so many things, not just people. I miss my cluttered, badly organized bookshelf. I miss my big, old dog, Merlin, and how I would lead him into the hall when he was wet just to hear Irene scream at me as his long, shaggy coat dripped all over the carpet. I miss my friends. To be very petty, I miss strawberry milkshakes and hot showers. I would give anything to emerge from a mist filled shower to find a white, fluffy towel waiting for me on a radiator.
I would love to go back and do all the things I always dreamed of doing. I would have given anything to go on Broadway. When I was younger I dreamed of being picked out by a spotlight on a stage and curtseying as my audience rose to its feet. They would all clap deafeningly, every one of them blinded by adoration.
Going abroad would have been fun. England always seemed interesting; it has a lot of history, I've heard it's really quaint and traditional. They have a Queen instead of a President and drink lots and lots of tea, there are lots of other differences as well but none come to mind right now. Thinking about it though, I would have probably preferred to go to Italy. The Italians have great food and even better weather. England falls short in that respect, it is cold and wet the whole year round and I hate the rain. So, it would have to be Italy.
None of those dreams are going to happen now, and no one here understands why that makes me so unhappy. They do not see any pleasure in messy rooms and sugary drinks. Everyone here sees me as the Goblin King's little human pet, something to be kept on a leash and paraded in front of guests like a pedigree dog. Still, I should not complain. Worse things could be thought of me. I am sure many like to think of me as his sickly little slut, but they are wrong, they have it all wrong. That will never happen; I will never let myself be that. Never, never, never!!!
There is no one here; there is no one to talk to, no one to scream at. There is no one to cry to.
I'm all alone.
I am getting upset; I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Whoever you are reading this, you must think I am hysterical, you must think my confinement is making me go mad, insane, wrong-headed, unbalanced, bizarre. Oh God! Why have I stopped making sense? I didn't need all of those words, I went on and on and on and on and on…
Oh dear, I feel dizzy again, it's worse than before. My eyes are going funny, the flame of the candle seems larger than what it did earlier and everything looks slightly beige, like a Victorian photograph. Things are swinging in and out of focus madly, like a lamp attached to the roof of a ship that's being tossed around a stormy sea. The words I have written are blurring as I stare at them. I can continue, though. I am not quite ready to stop.
Maybe I should not have come down here. Maybe he was right to demand that I stay in my room.
If the order had come from someone else, maybe I would have listened to it.
I know what my symptoms mean: the fever is coming back. My forehead is burning, as if I had been out in the sun too long, even though I haven't come into contact with natural light in days. A fever is a horrible thing; it swings from one extreme to the other without bothering to warn you. One moment I feel so hot I am convinced I am about to self-combust, the next so cold I have to find my pulse to reassure myself I am still alive. The changes occur so quickly, they scare me.
I could have sworn I was fine before, but the more I write the more the fever comes. It is making me feel wretched: my face is wet with sweat; my hair feels messy and unclean; my eyes feel so heavy, it's amazing my face can bear the weight of them.
Oh God, I wish I could remember more of those H.E lessons; I feel so stupid. All I know is that my body is trying to fight the fever, this terrible pain.
I have no idea if my body is winning, that is the worst thing of all: uncertainty. I hate that word, it's horrible. I wish I had never written it down.
I don't really want to admit this much, but I'm scared. Will coming here be what kills me? Will the strain I have put upon my body make it give up? I hope not; if I have to die to defy him I would rather be obedient and survive. I don't want to die, not really; no one does when it comes to it for real. Anyone who says differently is a liar, a filthy liar.
I am not going to die; I will not let the fever beat me.
I have got to go back. I can't loose consciousness; I can't afford to loose consciousness here. He will find me and he will find this book if I remain and I can't let that happen. I will hide you and go somewhere else; he need never know you exist. I can lie to him about what I have being doing; I will say I have been reading, he will believe that, I spend most of my free time with books.
I think I can hear footsteps. They are close, they're echoing on the stone floor - his heels are hard. They are his boots and they are just outside; I know the sound too well not to recognize it.
I can't write any more. I have to go.
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(1) Health Education.
I am aware that using Blake quotations and stealing the title of his most famous book of poetry must seem very pretentious. Hell, it is pretentious but I promise that I chose the title and the poem because I genuinely felt them to be relevant to the content of this chapter. Promise.
Additionally, I have a somewhat twisted and ironic sense of humour so it tickles me to include a poem that personifies flowers only to have Sarah complain about such poems in the first paragraph of the story.
I hope you enjoyed reading this, especially if you read the first version of it. I was appalled by it upon re-reading it – my prose was so garbled I struggled to understand what I was trying to say.
Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.
Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!
This was revised for format errors and a few misleading phrases on the 11th March 2010.
