Shadows of a Former
The walls were cold and blank. The light was bare and brilliant in its mercilessness. Blanche stared at her surroundings dismally. The walls felt small, the ceiling too low, too close. It was claustrophobic: painfully claustrophobic.
She had long learned not to call out. The matrons scared her. Their rough, demanding tones were unfriendly and possessed none of the kindness that she so longed for. She couldn't depend on them. She couldn't even look them in the eyes.
It was peace, she often told herself. The small room was peaceful. It was a place for calmness. Yet, she still found herself warily glancing up, wondering when the dust and soil would break through and she would realise that it was a coffin and she had died long ago.
The polka music had faded. She was glad of that. The silence, however, was of no comfort. There was no security in this silence. It held her with both hands. It clutched at her with the same desperation with which she tried so fervently to be rid of it.
She glanced up – all was still – and met the eyes of the doctor who stood in her doorway. He burned her with his stare, his appraisals. She was meat to be bought for dinner and served on a pretty plate. She was a toy to be given to a petulant, abusive child.
He turned and she found herself calling to him softly in greeting. Her voice was calm – dare she say it? Yes, she did – sounding composed. She allowed the flicker of a distant smile before turning her attention back to a blemish in her cut nails.
A triumph, a success: one akin to the victorious forces returning long and weary from an endless war. She was sane. She was sane. She was sane. They would understand that. They were merely being overly cautious. How could she blame them? There were many of a similar case in entering who could not return.
She paused, stiffened, took a breath. Her shoulders rolled slightly forward. Her pretty little smile returned for an instant. Yes, she would be released. They would have no right to keep her for anything much but observation. Such a trial period could not extend indefinitely. It would be morally incorrect.
Blanche examined her nails. Again, the sensation of being watched rose up. She swallowed it. She swallowed it whole. They would not keep her. They could not keep her.
She did not bite them, nor pull them from their homes. She simply touched the blemish, her brow wrinkling slightly in disdain.
She was yet to grow accustomed to the ways of the institution, yet to understand the days when visitors sometimes roamed the halls. That was just, as she was yet to realise her own visitor's presence.
Author's Note: Oh… my… dear… giddy… aunt… This is a lovely play. I would love to have the chance to see it. Yet, having said that… This - intervention - on behalf of the academy is slightly… jarring. Yes, jarring. I am not at all content with the work required. I could detest this by the end of my studies.
Oh, my two year studies… How unfortunate, but I suppose that I will come to love this as I had before in time. Of course, all comes in its own time.
