What it is to be a Hero
SyntheticProduct
CHAPTER ONE
Please note that this chapter contains mentions of abuse and neglect. This story is based around the anxieties of a woman that the world has not been kind to. Read with caution.
It was dreary and damp day, between the pitter-pattering of the rain and the coolness of the breeze, she could easily tell it was going to be a good day. Although there was no warmth from the sun nor a gentle gust, she couldn't help but love this kind of weather. She could almost picture the grey skies unfolding above mountain tops and the thundering clouds that rolled in over them; the dewy fields of forgotten flowers that wafted over a sweet scent of earth and a hint of sunflowers. That's how she knew that the old building was surrounded by the yellow, stocky flowers; there was a mere scent that rushed through the windows on days like this.
Thunder rolled through the valley, striking the lonely building with ferocity. The old-brick building shook with the wailing of the skies and made her grit her teeth. Vibrations ran through her as if she were a single rod sticking in the ground, from her toes to her ears thunder rolled through her. Storms like this made her uneasy, made her eyes froth with tears and claw her fingers into the armrests.
The world around her was a simple darkness; an endless void that seemed to never end or begin. Even so, she could feel the lightning strike across the sky and hear it crack against the thunder. She cried out, the cacophonous noise reeled in her mind and echoed like a scream. She covered her ears in protest, clutching the contours of them with her small hands and dug her nails into her scalp. Tears stung and wet her cheeks in hot streams. Her fingers dug into her hair and she tugged on them, threatening to pull them out by the roots as she tried to scream into the endless void for mercy.
Mercy was something should could never receive, not in this lifetime or the next.
A reprieve is what she was given, "Miss Sterling, it's alright the storm will pass." She dared to think that the words were actually sympathetic, but she knew it was pity. These words hadn't lessened the grip on her hair, hadn't stopped the trembling from her body; they didn't comfort the poor, blind girl, "Miss Sterling, please calm down or else I'll be forced to sedate you." Forced? Yes, everyone was forced to do something in this world. Forced to live out an eternity of never seeing light, only darkness because they were cursed. Damned by God himself, damned for an eternity of darkness. She was scared of the dark, scared of what lurked within it and scared of what lurked outside of what she could see. She screamed into the void, begging this time with silent pleas; no one answered back.
Hands covered her own and she could feel the familiar clasp of metal around her hands. She shrieked, her own voice rang in her ears, and thrashed. Hands pressed down on her, covering her with cold warmth and she cried out again. She swung her feet wildly, connecting blows to the bodies of which those hands belonged. A keen sense tickled in the back of her mind, directing her motions so they would connect fluidly with those around her. Dull, searing pain throbbed through her fingers and made them twitch in anticipation. She cried for no more, she didn't want it to happen - not again, not ever. Hands started to pull back, shouts of pain echoed in her head and in turn made her writhe in discomfort; too much noise, too many people. A pinch of pain in her neck and her breathing slowly returned to normal, her chest heaved as if there were a weight pressed down on it. She could feel her heart throbbing against her ribcage like the wings of a broken bird, flapping wildly to escape its prison.
"Miss Sterling, you'll have to go back into solitary now. We can't allow outbursts like that to happen."
It was dark, so dark. Her mind didn't speak back to her, she couldn't hear her own thoughts or remember her vibrant memories. Instead, it was so dark and heavy like a fog draped across her. Frightened, she begged with a small voice, pleaded not to go back into the heavy dark, "please, please no more."
"It's too late now, sleep Miss Sterling. Doctor Creighton will hear about this."
Into the abyss she screamed, hopelessly until finally she could feel no more.
She knew she was asleep when she saw the faces of her mother and father. She could see the creases of laugh lines around her mother's pale, cracked mouth as she smiled with yellowing teeth. Clumps of dark brown hair, matted down against her skull like a mask and her eyes were far brighter than any ocean's waves. Frothy red surrounded the blue orbs and they churred like the sea. Her mother was so skeletal, bones protruding out where muscle should be, and the air was musky - a film covered the air like a blanket, it smelt like death.
Her father was greying in his beard, salt and pepper mixed with tanned skin from days in the summer sun as a soldier. He was wracked with grief, his frail hand enclosed around her mother's like a seal. His eyes were no more than a dark, molten chocolate with bushy eyebrows set on his brow-bone. His cheeks were sunken in like wrap around a plate, but they were rosy; he was alive. He smelt like his aftershave and a dirty cologne that her mother bought him nearly two Christmases ago. Dirt and grim hid under his nails like an old secret, threatening to dirty the paleness of her mother's skin.
She knew it was a dream, but when heat started to engulf her it seemed all too real. Dull throbs in her arms, searing up from her fingertips to her shoulders with an unbearable ache. Dented, malformed metal that combusted into bright flashes of reds and oranges; it was too hot, too warm - she needed to run. To escape, but her mother's eyes begged her to stay. Unformed words fell from her mother's lips, a jumble of messages that she could not understand. Her mind was too young and her knees shook beneath her, she cried for them as the heat engulfed them alive.
The heavy fog lifted and she opened her eyes, but only darkness greeted her. Like an old friend, it enveloped her in warmth and silent promises. Her fingers thrummed against the metal barrier they were cased in, knuckles scrapped open old wounds and the pain was only momentary. She cried out in the darkness, fighting the restraints that tied her down; she could feel the leather burning against her skin. She could hear tapping from far away, the sound of leather soled shoes against the lament flooring brought her fear to a peak.
When the rowing of a door opened, she shrieked and fought against it. Cold fingers grasped her shoulders, shaking her, "Miss Sterling, I've gotten reports of another outbursts, you know we can't have that." The voice was like nails against metal, scrapping down and bringing only cold shivers that traveled down her spine. His voice was always cold, like a winter storm that brought only death and snow, "nurse, ready room eighteen for electroshock therapy." Thrashing again, she fought against him, but his hands held her down in place. More hands greeted her, wrapped her in plastic material that shrunk back from her body. She felt light and airy, almost as if she were flying, but she knew better. She fought against the hands, crying out in remembrance of the buzzing and zapping that made her brain mush. She screamed in pain, as if it were already happening and begged to be anywhere but here.
Hands over hands, brushing against her hot skin as they tied her down. Burns erupted as she struggled, screaming out in fear as the creaky wheels rolled into the room. She could hear the heavy instrument being toyed with, clanking around on the cart and laughter erupted around her, "place this over her forehead," a heavy weight fell against her head, a heavy strip that tied her head in place, "stuff her mouth with a rag," before she could cry out again, it was muffled by a dry, wool rag, "ready the instrument."
Tears soaked down her cheeks, resting in her hair as she erratically looked around. Darkness, darkness wrapped her in a blanket and told her to hold still. Numbers would be her only friend; ten, nine, eight, seven, six - a cool metal was pressed against her temples and her breathing came out in fast puffs - five, four, three, two, one, "now nurse."
A million needles prodded into her brain, sifting in and out as the darkness pulsated around her. She thrashed against her ties and screamed out into the world, screamed in pain and agony. Tears pooled in the cracks of her lips, sweeping down her chin in rifts; everywhere hurt and then it ached. A familiar buzz rang in her ears and muffled voices as she panted, "again." His voice was so cold that she froze. She felt as if she stopped breathing altogether before the needles stabbed into the sides of her head. They curled around each stem of thought and fried it, curling it to ash and dust. No more! No more! The buzzing was back and it was all she could hear, other than the beating of her heart. It was all so familiar, so calming in a way, but frightening, so terribly frightening.
"Good, go put her in the room. No supper tonight and no breakfast tomorrow, medication only."
His voice seemed so far away and it calmed her to hear his voice retreating. No more pain, not today. She could breath, but the ache in her head remained.
She tried so hard to be good, to not be scared. She had been here for so long without the voices of her parents, without the soothing pets from her grandparents. Doctor Creighton had told her that they had abandoned her, that they left her here because she was sick. She wasn't sick! She wasn't like her mother, she didn't vomit up the food she ate or bleed when she coughed, but she was abandoned. Because no one loves you, he had such a cruel voice. God must've given the man a cruel voice because he was so inhumanly cold.
The plastic was removed from around her and the metal cages were freed from her hands. She dared not move until their feet pattered away and the heavy metal door closed behind them. The clunk of the lock was set in place and then several more locks were moved into their position. You're a monster, dangerous, his voice echoed in her mind and she begged him to leave. She wanted her thoughts to be her own, not his - never him! The buzzing sounded like angry bees that rattled around in her head, it was amplified by the sounds of the nearby thunder. She curled into herself, knees to her chin until her back ached and she laid there.
People walked by her room, she could hear them. Soft heeled shoes and the light pattering of rubber squeaking against the floor. No one spoke to her, which wasn't abnormal. Sometimes she'd go, what felt like a millennia, without talking to anyone and that was okay because their voices only drove the fear deeper into her heart. It was also completely normal that her body would feel like it was melting into the concrete ground, her stomach groaning in a hungry ache. She would go so long without food or water, until she could barely pick herself up to relieve herself in the cold, metal bedpan. She would soak herself through with her own piss and feces, the nurses called it that, and they would laugh at her while they cleaned her up. Or sometimes, they just laughed and never helped clean her up.
Cold seeped into her bones and the darkness begged her to sleep.
The darkness scared her frequently, like it had its own voice. It could beg and plead with a voice much like her own, it would answer back and scream at her. It would offer kind words and sweet lullabies. She didn't know where the voice came from or why it sounded like herself, it only creeped along her mind and offered her gentle waves of heavy, blanketed whispers.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep. It pleaded.
She was scared to sleep, scared to face the memories of the faces she would never see again or see the monsters that dwelled deep inside it. Ravenous beasts with talons for fingers, blood-soaked eyes and wiry grins; she pictured Doctor Creighton to look like these beasts.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep. It begged.
She closed her eyes as the buzzing began to become louder, images of bright lights flashed before the darkness and then a new voice. A brand new voice that was so gentle she was afraid she'd scare it away by breathing. Comforting was the tone and masculine was the property that she could feel herself lean into the cold, unmerciful ground beneath her.
We're coming.
It wasn't a plead or a snarl, but a promise. It was a promise that she wanted to wrap her fingers around and tug into her heart. A warm promise that eased her aching mind before a heavy fog enveloped her and she smiled.
AN: Let me know what you think! This was an idea that I had that I just needed to write out :) Leave a review, a favourite or an alert! It makes my heart swell when I see these e-mails.
Thank you for reading! x