Inked

Chapter 2: I know what you did ten years ago

Chapter 2

Tired of pacing my spotless white cell, I settled by the window, whose magnificent view out onto the  English moor was marred only by the bars covering my window. Not that I was in any danger obviously. Rumor has it that only the H.U. ward has bars over the windows, as its on the fifth floor of the sanatorium, but more than that, because apparently a few years ago a 20 year old girl named Yvonne jumped out the window of her cell in an attempt to commit suicide. It worked. Since then, bars have been fitted on all the fifth floor window, and they trust the stable and semi-stable patients not to try anything. I stared through the bars and into the frigid, snowy landscape beyond, my eyes following the snaking path of the dirt trail that leads to the sanatorium. The Rockford Sanatorium is situated on a desolate moor off the A1 highway between Alnwick and Belford. Sometimes the matrons of the lower wards (where the more stable cases are) allow their patients to take a bus up to Belford to eat. Obviously, the critical cases (such as myself) are to be kept strictly inside the Nottingham Intensive  Ward (or the fifth floor, maximum security) at all times save during meals, when they are to be restrained. Staring out onto the empty, mossy expanse, I imagined an army van trundling up the drive, bearing a red cross on the side. The very same type of van I arrived here in almost 10 years ago. 

Lapsing into silent memory, I was transported back to my family in Ireland. Born into a farmers family, I grew up without a lot to call my own. when I was six years old, I had a serious outburst that sealed my fate: to live out my days at Rockford. There had been incidents for some time, random times where my eyes would glow like a hundred candles, i would speak in strange languages no one understood, a different one every time, I would write words in the air, the ink appearing to float as though the world was my page on which i could crate anything I liked. I created things with my hands and the words they wrought, dangerous things. Once, I created a dragon the size of the town church, and another time, I spun like a tornado, throwing glass-like shards of ink like teeth in all directions. But what landed me in Rockford was the fire. It was an overcast day, and I was six, helping my father herd sheep. suddenly, I began the speak in a strange language. My father backed away, and as I began to write words in midair, flames sprouted from the ink, spewing across the dry grass. It happened too fast, but Father couldn't get away. In my trance, I fed the fire, which races across the grass and caught up to father. everything within a mile radius was completely destroyed, I was found an hour later, sprawled at the epicenter of the destruction, twitching and writhing. Later that day my family sent for someone from Dublin, who came in a van and took me away, screaming for my now dead father. 

It seemed my family forgot about me, because I never once had a visitor. Not one of the other girls would come near me at Rockford, they were terrified of my blackened hands and livid purple eyes. For six months I fell into a severe depression, until I stopped eating and had to be force-fed. That went on for almost two years, and I have retained that gaunt, skeletal look I acquired then to this day. They assigned a caretaker to me, Marta, who miraculously seemed t understand me, and wasn't the least terrified of me. She became my honorary mother. After Marta, I began to eat again, and gradually regained my health, though it never returned completely. 

Coming back to the present, I stood and traced my hand through the air, drawing figures of men, horses, elephants, and Savannah animals, whose outlines came alive and gamboled around the room, trumpeting and shouting. I smiled as the small men chased an elephant, and the horses galloped across the room, kicking up inky dust as they did. I watched the figures for a while more, then lowered my outstretched palm and closed it into a fist with a snap. Immediately, the figures disappeared, leaving nothing but motes of black dust in their wake. I sighed and began to pace again, idly drawing random shapes in the air as I did so, being careful to keep the inked outlines as merely trace resemblances, not allowing them to assume a solid form. The shapes will only come into the flesh if i allow them, and I learned that the hard way when I wrote a description of a Hyrcan Tiger on the wall, and the words fell like stars and spun and swirled into a very real, very dangerous tiger that just about killed me, had I not banished it with all my mental might before it could do more than claw at me. From then on, I learned the extent of my power, and slowly taught myself how to keep my thoughts as mere outlines, my drawings as caricatures, and my descriptions as only words. In the day, I deal with my power, but at night it sometimes sends me into trances like those I had in my childhood. I have awful nightmares and wake up wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth, screaming and trying with all my might to get the ink on the ends of my fingers off. I have no control over what I create in my sleep, which is the reason I'm locked in a maximum security cell with guards posted outside 24/7. I feel like a mass murderer, a madwoman. Marta says my Fatrher's death was a terrible accident, but I remain convinced of my guilt, refusing to believe that I'm not an evil heathen that ought to be slaughtered. 

I was tremendously attached to my father, he was always the one that would calm me during my nightmares, and help me to try and minimize my dangerous trances. After the fire, my depression was less because of no visitors and more due to the fact that I had a terrible case of survivors' guilt. Marta painstakingly nursed me back to relative health and has kept me alive for 8 years. I owe her everything, and even though she'll never be my father, she has helped me to see that living is what my father would have wanted me to do, and she is slowly bringing me up from this well of despair that I willingly jumped into so many years ago. 

Feeling sorry for myself, I absently drew a sparrow in the air. Before I knew it, my hand had lifted the bird into a living, breathing sparrow, which twittered and darted around my head. Having created a companion, I sat down on the rickety wooden rocking chair by the window. The Sparrow followed me, twittering and circling my head, making my smile and laugh. Holding out my hand, the bird fluttered to rest on my palm, and i stroked its feathered head with a single finger, marveling at the intricacy of my creation.

Tired of sitting in one place, the bird took to the air again. Tired of the twittering, I clenched my hand into a fist, and the Sparrow disappeared, leaving flecks of glittering ink behind. Now alone, I rocked back and forth in the chair, now and then remembering bits of my childhood and feeling more lonely than ever. I couldn't create my father, even though I'd tried a dozen times. It seemed my powers extended only to generic things, I couldn't bring people back to life with the Ink. Slumping into the chair, I dozed off, allowing the tyrannical hand of sleep clutch me once again.

----------------------------------------------------------

This one was a little more focused on the past, if I bored you, sorry about that, it was kind of necessary to explain Evana's past. I hope everyone is enjoying Inked, please please fan, vote, and most importantly, leave me comments! I'd love to know what everyone thinks of my debut Wattpad novel!

Much love,

Vivian