English school work

Heard of God

This in a draft of some coursework from a few years ago.

The towering concrete spires sprout from the barren street, behind the widened jaws of the cast iron railings that contain the 'Sisters of Penance: Psychiatric Institute for the Troubled Teen', a 'communal house' that houses several ancient nuns, a single psychiatrist, and a slack jawed cook. However, the nuns used the institute as a convent, constantly absorbed in prayer, they barely made contact with the patients here, and the psychiatrist seemed to be far more interested in the contents of the institute's bank balance than the contents of the minds of those admitted here.

Pain. It seemed to be the only constant in my life; all I could remember from it was the agony. The torment of the external entities being thrown into my tiny body, swamping my frame with the tumults of tortured souls. Morphing my thoughts into the hot fire of misery, the taste of the suffering cavorting over my tongue as it waltzes amongst the metallic tang of my own blood, sapped from my cheek by the cutting edge of my teeth.

All I could remember was the hurt, my first moments in life were etched with pain, as the life force of my life giver was oozing from her body, as we were still entwined, bound by the thick crimson chain that for nine months had sustained me. Rather than a birth into a world of awe and beauty, I was borne to a puddle of blood, screeching machinery and shouting medics. With the death of my mother, came the suicide of my father, leaving me ward of the state, a state that lacked the inclination to consider the effect of this hell hole onto my absorbent pain receptors.

As ever the icy fingers of regrets and doubts mingle through my own fragile consciousness, weaving their webs of hurt in my tortured thoughts. Gasping and groaning I search inside for any semblance of tranquillity, but I am left hanging in the vacuum of cold fire, discarded shoes upon a telephone wire, the gathering of lonely, wounded souls, who trudge through the empty hallways in a dreary adagio.

Opening my senses to the world around me, I see without eyes, I hear without ears, and I feel. The angst from the troubled teens who surround my feeble form, with their glassy eyes gazing listlessly out of the barred windows and onto the cracked concrete that lay beyond the misted panes, is taking the form of a dull throb while I almost laugh at the irony, I am a connoisseur of pain, distinguishing the varieties and strengths, while criticizing the faults of each, however, I fail recall the sound of laughter.

I sigh, the expulsion of tepid breath blooming in the humid room. While the individuals (nobody ever even glanced at another soul, for how could they, suffering from their own depression, make contact with another equally despondent soul?) slouch against their woodworm filled desks. When the squeak of the swollen doorframe shatters my reverie, I lazily glance upward from my foetal position; my hollow hazel eyes meeting a pair of beaming blue, under a mop of thick copper curls. And with that one glance, I could breathe, the weight on my heart eased, even though it was by but one degree, the presence of a soul, a soul without the melancholy depression, lightened my load.

In my musing, I had missed the introduction of the intriguing young spirit, for there was no doubt that this was no boy, yet he possesses lightness in his heart that is uncommon in adults, I am entranced. Through cautious eyes I follow the movements of the unknown male, a bright allegro in contrast to the adagio I am familiar with. His glowing light depleting with each blank stare he receives from my companions. The thought of being plunged back into the searing pain of emptiness, scaring me into action, whilst his fading azures scan the room, I bring my mouth into what I hope to be a reassuring smile.

I am surrounded by his relief at seeing another living being amongst the mobile corpses scattered around the ramshackle room. So I allow my eyes to reflect the life from his cerulean orbs, the illusion that I was normal. Drawing him in closer with the promises of animation, flies to treacle, I pull strength from his faint flame; I taste my first experience of serenity, and conclude that it possesses the flowery sweetness of a delicate rose petal.

Once again, I am so enthralled by the taste of the emotions, I lose track of his movements. I jump at the feel of his cool hands on my bare arm. The contact amplifying the emotional connection I am forging with his tranquil soul; filling me to the brim with peace, leaving me as much to my own thoughts as I have ever been. I can't prevent the relaxed smile that fights its way out of my carefully constructed mask.

As I gaze into the deep blue lagoons that whirl and shimmer in his face, I find myself drowning, caught amongst the flowing currents of his emotions, and float suspended in the vast depths of serenity. I am tossed like a shard of glass, and battered by the force of his sentimental tides, until I am thrust back upon to the sandy shores of my own mental state, a polished sphere of glass, all imperfections removed and only the crystal clear grassy green orb remains; a trinket of sea glass, the captured moment of years' worth of buffing and shaping, ready to be plucked and treasured.

In that instant, that second of skin contact, I feel my weakened spirit filling with euphoria. And then I understood heroin's hold over an addict, alcohols pull to the wino, the call of the blade to the zombies who fill this room; their arms trailed with the snaking scars of self-harm. I feel myself becoming addicted to his presence, the freedom. I feel as though if I knew the lyrics to any songs other than the morose screeches that the listless corpses that surround me, blast out from their tinny headphones, bearing no resemblance to the melodic notes I feel drifting into my consciousness from the blissful bubble of his mind.

"Samuel," I feel the waves of the gravelly baritone of his voice that ricochet through every inch of my being, his auric field throbbing against my own. And I gasp at the realisation that his name was of biblical origin, the son of Hannah, who prayed for a child, despite being barren, who upon her prayers being answered, named her son 'Samuel' Hebrew for 'heard of God'. He truly is my prayers answered.