How are villains made? From the paper ash of despair.
Tormented by her past, Ivy runs from the present. With her world turned upside down, she struggles with reality, sanity and loss---and hiding her darkest secret. With everything ripped away and...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Varkinburg Hospital
Capetown, South Africa
I don't know the day or how long I was here.
Mommy remembers me. I'm sure of it.
Ivy. I'm Ivy Rayne.
Tires hiss against wet pavement outside the clinic window, headlights tracing great arcs across the bare walls in the dark room as the vehicle maneuvers into place and shuts off, leaving me in the solace of darkness once again. A visitor at this time of night? Odd. Somewhere outside a pipe drips from the aftermath of this evening's storm, and the smell that wafts through the room is vivid and green, things I would normally enjoy experiencing at home.
The sudden idea of home brings unwilling moisture into the sunken eyes that seem to be part of my body. Tears are just tears, they don't mean anything in the end, so they never drip anymore, but they threaten. I think lazily back to my writing assignment from earlier today...or was it yesterday?
"How do you describe emotions associated with loss?"
Every emotion portrayed is an excusable circumstance when dealing with loss. Pity is an understatement in everyone's eyes. The natural urge for everyone to comfort me and touch me is unbearable at first. The dire need for separation from the rest of the world is like a thirsty child chained before a crystal clear waterfall---yet the idea of being alone is too overwhelming to bear. The word 'numb' takes on substance and fills every cell in my body with a layer of cloudy protection against the onslaught of hope and happiness. For those of us who know true pain there are no words, just pitiful consolidation and the punishment of time. Then you end up here in this hell hole with 'doctors' who pretend to know everything about how to deal with an eleven-year-old who doesn't have anything wrong with them to begin with.
Praise for my advanced vocabulary and imagery is given, along with comments like "eccentric" and " an overly-educated eleven-year-old", but the page is immediately ripped from the journal just as quick, "This will not do," The doctor sighs, making a dissatisfied noise with his tongue, "we can't put that kind of kak in our system, now can we? Let's do it again."...
Two light knocks sound against the door, drawing me out of my reverie. A light slithers in from the hallway as it creaks open. In seeps the antiseptic, latex and chaos like a stifling fog, pushing out the fresh air. A squeaky wheelchair rolls by in the hallway beyond. An overhead light buzzes nosily somewhere close by. Someone suddenly screams on the other side of the building, a woman, asking for a husband that will never come. There is suddenly a loud bang to the right as my neighbor throws something against the wall again. A nurse responds like always, sneakers squeaking on the sanity floor. The next door over clicks shut and the tantrum goes mute. At least for now.
"Ivy? You awake my dear?" A plump nurse, I've come to know as Mila Split-Pea whispers from the doorway. Apparently one of the other famous patients, Kelly Raspone, who'd insisted that Mila's nose had been a pea, had successfully taken a chunk of it out with her teeth, chewing on the tip like a child sucking a teat.
