Violent Laughter Echoed Around My Grave

JANUARY, 1949

THERE was no one else heading far north that day.

The train snaked through the tunnel, tiny windows of light flickering rapid-speed across the passengers' grey faces. The fog had thickened outside. Condensation clouded the windows, which rattled stubbornly.

In my hands, the book felt heavy.

The spine crackled as I turned over the pages. 

Academic achievements. Penfield Alumni.

Monochrome photographs had been stained with tea. The text, typed in a cramped font. A hot beverage balanced on my knee - a watery, poor excuse for hot chocolate - purchased not from greed, but an effort to pass the time.

Penfield College was infamous, but of course the book didn't mention that.

My old friend Joseph had written to me excitedly when I told him I was coming. Rumors have bloomed for centuries, he declared passionately. Many don't have the stomachs to step foot on these grounds.

I asked him if he had ever seen anything the next time he telephoned.

"Well, no," he admitted sheepishly. "But plenty have."

"I'm not really interested in hearing morbid stories," I said.

That was no lie.

Penfield could've been a sanatorium for mad people for all I cared.

I'd visited one once, many years ago. It had been snowing and thick carpets of white had laid thick on the roofs, the gargoyles buried deep within, their grey stony fingers poking through like dead flowers.  

Another child may have found it frightening. But I walked through hand-in-hand with my mother, fascinated by the rigidness of the place.

I came to conclusion that these places weren't so formidable. They were to heal the sick. Make people better. There was nothing wrong about that.

When people shuddered over mental institutions, I could only remember the day we picked up my father.

His face was radiant and beaming when he walked out, carrying his coat under his arm. Mother told me to thank God.

I hated shadowy train stations at night, the same way I hated scare-mongering. It had been an almost compulsive habit of mine to read through newspapers to scoff over the headlines, written by some desperate journalist who hungered for notoriety the way a dog salivated for a bone.

But when they praised the people -

That was patronizing. That was worse.

British universities were going into economic recovery after Europe's second bloody war. Penfield was the only place which had accepted me into their competitive program as an academic assistant.

That was enormous cause of celebration.

I pooled my jar of stowed-away pounds saved for a rainy day, and nipped down the market and bought myself a tweed coat. Then I went to ticket booth and bought one ticket to the pictures, and one for the train heading north on Monday. There was no hour to waste.

I had no other prospects in this new, empty world.

Back in Bristol, I had outgrown my body. I was sick of acting as the person I was supposed to be.

Joseph would be the only connection that tethered me to him.

I sat there for a few moments, wondering what would happen if we never spoke again.

A picture of his plump face started to swim in front of me. I imagined the hurt that would cross it if I simply strode past instead of returning a hello.

I could. He would slither away like a wounded snake.

Would that make me feel less troubled?

The answer, of course, was no. Joseph was no snake. He would, however, be bitter enough to never forgive me.

Outside, the night sky had turned to black ink. 

The lights above blinked to life. My hot chocolate had turned stone cold.

I folded the map of the grounds into a neat little square, and tucked it inside of the book. The fog behind the windows was visible no longer. In fact, anything could have been happening out there and I wouldn't have a clue.

I had been the sole applicant who had been seriously considered for the Wilfred Scholarship, Professor Horowitz had confided to me.

Although we had never actually met in person, the man seemed quite fond of me. He read my papers with avid interest. He recommended authors and articles, and offered to send my own work to his publisher once the board had sealed the deal.

Pity he was only one-third of it.

But the Penfield Chancellor wanted to meet me. He had a keen interest in history himself.

I took that as a good omen.

As long as I took my medication, smiled at the right time, and stopped myself from saying anything queer - there was no reason for things to go wrong.

Nothing had been the same since the day I'd finally snapped.

After I purchased my ticket and stowed my belongings in a battered old trunk, there was no other choice but to endure the wrath.

My hands were blue and purple. They looked bruised with cold, veins poking through paper skin. When I turned my head to examine my state in the window, a vague, pale creature looked back.

So what if I am weak and useless? Is that so bad? Is it worse than being cruel, unfeeling?

Why is that so unforgivable?

Even now, thinking about those screamed words made me clench my fists.

January had its hands around my throat, and now the time had come to make something of myself.