I organised an activity for us to do. We read the poem 'Strange Meeting' by Wilfred Owen, in which Owen describes a ghostly encounter with the ghost of a German soldier he killed. We discussed it and then I set the task of writing a prose story, with the title 'Strange Meeting'.
Between us, the stimulus inspired some very different stories, all of which were interesting to listen to.
My contribution is below. I hope you enjoy it!
Strange Meeting
I gaze down at my blood stained hands. Cracks of crimson gaze
through scaly, raw skin, as my body pays the price for my inner
demons.
Itching. Awful, insane itching irritates my hands, my mind, my soul.
Is it possible to be physically allergic to mental torment? I very
much doubt any physician would define it as such but I definitely
believe it.
Clawing at the backs of my hands, I shudder, as my nails graze along
elephantine skin. Unwillingly, I restrain a groan of simultaneous
relief and agony, as the itching temporarily gives way to the pain of
flesh tearing from flesh, It has to end soon. One way or another, it
just has to.
Pulling the gloves back down, I look for a distraction – something
to break the spell of all consuming misery. I have to go out.
An hour later, attired in my darkest disguise; 'Disco Goth'; I head
for the not-so cobbled streets of Colchester. My Doc Martens creak
their way up the High Street, as the leather continues to mould
itself to the curves of my calves. My lace sleeves dig into my skin;
especially on my poor hands. In my disguise, I exude confidence,
poise, balls. No-one would guess the truth.
Marching into the pub, I greet my friend. We exchange inane, profane
stories for a moment, before acquiring a pint of cider each. Karaoke
will be a triumph. I will belt out some depressing, angry man-metal,
swing my hair about and go home knackered but full of hilarious, yet
terrifying stories of strange meetings with the eclectic mix of
drunken freaks that frequent the dark corners of the pub. It will be
just the thing to drag me, kicking and screaming, out of my stressy
stew.
Then I see her.
What is she doing here? She doesn't even live in Colchester.
Her. Blonde hair, the slim, curvy figure I know all too well. One
glimpse of her and I can feel her steely gaze; hear her metallic,
insipid voice, bleating out insidious niceties. One glimpse of her
and I sense her tightening deathly grip on me heart.
I breathe in. My lungs have no capacity. I breathe out. They
contain no air. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out … in an
increasingly erratic, violent, pumping rhythm.
My pounding face can scarcely contain the intense heat burning my
cheeks.
I slump to the ground; my legs concertinaed up beneath me, as I
struggle for breath.
People crowd around me, asking me stupid questions, to which the
answer is obvious.
“Are you alright?” a chorus repeats. “What's wrong?”
“Puff … puff ...” is all they hear but inside, I'm screaming at
the top of my broken lungs. “Yep! I'm alright. Obviously.
People, who are alright always crouch on floors, wheezing, turning
purple and then draining to a deathly grey pallor all the time, you
STUPID IDIOTS!”
I flick my helpless eyes back in her direction. She smirks, raising
a washed out eyebrow. “Failure” her eyes scream. Hopeless drain
on our resources, Drain. Drain. Drain. My helpless body, still
puffing and panting, as the panic ensues, won't let me tell anyone
that my kryptonite is jeering me voicelessly, from the bar.
The crowd fades, as my mental anaphylaxis consumes me. Then all is
dark.
© Annie Bell 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment