Musings of an Unnamed

A long/short story I wrote several years ago, an experiment on learning to get inside a character's head. Certainly not my best work, but tolerable.

She sat alone in the white room. White floor, white walls, white bed and white chair. The only things that weren’t white were the metal bed frame and the rusted faucet that dripped into the white sink. She watched the colorless drops fall, barely able to hear the sound they made as they plinked into the basin. She couldn’t hear much of anything anymore. Except the Memories. The Memories spoke to her. Talked to her. Counseled her. They were her friends, her enemies, her family, anyone she had ever known. They were her memory. They spoke to her during the day in hushed whispers, at night, they came in the form of dreams. They came as angels, demons, animals. Their voices were as variant as they. Some high and shrill and angry. Others low and gravelly. Some reminded her of the sunlight she once had know. Others, the darkness she feared. They warmed her heart with gently words, but for any goodness there must be an evil, and they were no exception. There were the harsh voices, the ones who chided her, rebuked her, mocked her small pitiful self. Mocked her mercilessly. But she bore their criticisms and spitefulness, for she knew there was no truth in their words. Her mother had told her so. 
'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.' 
And words didn’t hurt her. At least, not now. There had been a time when they did, many, many years ago. But that time had been embalmed by the memories, preserved in secret places, hidden somewhere within the caverns of her mind. They stored the old times, the memories. Each moment and each incident, each day and each year, each minute and each second, into separately marked drawers and chests that were there for her to open. Sometimes, something would give her the key to unlock them. The memories stored every word, cataloged every action and every emotion in a great chest in the center of her mind. Every now and then, the memories would accidentally release one of the emotions, and it would overtake her. Forcefully it would drive her, till the memories harnessed the runaway feeling and stuffed it back into the chest. 
That was why she was here. In the white room with the white wall and white floors and why she was sitting on the white bed, listening to the faucet cry away it’s tears. She had no clairvoyant power, the memories told her nothing, it was all things she already knew, just bottled up inside. She remembered like everyone else, only it was second by second, detail by detail. She could have told you the color shirt her father was wearing at her 2nd birthday party. The look on her parent’s faces when she said her first word. What was written on her English test in 5th grade. It was all there. But she didn’t blame the memories for her being here. It was all because of the emotions. Blasted little things. This mess she was now in, this place, all for emotions who had slaughtered logic. Logic had once lived the with the memories and she missed him terribly. He had the calm reassuring voice that always seemed to know what to do, or at least how to work through it. The memories liked him well enough, for he was as intertwined with her life as much as they were. But the powerful emotions didn’t. Anger, sorrow and fear loathed him and it was they who had murdered him. She didn’t know how they’d done it. Gradual poisoning? It seemed that he had always been there, then as time went on, his voice became smaller and smaller, until finally one day, it wasn’t there at all. 
Logic had always been her guide form the time she was small. (A drawer was opened and moment released.) The time she had learned to swim. Her father had tossed her into a shallow pool. The cool liquid surrounded her in an icy womb. 
'Move one arm, then the other, kick your feet, just like Daddy told you. There see? You’re staying up. Careful now, hold your breath so you don’t get water up your nose.' She paddled to the bank and into a warm towel and her father’s embrace. 
"Well done my girl! Well done! You’ll be swimming like a mermaid in no time". 'Mermaid'. The word triggered another memory and the Memories opened a chest. She was with her mother now, cuddled on their old brown couch, eating popcorn from a bowl. The room was dark and the TV before them glowed with bright images. She watched with rapture as the beautiful girl with a fishes tail, instead of legs, and ketchup red hair swam across the screen in her world of singing fish, handsome princes and evil witches. She recalled the taste of salt and crunch of popcorn,. The melting feeling she got when the mermaid and her prince kissed. Her fear as they battled the evil sea witch. She grabbed her mother’s hand in that part. 
"Don’t worry sweetie, it’s only a movie." 'Movie.' Another drawer was unlocked and she remembered the small theater, all dark, with him beside her, his arm around her shoulders and a bag of candy between them. A coke sat in his cup holder with two straws in it. She had butterflies in her stomach and she again felt the overwhelming shyness that so consumed her when she was with him. This was their first date. A happy, but awkward and shy occasion. At least for her. He always knew what to say, what to do. She felt small next to him, juvenile, but when he told her he loved her, she felt ten feet tall. They were both young and confused, trying to find their place in the world, and at the moment, their place had seemed with each other. He had been nearly perfect then. Every woman’s dream. Dashingly handsome with soft eyes that looked compassionately on all. Sweet, romantic, but all of that had changed after the first drink.

PART II 

Drink. A heavily padlocked chest opened. An acrid smell filled her nose as she lifted the brown bottle to her lips. The bitter liquid spilled over her tongue and teeth and she swallowed with a grimace. 
"See? Isn’t that good?" She nodded, but it wasn’t. It was horrible. She took the bottle he offered her, but only pretended to drink from it. She watched with increased worry as empty bottle after empty bottle and empty glass after empty glass piled up on the coffee table and kitchen counter. His speech began to slur and she gazed at him with terrified and widened eyes as his face grew redder, but he still kept drinking. Finally she could stand it no longer. 
"Will you please stop?"
"Why the hell should I stop? You think you can order me around?"
"No, no, I’m sorry, I…I…"The words caught in her throat.
"Don’t apologize woman, I can’t stand the sniveling." A pause for another sip." Take off your dress."
"What?"
"Take off your dress! Don’t make me ask you again!" She didn’t answer, only shook her head and made to get up from the chair where she cowered, but he let out a roar and lunged at her. She instinctively ducked, but caught her around the middle and tore her dress off with his bare hands. 
"No! Oh God, please no!" She had screamed, but he was to angry and had ignored her pleas as he threw her onto the bed. He had become a monster, a great, hulking brute. Gone was the sweet boy she had once known, and some inhuman creature had replaced him. As she lay in the musty apartment with the monster, all she wanted was to fly. To fly away from him. Just grow wings and fly. 

Fly. Mercifully the padlocked chest slammed shut and a small cupboard opened. She was now high above the air, thousands upon thousands of feet, looking down upon a tiny world. There were clouds and water beneath her. Ocean stretching for miles below an endless floor of cloud. Tiny trees and tiny houses appeared, looking like a miniature set of toys. As much as the view delighted her, the bruises on her arms pained her and the emotional scars were open wounds. She had loved him, but his love had been turned sour by addiction. There had been times when he was sober, and the happy carefree man she had once known showed through, but the moments were brief, and he was only a shadow of what he once had been. She herself was now a gaunt version of her former self. Scared to meet anyone’s eyes. Frightened of anyone who tried to touch her. 

Logic’s voice had been grower smaller and smaller in the past years, and sorrow, anger, and fear had been growing louder. Sometimes so loud she couldn’t take the screaming. The only way to silence them was to succumb to what they wanted. Lash out in anger. Sob uncontrollably. Hide when there was nothing to hide from. Her parents were kind and tolerable at first. Her mother had tried in vain to help her daughter, but even her patience and understanding grew thin. She tried everything. Counselors, treatments, therapy. 

Therapy. A dictionary definition popped into her head as the drawer was pulled open. She was again sitting in the many-windowed office, high above the bustling city below. Her clammy hands were clasped in her lap. Her head lowered and lank hair falling over her shoulders and face. She was seated on a leather couch, and in her boredom she tried to memorize the creases that ran across it like tiny roads. She wasn’t the only one in the room. The small woman with the wire rimmed glasses and swept up blonde hair sat across from her. The woman had a smooth face with a tiny mouth that barely moved when she spoke, as though she were trying to hold water in without spitting it out. The woman was speaking now, but she barely heard. The Emotions were shouting at her. Some had gotten loose from the trunk and the memories were chasing them around like mad trying to catch them again. They told her to walk away, and she was tempted to. Part of her wanted to listen, but over the noise she could only catch snippets of what the woman was saying. “you need…control emotions” An interruption. ‘Don’t listen to her!-why are you here again?-you have better things to do!’ “Find a balance…emotion and logic.” Then sorrow burst from the chest, screaming her wailing cries. The tears came, flowing freely and fast, falling in rivulet streams down her sunken cheeks. A sob wracked her small frame and she curled herself into a fetal position. She hugged herself tightly. 
“What’s the matter? Are you all right? Speak to me! Are you hurt?” The small woman wanted to know. She tried to touch her shoulder gently, but she let out a fearsome snarl and leapt off the couch. Anger had taken hold. “Stay away from me!” she had screamed. “Don’t touch me, you snake!” She made from the door. The therapist followed, hair flying loose and glasses bouncing, her pen and paper discarded on the floor. She had to get away. Somewhere safe. Sanctuary, haven, refuge, shelter… “Security! Security!” From that point, all she remembered was the big man with the scar across his cheek chasing her. She tripped and went headlong into the cinderblock wall. Blackness. 
More had transpired after that, but there was nothing to unlock the chests, and so they remained closed. All that was open now was the box into which every current moment, passing second and minute was being poured into. It was silent in her room. In this purgatory she had been sent to. This place where no one would question her actions, they had their own problems. Suddenly the silence was broken and the white door opened, sending in a rush of cool air. A blue clad nurse appeared, her soft white shoes making small squeaking noises on the tiled floor. 
“Here’s your supper,” She said brightly. She was a new nurse, for she did not recognize the young woman. A fresh face and sweet smile were rare in this place. ‘she looks nice’ a memory commented. ‘Say hi.’ Came a meager voice. She paused, she didn’t think she’d heard it. ‘Say hello,’ it urged again. Then she recognized the speaker. ‘Logic?!" He smiled. Anger, Sorrow and Fear vanished into the trunk to cower. ‘Say hi to her,’ He said gently, indicating the nurse. Somehow her lips moved and her stiff tongue formed the familiar word. 
“Hello.”
The nurse nearly dropped her tray. She stared in wide-eyed amazement. 
“You spoke! They told me you hadn’t spoken in five years!”

~*~

A few days later, she walked out of the white room, down the white hall and out of the white building into a world of color. The warmth of sunlight greeted her. The wind played in her hair. Spring flowers waved to her. Hand in hand she walked with her parents, like a little girl again. Her mother’s wrinkled face held a warm smile, and her father’s eyes twinkled. They were overjoyed to have their daughter back, and she was glad to be back. Somewhere a bird sang. She laughed. 

Author's Note

An old piece dug up from the archives.

Reviews

[None]

You tell a good story. Very good. Your ability to flow from her dad, to her mom, to her "boyfriend" was so masterfully done. I'm taking notes! Here are a few notes:

- The ideas in your first paragraph are so artfully shown, not told, which is awesome. I will say a few of your lines seem to hamper the whole, or state what you've already told us. They are beautiful, like poetry, but they clutter. Read it out loud and record it and then listen to it, or have someone read it to you out loud, and I think you will know which ones.

- Later, you introduce different people's voices, but I think it would be really neat to introduce the "memories' voices in the beginning.

- You did an amazing job of doing exactly what you sought to do: get inside a character's head. Youa re so one with your character here. It's downright impressive.

- The whole Part II thing is not necessary. Use italics if you want to transition, or just a space between the paragraphs. Your story is too well told to need the "part II".

- Just an observation: the length of your paragraphs are a little long... I think break them up a little would serve your purpose a little more.

Love this. Submit it somewhere!!! :) Thank you for posting it.

[Susanna F]

There's a lot of emotion in this, it swept me right along. The details are great - "her soft white shoes making small squeaking noises on the tiled floor." There's a great idea here, and so much story I can imagine it as a novel. You really are talented.