Screaming Into Silence (a story)

 Hullo and greetings! Today I'm sharing a story I wrote recently--which, admittedly, is far different than anything I've ever written before. But the best way to learn is by trying new things, right? Well, one would think.

This photo has no relevance to anything, other than the fact that it's beautiful and I wanted to put it here ;P

    Anyhow, any constructive criticism would be much appreciated! Here goes nothing...

EDIT 12/12/24: I have revised the story, and that version is now included here instead of the original. Thanks so much for reading!

Screaming Into Silence

November 24, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

They have told me you are dead. There is no body.

I wish I could believe they were lying. They’ve strapped me to this bed like some fool child who can’t control herself. I am not a child. I am grieving, and they say I am mad. What balderdash.

I wish the accident had taken me and not you. You see, James, I love you. 

Yes, I love you. I’ll say it a thousand times, though now you’re not here to listen. I love you, I love you, and you are dead. I never told you. I should have. 

I was such a fool.

I remember. Don’t you? That day, the day before Christmas vacation last year, when we left class early and went sledding? It was the day I fell in love with you.

Allerton was miffed that we left, he always was—because those boring lectures of his were so important—but we didn’t care. It was Christmas and there were snowflakes in the air. I tried to catch one with my tongue, and you laughed at me.

Oh, how I miss that laugh, James, I miss your silly laugh and that lopsided grin you’d get whenever I was angry at you. But I could never stay upset for long and you knew it.

That was when I realised I loved you—when I pushed you down and you dragged me with you onto the ground, and you looked at me with snow in your hair and laughter in your eyes. “Isn’t this grand?” you shouted, and I responded by pelting you with snow.

Wasn’t it grand?

James, the nurse is here. It’s tiring me, she says, to write for so long. I try to chuck the nearest object at her, which happens to be a pillow. She calmly steps out of the way and folds her arms. You’re done for today, she grunts, in that spiky voice of hers. 

NO I’M NOT.

James, James, all I want is to pretend like you’re not gone, you’re not out of reach, and we can still talk and laugh like we used to. 

Goodbye, goodbye, James—talk to you tomorrow, like we always used to say.

Talk to you tomorrow—

November 25, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

It took far too much begging for them to give me this notebook back. When I had politely explained to the nurse—Emilia, she calls herself, though it doesn’t suit her at all—the reason why I wanted it, she scoffed. You are mentally unstable, she said, in her usual staid manner. You’re just fantasizing. 

Mentally unstable, my foot. James, you’d know if I was mentally unstable. I’m not. I don’t know why I’m here, in this hospital for “mentally unstable” people. The French girl in the next room keeps sobbing and screaming bloody murder—she alternates days. I think today’s a murder day. I can already hear her shrieks piercing the thin walls. They sound so near. I can almost feel them coming from my own lips. Taunting. Tantalising.

BUT NO. I’m not like that, I’m not, I promise. You’d tell them, James, you’d not let them keep your girl stuck in this God-forsaken place. But you’re gone, now, and there’s no one else left for me.

No one else will laugh at my awful jokes. No one else cares about me.

Oh, dear God, how I miss your smile.

November 26 (or so), 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

Yesterday was a self-pity day. I cried myself to sleep and couldn’t bring myself to think about anything. Not even joyful things, because that would bring me back to what I’ve lost. 

The Emilia hates that I’m writing to you. You’re making it up, she says, you’re making it all up. I respond most reasonably by screaming in her face. You deserve to be written to, James, you deserve to be remembered. Even if I’m the only one left to do it.

I’ll try to remember, write about what happened, without crying again. I don’t want to be like that French girl. 

I’m not. I won’t be.

But it started… I don’t know how long ago. I was waiting at home. Waiting for you, actually. You were coming from Leith on the train, and we were supposed to have dinner together. I was supposed to tell you that I loved you.

Key word: supposed. I waited all night. They phoned me the next day—I don’t know who, the train station, the hospital, someone, something—and told me there’d been a crash. A terrible crash. No survivors.

I cried all night. And the next night, and the night after. Really I don’t know how much time passed. I couldn’t believe you were gone. I still can’t. Sometimes I wonder if they’re all just playing a joke on me. Sometimes I wonder if I really am going mad.

I’m not. I’m not.

You are, says The Emilia, from where she’s watching over my shoulder. That’s why you’re here.

I am not. The only reason I’m here is because your friends in this stupid place coerced me. You told me to come watch him die, only yesterday, and he was already dead.

You’re mad, she repeats, and tries to pull the pen from my hand. How many times have I told you that you are making this up?

How dare you—

James, you know—

You are real. I am real. We are more real than The Emilia or this place or anything. 

You’re mad, says The Emilia.

Liar. You liar. Go away. Let me finish. Let me finish, you stupid woman. I’m not done yet.

I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to die with you. I’m sorry I never told you I loved you—

Some Day In December, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

Today I was woken by the French girl’s screaming. But then I remembered I had watched you die in my dreams, and I screamed and screamed and screamed—

I feel blood on my lips. The Emilia says it’s from biting them. I think she’s lying to me. 

It’s been too long, James, far too long. Much has happened. They all keep telling me I’m mad. And then I wake up screaming. What if I actually am?

Today I’m to leave this room and go somewhere safer. They’ve been telling me that for weeks. At least, I think it’s been weeks. I don’t even know what day it is. For all I know, it could be Christmas Day. 

Merry Christmas, James. You’d get me out of here if you could, I know. But they’re keeping you. Someone must be.

The Emilia is hovering, pulling on my notebook. I don’t like this, James, I don’t like what’s happening. Only God knows, but does He even care about me anymore? I’m just some poor mad girl locked up in a room.

James, if you’re in Heaven, tell God I wish I’d loved Him more. Maybe then this wouldn’t be happening. 

Oh, God, save me, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening. 

We’re leaving now.

Wait I don't want to go wait wait wait—

James I love you I love you ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

____

Soli Deo Gloria,

Astrya