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. (I do plan to finish that other one from a few weeks back, by the way. Fear not!) 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 wanted to put it here ;P

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

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.

It’s silly to write a letter to someone who’s dead, I know, but I can’t help it. They’ve strapped me to this bed like some fool child who can’t control herself, and despite my best efforts here is where I’ll be staying for the present. Alone with my stupid thoughts in this stupid hospital room.

I wish the accident had taken me and not you. You see, James, I loved you, and now you are gone. I never told you, never had the time--or the courage, I suppose. Well, now I’m telling you. Only, you’re dead and can’t hear me. 

Remember that day, the day before Christmas vacation last year, when we left class early and went sledding? I do. I remember it clearly. 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 snowballs.

Wasn’t it grand?

James, the nurse is trying to take away my pen now. It’s tiring, she says, to write for too long.

I scream in her face.

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 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 haughtily in her usual manner, “but I suppose it will allow you to process your grief.”

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 place 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. 

I’m not like that. 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, 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. (I’ve lost so much, James. You know. My family, then you.)

But today I’ll not think of that. The Emilia (she hates it when I call her that, so I do it as often as possible) says that since I insist on writing these letters, I should talk about the accident. 

I don’t want to.

But since she’ll take away my pen if I don’t, I’ll try to do it without crying again. (I don’t want to be like that French girl. I’m not. I won’t be.)

So here goes nothing. 

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,” I snap back. “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. “You’re done for today.”

Liar. You liar. Go away. Let me finish. Let me finish, you fool of a nurse. 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.

Love. Because I still love you. Even though you’re dead.

December 1, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

Today I thought I was woken by the French girl’s screaming. Then I realised I had watched you die in my dreams, and that it was I who was screaming.

It’s been far too long since I’ve written to you, James. Much has happened. I’m beginning to think I really am mad. They all tell me I am. And then I wake up screaming. What if I’m really as crazy as they say?

Today I’m to leave this room. They’ve been telling me that for weeks. Why, I don’t know. They’re transferring me to somewhere safer, is all they’ll say. James, I have to go. Don’t know why. I’m sorry. I love you.

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 mad girl locked up in a room.

James, if you’re in Heaven, tell God I wish I’d loved Him more. Maybe then none of this would be happening.

Oh, God, save me. I don’t know what’s happening. We’re leaving now.

If I don’t get the chance to write again, James, I want you to know that I love you, I love you, ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

____

Soli Deo Gloria,

Astrya