Letters From Corvine

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Letters From Corvine

Post by Byron Huxeley on Fri Jun 04, 2010 3:58 pm

“But the Panopticon must not be understood as a dream building; it is the diagram of a mechanism of power reduced to its ideal form; its functioning, abstracted from any obstacle, resistance or friction, must be represented as a pure architectural and optical system: it is in fact a figure of political technology that may and must be detached from any specific use.”
Michel Foucault Discipline and Punish

Julian Lynne normally relished the rain; however, as he gazed out of the filthy window, the greasy raindrops slowly making a trail across the foggy glass, he noticed that the steady drizzle falling on an already cold and overcast day only served to exacerbate his acute loneliness, the product of several weeks of solitude.
He pressed his forehead to the cold glass as he watched the lives shamelessly on display before him. The inhabitants of the old tenement (practically slum) across the way from him had made it a habit to not use curtains, as though their lives were worth watching. Normally, Julian wouldn’t think that they were, however as it stood, at that moment the intense scopophilic desire in him was too much to ignore. He had to stare at the beautiful young blonde man who worked at the old bookstore and would return daily with armfuls of books that he would devour as if though he were some otherworldly creature whose survival depended on consuming knowledge. How jealous he would become when he would espy those varied texts, all that experienced knowledge, those journals filled to the brim with anecdotes and original thoughts, those beautiful pale fingers covered in sticky black ink!
Not quite as interesting as the youthful bibliophile was the antediluvian male who would stare off at his back wall for hours, his grey flesh sagging with age, his large eyes glossy and yellow, saliva collecting at the corners of his hideous thick dips which hung open in a morbid manner. Also there was the young couple, the stripper and the drug dealer who insisted on walking about naked, as though their prematurely aged bodies were easy on the eyes.
Sighing, Julian turned and went to the kitchen; little left save for some old wine which was beginning to smell and taste of vinegar, an ancient tin of instant coffee which the last renter had fortunately left behind and which was almost empty, and a bag of red lentils he had picked up at an Indian grocery which had some bugs at the bottom. All of this made him so painfully aware how much he needed a job. Still, despite his poverty the young man did not miss college. Cringing he poured a bit of the wine and began to boil his lentils, carefully skimming the bugs off the surface. Why had he decided to become a pharmacist? All his life he had known that his passions had belonged in the realm of the liberal arts, particularly classical literature, so why had he chosen a boring life of comfort over one of intellect and intrigue? He almost started to cry as he imagined spending the remainder of his life at the back of some cold clinic, the ugly neon lights with their incessant hum hurting his delicate nerves.
After a miserable repast, he picked up one of his favorite books, Marius the Epicurean, and lay down on the mattress in his room. The intensity of the prose however, and the fact that one of his constant fevers was slowly overtaking him, forced him to toss down his book in frustration and fall into a fitful slumber….
Which is when he had a dream
And not one he could remember, yet dream he did, for he awoke with such a start that he found himself standing fully upright beside his bed, his clothing in disarray, bathed in a cold and sickly sweat and shaking with a terrifying intensity.
He carefully wiped the sweat from his face and sighed, a broken, shaken sigh, and lowered himself down to the ground. He tried desperately to recall what he had dreamt of, what had caused him such physical anguish, but try as he might, he could not recall even one image from the occasion. His first thought was to lie down and attempt to fall asleep again, but then his better judgment took over and he instead went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.
Not daring to fall asleep, especially under the effects of the potation he had just imbibed, he decided instead to check the internet and see if any of the jobs he had applied to had responded.
Oddly, much to his dismay 20 local (and some not-so-local) pharmacies had responded and wanted to have an interview. His stomach turned alarmingly as the visions of his future danced in his head, so rather than bother responding, he decided to surf the web.
He typed in: jobs-pharmacists in his favorite search engine, but made the query national rather than local thinking that perhaps a change of scenery is what he needed to make his life more interesting. The few famous employment sites of course filled the first page of his search, but he then did something that most people, himself included, don’t do: he checked the next page. Why is it so many people are afraid of looking past first pages?
That is when he chanced upon Corvine Mental Institute. At first he laughed; indeed a pharmacists was needed, however the website had the feel and look of one that had been developed by a ridiculous ghost hunter or the product of some young person’s preposterous imagination. And yet, as he explored the site further, he could not stop gazing in wonder at the photographs of Corvine themselves, which looked to be old and moldering, even as digital uploads.
The institute was mid Victorian in architecture, massive on an epic scale, built on a perfectly rectangular floor plan, made entirely of dull grey stone, and with a ridiculous classical-style entrance that did not suit the rest of the complex. There were four large marble steps leading up to a portico with immense ionic columns. The doors were painted in a deep red paint which was peeling away, revealing black underneath. What was quite disconcerting was that there were ape-faced door knocks, entirely hideous, appearing as though they were poised to attack, and to which he took an intense and immediate disliking. Jutting directly from the center of the place and reaching about ten stories in height, was a huge tower of rusted metal, surrounded by a thin, precarious looking fire escape which encircled the entire outside of it. Dotted here and there were small windows only large enough for whomever was unfortunate enough to be locked within to have but a peek at the outside world. He knew at once that that terrible place was where the prisoners were once kept, it being built on Bentham’s panoptic plan. He didn’t for one moment imagine that anyone would still be kept in such conditions, yet still, like the simian faces, the tower bothered him intensely.
Conjoined with the institute was a large Victorian house of about four floors, mansion perhaps, which, considering the glaring architectural disparities of the two buildings, rendered the overall effect quite disconcerting, much like beholding a Siamese twin or some other genetic aberration. It also was made entirely of that grey stone, and yet it was tall, graceful and elegant, with long windows and a spectacular fountain in the front (empty and filled with leaves though it was). One was institutional and for prisoners, the other a place where one possessed of slightly morbid proclivities might actually enjoy staying. It just seemed a shame to him that the two buildings were not set more apart from one another.
Peeking out from just behind the house, he could perceive the corner of what appeared to be a greenhouse, and judging from the size of that small portion, he imagined it to be quite grand, despite there being filth encrusting the glass. All around there were ancient oaks, dead leaves, ivy, and bare rosebushes with thorny branches as thick as his arms. And the place lived up to its name, for all around were enormous black crows, as fine and large as the ones prancing about the Tower of London. It was fascinating, beautiful, and foreboding all at once. It seemed to be in an utter state of disuse and disrepair, and that made it all the more appealing to Julian, especially in the strange mental state he was in. He fancied that he lived there within those sad walls, ambling through long dark corridors, spying on the prisoners in the tower. He imagined, in a moment of whimsy which were all to frequent, working with them, filling them to the brim with mind-numbing medications so that their mad wails would cease and he might return to quiet contemplation and books. He imagined himself taking long strolls in the ancient woods and growing a spectacular garden of rare and deadly blooms in the greenhouse. And then he frowned, angry with himself for having allowed his ridiculous fancy to have gone on for so long.
He decided to apply, even though he was certain that it was all some hoax, a part of some absurd game. What made matters worse and fuelled his suspicions even further was the fact that only a physical mailing address was provided, no email.
And still, unable to resist the temptation, he wrote the following:
To whom it may concern:
I chanced upon your website and was immediately taken in by the phantasmagoric qualities of the facility, which seems really to be the fictional work of someone’s macabre imagination considering its intensely dark, aesthetic appeal; I certainly hope this isn’t the case. I have included my resume, and I hope that it might interest you at least a fraction as much as the photograph of Corvine has fascinated me. It is three in the morning and sleep eludes me due to the state of discomfiture that the wild imaginings the scant amount of information afforded by the site has caused me to experience. I ask you, no, I beg you, even if my resume is ill-suited to what you seek, to please respond so that I might know that Corvine is in fact a reality. You might think this request odd, and yet take pity on my excitable mind, which I know is now experiencing the first symptoms of an acute monomania I will surely suffer from should my curiosity not be assuaged.
Sincerely,
Julian Lynne
He sprayed the letter, beautifully written on parchment with a fine calligraphy pen, with a lavender and cardamom spray he had and folded it up neatly. He crept out of his house, carefully tiptoeing over the young prostitute sleeping on the stairs (he always seemed to be there) and dropped the letter into the outgoing mail slot.
That night, besides feeling ridiculous and burning with some shame, he dreamt of Corvine… it wasn’t good and he could remember it vividly, which he wished wasn’t the case.

Byron Huxeley
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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Fri Jun 04, 2010 4:40 pm

Dr. Johannes was quite surprised to find a letter carefully enfolded in parchment amongst his mundane mail. Raising a brow he carefully looked it over, admiring the delicate hand decorating the front of it and thinking wistfully upon the fact that the art of letter writing had all but died in the ugly age of electronic media, where one’s base desires can be as quickly satisfied as they are made manifest in the hideous id of the human psyche.
He opened the letter, almost timidly, the fear that he would discover within some cheap mass-produced invitation to some horrid event provoking him, but was instead rewarded with a barrage of delicious scents; the lavender was apparent, but what were the other gentle notes?
Savoring the moment, he raised the paper to his nosed and inhaled deeply, still unable to discern the other fragrances with which the author had decided to mist her work with.
He paused then, thinking why necessarily a “her”? Surely, he replied to his own thoughts, only a female would be possessed of such an eccentricity. He smiled as he read the words, pleasantly surprised that the author (Julian? Surely a man? Perhaps not?) had a flare for archaisms. He was also surprised that at long last Corvine had called someone to himself. He was in dire need of a new companion, and hopefully this Julian was the one.
Immediately he sat down to respond, cringing at the thought of having to drive so far to deliver the note.
Dear Mr. Lynne,
As I rarely receive any mail here you can imagine my surprise when I chanced upon your beautifully written letter. I will tell you at once that your resume is excellent; I am quite pleased of course that you chose to do additional coursework dealing specifically with medication for mental afflictions. However, not only will more information be required, but I must inform you as to the sort of situation you would find yourself in should you choose to find employment and residency at Corvine.
First, as I’m sure you understand, Corvine Mental Facility is a place for the insane, dangerously insane and thus deemed a physical danger to society. As such, the patients are kept locked away locked in the central tower and in solitary confinement for the most part. Your job would of course entail working directly with me in the dispensation of medication to each according to his needs. You will not be required to work with the patients, or even see them if you so choose. Our staff is very small, and I find, quite pleasant.
Our location is extremely remote to say the least. The nearest town is about three hours away, and tremendously small, which means that not only do we make our homes here at Corvine, but that we also rarely leave. Visitors are not permitted, so if you should choose to meet anyone, you must make arrangements far in advance. This sort of work is not for someone with a family, or for one who plans on having one anytime soon. It is also not for someone who enjoys the company of many people.
However, if you are disposed to solitude, quiet, and books, then perhaps you might enjoy the work, at least for a while. I can assure you the pay is excellent, you will have no bills, and the other members of the staff are agreeable to say the least. If this pleases you, then please respond at once so we can make further arrangements. I thank you for your interest in Corvine.
Sincerely,
Dr. W. Johannes
Satisfied with what he had written, Dr. Johannes folded up his letter and rather than spray it, as his eccentric rival in antiquated language had, instead used a thick red wax seal with his initials on it to close the envelope.
As he thought of the long drive ahead, he also thought about his curious new young patient….

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Guest on Fri Jun 04, 2010 6:24 pm

The rain beat upon the window like the tapping of skeletal fingers upon a tomb, the night outside illuminated by occasional flashes of light and distant rumbles of monsters in the clouds. Agatha lay on her back in the middle of her coffin, her bed, staring at the ceiling of her new cell at the Corvine Mental Institute. Soon she lost herself to memories of the events that preceded her stay here.

*****************

"She's sick, can't you see that?" Wendy said in exasperated tones, pleading with the man who sat morosely at the dining room table. Agatha's father didn't look at her mother as she stood beside the table in front of him, pleading with him. "It's been getting worse and worse lately, I'm scared to take her anywhere! I'm scared to let her go to school, lest I get another call like I did today."

Agatha closed her eyes against the memory that flashed before them at the woman's words, of events that had transpired earlier that day. It had been 2nd period, Math class, when Mrs. Lambriola had turned out the lights for the daily "Quick Equations" on the overhead projector. The small, box-like room was filled with half-darkness, the light from the projector shining the images of the math equations upon the white screen on the board at the front of the room. The children sitting in the desks around her had glowing faces as they all looked towards the front of the room, busily writing down the problems and solving them, while the teacher busied herself at her desk.

Agatha had started to do the problems as well, unperturbed by the sudden darkness surrounding her and the others, even in her place at the back of the room. That was when she'd heard it. A sound like water being poured on hot rocks, hissing and crackling like a hidden fire, building in volume as if it were inching ever closer to her. Looking up from her paper, she'd looked around, her shoulder-length, straight black hair whipping this way and that as she turned her head to try and find the origin of the sounds. Seeing nothing and growing increasingly disturbed by the sound as it seemed to get closer and closer to her, she looked to her classmates and her teacher. None had made any indication they could hear the sounds, all still busily working away and tapping at their calculators as if all were right with the world. Soon, the noise had grown to such a degree that the hissing started to separate and become clearer, like a thousand small voices whispering right at her ear. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and her eyes widened as the voices became clearer and she heard some of the things they said...

Flesh so fine, so fine to tear, to gash the skin; skin to strip, to plait, so nice to plait the strips, so nice, so red the drops that fall; blood so red, so red, so sweet; sweet screams, pretty screams, singing screams, scream your song, sing your screams...

Blanching at the echoing multitude of words that flooded her head, Agatha started to panic, her heart beating so fast that her chest hurt and her breath coming in low pants. Frantically she searched, not realizing that Mrs. Lambriola was looking at her now, frowning disapproving to see her student distracted. Her head turning away from the back of the room towards the front again, Agatha stopped as something caught the corner of her eye, her head slowly turning back to look. In the corner of the room there was a large, gray metal cabinet, sitting resolutely in it's space like a large geometrical beast. The doors which were normally latched and shut, hung ajar and from within it the shadows could be seen flickering with movement. That was where the voices originated, now given form by the tendrils of corporeal black that were snaking from the opening.

Glancing around, her eyes wide and full of fear, she checked once more if anyone else noticed, but no one had, Mrs. Lambriola looking away to mark down on a paper on her desk disapprovingly. Looking back at the large case, although the whispers had not stopped, the door hung even more widely open and the pitch ebony that had filled it before was now missing, replaced by shelves of calculators and old textbooks. Her eyes searched for it, and at first she started to panic as it appeared to be missing, but the sick, sandy voices, high and low in their thousands of echoes still filled her ears. But there! There it was underneath the table at the back of the room, just one or two feet from her now, crouching low, it's body half-seen in the dim lighting, looking like a twisted and sickly child with pure shadow as skin. It had no facial features or eyes, but it's presence and it's voice told her it was looking straight at her.

There was a moment where she was rooted in fear, stuck staring at it, lest it move and hide from her sight again, but in the next moment, she was up in a flash, without a thought, at the door and flicking on the light switch. As light exploded into the room, Agatha stood by the door with her hand over the switch, her eyes big as saucers looking around at her newly illuminated surroundings as if she were in an alien realm.

"Miss Horton!" Mrs. Lambriola said from the front of the classroom in annoyed tones, everyone turning in their seats to look at the door. "What is the meaning of--"

"It's here!" she shouted, pointing anxiously, her tones practically unhinged in volume. "It came out of the closet and it wants to eat me!!"

Confusion and concern battled over the older woman's features as she stepped around her desk and approached, not even glancing in the direction Agatha was pointing. "What is, Agatha?"

"The shadow monster!" Agatha said desperately, pointing again and stomping a foot frustratedly as she clung to the door, the other students bursting into laughter at the absurd words she spoke. And she looked under the table just as the teacher cast a glance in that direction, seeing nothing there, but not before noticing the cabinet door closing quietly. It was then that she realized the voices had fallen silent and that Mrs. Lambriola hadn't seen a thing. Looking back at the teacher, she met eyes that no longer regarded her as a person, but with a level of pity reserved for starving and sickly dogs.

Agatha shook her head and covered her face with her pillow on her bed, trying to cast the memory out of her head, feeling the flush of embarrassment fill her cheeks as it continued to play in her mind. She'd insisted that it had been there and had even spoken some of the things it had said, growing even more anxious as those around her treated her with disbelief and cold sympathy, shuffling her out to the nurses office. She had been given a light sedative to calm her after she'd kicked over a tray in the room, and attacked another student with a letter opener from the desk, trying to scramble away and flee the place full of those who did not believe. And when her mother had come to pick her up, she'd been treated with even more disdain and cautious fear, as if she were a monster ready to lash out at any moment with unpredictable aggression. Now, several hours later alone in her hospital bed, she realized how crazy she'd sounded and had started to disbelieve the event herself.

"Mr. Grissom says that he's worried about her lately," Wendy had said, leaning on the table into the man's face, her voice so low Agatha had inched closer to the door to the dining room to be able to hear it. "You know how close they are. He says she goes into these trances where she talks about things that don't even make sense."

Agatha's eyes drifted once more into memory, remembering her English teacher Mr. Grissom. He taught 9th and 11th grade English classes but after her freshman year with him, the two had started a bond that spanned the rest of her years of highschool. During his classes, he'd awakened within Agatha her talent for writing, and being more of a bookworm than a social butterfly, he shared many a great literary conversation with her about the subjects of her current library conquests. Even those years when she wasn't in his classes, she'd visit his classroom every day and they'd talk for hours after school. He often read and edited her recent stories as well, taking time out of his busy schedule to encourage her growing talent.

While having lunch with him recently, they'd been discussing the book The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, when something strange had come over her. Her eyes had glazed over and suddenly she wasn't sitting at the table in Subway with Mr. Grissom. She found herself standing on the edge of a dark and foreboding forest, mist covering the ground and obscuring the roots of the trees, as if the trunks were wearing clouds as their skirts and shoes. She could feel the mossy ground and poking dead twigs under her bare feet, and the thin white nightgown she wore grew damp with the mist that enveloped her, making the trees look ethereal through the ghostly blanket. Taking a step forward, the trees flew before her eyes and she was standing at the edge of a lake, the water deep and black, like liquid night. In her head, Agatha could hear a faint dripping sound, repetitive and foreboding and she stepped forward to the edge of the water, readying herself to jump in.

That was when she was jerked back and suddenly stood facing Mr. Grissom, his features contorted with a deep worry and fear. "Agatha! What are you doing?" he asked, shaking her shoulders gently, his voice breaking as if he'd been yelling recently and his throat was sore. Looking around, she noticed they were no longer in Subway but she stood at the bridge, her foot on the railing as if she'd been climbing up on top of it. Below, the harsh whisper of cars flying by underneath could be heard and when she looked, she swallowed thickly, her mouth dry as she envisioned the violent "landing" she might have suffered. A large semi-truck zoomed by suddenly, the air suction of it's passage underneath the bridge roaring in her ears and blowing her hair in that direction, causing her to jump back and look away with a shudder.

Mr. Grissom's face and voice softened as he enveloped her in his arms with a sigh, rubbing her back in a platonic comforting gesture. "God, what were you thinking?"

Without pausing to consider her words, Agatha replied in dead tones, "The black water called to me and the mist carried me away..."

"Look, just sign the form," Wendy said from the other room, sighing again in impatience. "If you really want to help her, you'll let the professionals handle it. They'll take care of her in a way we can't and keep her safe from herself and others." Agatha held her breath, listening intently to the conversation she was not suppose to be hearing, waiting for his decision. The man rubbed his mustaches in uncertainty, finally letting out a low sigh and picked up the pen, scrawling his name on the bottom of the forms of patient admission into the Corvine Mental Institute. Smiling softly, Wendy patted his upper arm and kissed his cheek comfortingly, taking the papers from him and signing them herself.

***************************

As the memories faded into silence, Agatha turned onto her stomach and rested her cheek against the sheets, not even bothering to cry about her situation. The rain continued to drum outside her window, rhythmically and soothing, the clouds crying the tears she could not shed, as she slipped into the familiar dreams of an ink-filled lake and mist that consumed everything.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Sat Jun 05, 2010 11:19 am

Dr Johannes looked down at his charts, his slim blonde brows furrowing in concern. He had two decidedly difficult patients to contend with as a new doctor, their youth being the chief amongst his concerns. The first, the one he was at present worrying about, was named Agatha, aged 18. She certainly didn’t seem to fit the description of the normal inpatient of Corvine, but then at least, she was being kept in one of the more nicely appointed rooms, not in the horrid tower. Fortunately it would be quite some time before he would have to contend with the patients in the central tower… at least he hoped.
Yes Agatha was different. Besides her being quite young, she didn’t seem as though she would be a danger to anyone else, which most of the inmates of Corvine were, but really only a danger to herself. But then the images she had been seeing…. the long black wispy tentacles in her class… could it be possible? Had Corvine called her? Usually Corvine is in the habit of attracting new members of the staff not new mentally disturbed patients. She, however, would not be the first of his patients to have described such visions, and hear such voices, yet the problem remains that they didn’t hear or see such things until after they arrived.
Then of course there were the dreams of the lake, of the fog… all had before her arrival. But how could it be? Perhaps it was the young woman’s little poem that made Dr. Johannes most unsettled…

Flesh so fine, so fine to tear, to gash the skin; skin to strip, to plait, so nice to plait the strips, so nice, so red the drops that fall; blood so red, so red, so sweet; sweet screams, pretty screams, singing screams, scream your song, sing your screams...

Dr. Johannes was concerned as to how he would begin the dialogue with her. He paused for a long time in front of her door, for the first time feeling apprehension before confronting a patient for the first time, then repeated the Zen platitude “no mind” and opened the door slowly, after fumbling with several keys and locks. At last, he was permitted entrance into the small yet comparatively comfortable chamber, only to find himself silently gazing at the pretty young girl, seemingly in a trance, as she gazed out of her window at the falling rain.
He cleared his throat to get her attention, but found that the noise was not enough to bring Agatha from her reverie. He carefully approached the young woman, not wanting to startle her, and placed his large hand upon her slender shoulder.
“Miss Agatha? I’m Dr. Wolfgang Johannes. I am sure I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I shall be looking after you here at Corvine… where shall we begin?”

x


Last edited by Kalon Ordona II on Tue Jun 08, 2010 10:33 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Post Length Rule Infraction: less than 30 sentences)

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Byron Huxeley on Sat Jun 05, 2010 12:19 pm

Julian cursed silently under his breath as he found a thick envelope mingled with his bills and advertisements. As he looked down at the ominous letter, he felt mingled feelings of excitement and frustration. The paper was of superb quality, and the thick red seal with the initials W.J. made a small smile play at the corners of his slim lips. “Ah”… he thought to himself “ I have met someone possessed of my similar proclivities”.
He felt his heart race as he intently read the words placed so meticulously upon the paper. The hand was certainly a masculine one, handsome and serious.
Julian felt an indelible thrill once he had completed the small letter. The living arrangements seemed brilliant, but the ridiculous game of concluding his arrangements via snail mail did not. His money had all but run out, and his rent would be due in only a few days, rent money he did not have.
Composing himself, he attempted to hold back the thrill and impatience, hoping that the emotions he was feeling would not convey themselves in written words. He wrote a quick, and decidedly curt letter, to this now interesting Dr. W. Johannes:

Dear Dr. Johannes,
I sincerely thank you for your reply, and for the meticulous attention to detail concerning my living arrangements. Living at Corvine certainly does interest me a great deal, and I would like to come and see you as soon as possible.
Perhaps this may be too much to ask, but would it be possible for us to conclude our business via telephone or email? I know it sounds horrid of me, considering the fact that both of us seem to have a penchant for this ancient form of correspondence, but as it is, time is not at present my friend.
Having just graduated from university, you shall find me at this moment in a state of near abject poverty. All of my money has run out and I find myself in desperation. It is with considerable chagrin that I relate my current state of penury to you, but alas it is where I stand.
Not only this, but there is another problem I am at present suffering from. Ever since I chanced upon the images of Corvine, I have been suffering from intense dreams whenever I close my eyes and drift off to even the first levels of sleep. I can assure that none of them have been pleasant, and all of them have been deeply burned into my subconscious. Whenever I desire, I can only think of them and relive them as though they were occurring then and there. I don’t know why as I have never had these occurrences before this time. I beg you to call me or write to me via email so that I can talk to you more in-depth about my situation.

Sincerely,
Julian Lyne

Julian was a bit ashamed when he concluded the letter with his telephone number and email but he was left with no other choice. Starvation and perhaps even insanity both threatened him, just on the periphery.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Guest on Sat Jun 05, 2010 12:30 pm

The rain outside the window soothed her passage into memory with it's quiet rhythm. Memories were the only solace she had now that she found herself locked away in this place of illness. She did not think she was sick but she did not understand what was happening to her or who she could trust. Those she had told about the things she was seeing, those she'd been close to or thought she could depend on had betrayed her. Consumed by their own disbelief and concern, they'd treated her like a wild animal and locked her away in a cage just so that they wouldn't have to deal with or face her reality. It left her feeling incredibly bitter inside, like something dark and twisted was coiling around her heart and filling her insides with shadow.

At the moment she peered out the window and found herself entranced by the crows that seemed to crowd every surface of the buildings and trees outside, like threatening sentinels over this dark and menacing place. The edges of the forest could be seen from where she was and she felt that familiar twinge inside of her, memories being plucked like the strings of a harp, playing a discordant song echoing inside her. From here and through the rain, it was hard to tell if it was the same forest from her dreams, but she knew if she was out there, among the trees, she would know... She would be able to feel it...

Agatha started to entertain the idea of escape, an odd thought starting in her mind as she watched the crows that seemed unaffected by the rain. Among them, she mentally placed herself, sitting crouched on the edge of the Victorian style roof neighboring the facility, underneath an overhang that shielded them from the rain. She saw her body as if it were their size, her knees bent and her feet perched on the stony edge, nestled between her feathered neighbors in a white nightgown. Then she blinked and her arms curled up against her chest turned into wings, her breast protruding swollen and her feet like skinny twigs. Her face had not changed except she had those same beady eyes and she cocked her head and twitched in an avian manner on her perch. Suddenly the crow-Agatha jumped from the ledge and spread her large wings and flew towards the trees and...

A hand touched her shoulder and Agatha started a little and turned from the window to look at the man who had addressed her, the daydream she'd been in fading like smoke before her. She blinked several times at the man who stood before her, her mind slowly catching up to what her eyes were seeing and remembering who he was, she turned away from him disgustedly and sat down on her bed sullenly. Although the doctor was handsome, Agatha felt little attraction for the man her parents had put her in the care of. Afterall, she was here because they thought she was sick and he was suppose to make it better. But she still denied that the things she had seen weren't real and that she needed fixing at all.

"Begin?" she said in a tone that indicated she thought the idea was a stupid one. "How about we start by me telling you right off the bat that I'm not ill and I don't need to be "fixed" by you or any other doctor. Alright?" She put on a good show of being defiant, her dark eyes staring back at him rebelliously, but there was an edge to her voice and a depth to her gaze that spoke of the vulnerability she was trying to hide. Agatha didn't understand what was happening to her and she didn't need people who didn't believe her getting in the way as she tried to figure it out. Suddenly frustrated she said, "What do you want from me?" Her brow furrowed and she sneered in a scorn that was only half distrust and the other half desperation. How long would they keep her here and stop her from finding answers about herself? It did not occur to her that she might find them here.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Sat Jun 05, 2010 1:18 pm

Dr. Johannes quickly stepped away from the girl, took in a deep breath and ran his long fingers through his thick blonde hair. He tried, in so far as it was possible, to not allow any emotion to fill his eyes, yet they were those sorts of eyes, pale blue, heavy-lidded and slightly downturned, which made him look perpetually contemplative and sad; an attempt at a show stoicism and sternness upon his Germanic demeanor was probably an abject failure, yet he knew he could not show weakness to the young woman.
“Agatha… yes begin.. Every great story has a beginning does it not?”
He looked around the room nervously, then sat down in a plush chair in the corner, not wanting to intimidate his patient more than his large, and surely physically imposing body did already considering the close proximity they were in.
“What I want from you”, he began again, his voice steady and deep, yet without an edge, “is for you to tell me everything Agatha. Don’t leave out any detail. You must know that everything you tell me could be of great importance in determining what ails you.”
Sighing, he looked down at his chart, carefully turning the pages, his eyes intently scanning what little was known about her. He had to be cautious. While he certainly suspected that the young woman was called to Corvine, that perhaps the visions she was having were not “visions” but rather specters, he could not possibly let her know, not yet, for she seemed clever enough to exploit any weakness she may find. He had to know first: was she insane, or could the woman perhaps be linked to the place in some way?
As he perused the hideous poem which he had come to loathe, he wondered how it would affect her were he to mention it. He decided rather to discuss preliminaries first.
“I see here that you have had acute and intense visions while fully awake. These should not be considered, from the description at least, manifestations of the dream state, for you claim to have been fully awake, at least here in the classroom setting. From what I can decipher here, the creature you have seen is possessed of long black inky tendrils.”
He had to pause then, as the exact creature had been described to him by other of the patients and staff after their arrival at corvine. Why had he never experienced such visions?
“Then, at the same time, there was a chant, repeated over and over which seemed to get closer and closer to you… I won’t repeat it as I am certain it would upset you and this is not what I want. What I want is an open dialogue between the two of us.”
He swallowed hard as he looked at the final portion of her files.
“Oh yes. And then there is the matter of your attempted suicide. It seems as though in this instance you were in some sort of a trance, that you were not fully awake when you stood so precariously on the edge of that bridge. Apparently you must have been very close to this… Mister Grissom was it? A good thing considering he was able to save you from your deadly reverie….”
He leaned back in his seat then, and looked at the woman intently, watching her lovely eyes, watching to see which of his words affected the girl most.
As he watched her lovely face, he found it discomforting that she was so pretty to look at. He didn’t like people having power over him, and he was upset at the fact that her beauty, mingled with her defiance just barely concealing a girlish vulnerability beneath the surface, was making him lose some focus. He had to be strong.
This one was going to be a challenge, for many reasons.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Guest on Sat Jun 05, 2010 2:27 pm

A sigh of impatience left her lips as Dr. Johannes sat in the one chair in the room, meaning to stay for a while apparently. An urgency filled her bones when he was present, a need to be alone again, to be out of sight of that scrutinizing gaze. Those blue eyes seemed to regard her with that same study that others had, with a cold empathy and desire to understand what was going through her. But there was something else in that oceanic gaze, a depth and a hint of something that she didn't understand, seeming to belie the stern and authoritative tone he used when addressing her. Still, distrust defined her as she sat on the edge of the nondescript bed, her eyes never seeming to stay in one spot as he spoke, jumping from an examination of the floor and flying to the window, always seeming to stray against her will back to look up at him.

As he looked over the charts in his hands, Agatha took the moment to look him over, contemplating what she should tell him. He still insisted that something was "ailing" her and that made her tense defensively. However, he'd said he wished to hear her story and everything about it. Could she trust him? The last few times she'd told people about what had happened, she was carted away here, locked up and shut up. But was there somewhere worse than here? Was there another level after this that he would decide to do to her if she sounded crazy again? Her eyes flitted to the window and the half-seen tower outside and she shuddered as if taken over by a sudden chill. If she told him more about what had happened, there was a high chance she'd never get out of here. A vision of herself with frizzy white hair and wrinkles, drooling in some deep corner of this place, eyes dead as she lost herself in fantasy of flying like the crows, flashed in her mind and she took a deep breath, shaking it away.

There was also the other side of the coin, that honesty and cooperation were often rewarded. She knew she wasn't sick but if everyone else thought she was, they would not stop until they were satisfied she had gotten "better". Closing up and fighting their efforts would most certainly ensure that she stayed here longer; afterall, it was highly unlikely that if she kept silent long enough they'd just decide to set her free. She'd already told them what she'd seen and what had happened and there was no taking it back or acting like those things weren't said. She had to move forward.

As the doctor looked up from her file and spoke, she cringed to remember the things in which she'd described, the memories coming unbidden to her at his words and filling her with unease. Drawing her legs up onto the bed with her knees against her chest, she wrapped her arms around them for comfort and thought over her responses. Licking her lips she looked up at him uncertaintly. "Well, you pretty much know what happened," she started, shrugging. "It's all right there in front of you... I was just sitting and doing my schoolwork when I heard the hissing. I didn't know what it was and nobody else seemed to hear it. And as it got closer, it became words in my ears....and it was saying terrible things..." She seemed to struggle briefly, a shaky breath leaving her as she remembered the words the creature spoke, her eyes boring a hole into the floor at Dr. Johannes feet as the memory of those voices filled her head again. Shaking her head a little, and shifting in her seat uncomfortably she looked up at the ceiling and pressed her lips together as she thought some more, her eyes shining wetly.

"And then I saw it, in the cabinet, moving, tendrils like smoky tentacles drifting from the opening..." Her heart pounded in her chest as she remembered the panic that had surged through her, the fear that filled her to her core and shook her violently inside. "...I looked away only for a second!" she said, her dark eyes looking at the man sitting before her, something in her voice like she was pleading with him to understand, it had really been just a small glance around the room. "And it was gone, but I could still hear it...so I searched and I found it, under the table." Her mouth became a grim line as she remembered it hunched low in the deeper shadows staring at her with a blank face. "And it was looking at me--I could tell, but it didn't have a face--and I was frozen...I couldn't move! I was so scared..." She licked her lips again as she got more excited in the telling, but then she slowed as she remembered what happened next.

"I turned on the lights," she said her eyes staring off into space, her gaze finally drifting back to meet his. "It wasn't there and I saw the cabinet door close... Mrs. Lambriola didn't believe me... None of them did." She gave him a pointed look then, almost a challenge as if to say, 'And you don't either'. "I don't know what it was...all I do know is that I felt unsafe and I knew--I KNEW--it meant to harm me." It occurred to her then to wonder if it would be back; she hadn't seen it since that afternoon in class. Would she be safe from it here?

As he spoke of the other incident pain filled her eyes and she looked away from him. It hurt her again to remember the look in Mr. Grissom's eyes, as he'd gazed at her, coming to the realization that she was "unwell" and that the things happening to her were a part of some mental fabrication; a symptom of a disease she was suffering from. The one man she trusted more than her father, who had been like a father to her and her best friend, had rejected her in his own pain. It was as if she'd died in his arms that day, his eyes full of grief and disappointment in her.

"I didn't try to commit suicide," she said, a hint of the old stubbornness entering her voice as she corrected him. "I was...doing something else..." She sighed and looked back at him realizing he would understand unless she told him. "There was a lake, alright? I wasn't there with Henry-I mean, Mr. Grissom anymore. I was in this other place. A misty wood and a lake full of black water... All I remember is it was like they were calling to me and I was going to jump in the water... And then I wasn't there anymore and I was on the bridge..." Her voice got a dreamy tone to it then to remember the confusion and the duality of the time and place shifting. Altogether it felt like an odd, dreamlike memory...but it had been so real.

Finally she fell silent and looked at him expectantly. This man was the one to decide her fate and even though she didn't want to, she looked for his approval. He was the sole person in control of her life now. He was all she had left to cling to.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Sat Jun 05, 2010 3:46 pm

Dr. Johannes could not tear his gaze away from the young woman as she spoke. He watched her eyes as they darted about nervously, watched as she pulled herself into a surely uncomfortable position, a defensive one, watched as the memories caused her lovely face to contort in some anguish. He felt a fast, sharp and sudden stab of jealousy when she referred to her teacher, her savior, by his first name.

Henry Grissom. Henry.

He immediately shook those thoughts away; the strange feelings of protectiveness (possessiveness?) he was feeling could not be allowed to flourish, she was his patient, pretty and enigmatic though she was.

Gripping his pen tighter, almost to cause some slight physical pain in order to keep his professional senses fully attuned, he noticed a change in her face. What was that expression she suddenly dared to reveal to him? She was letting down a bit of her defensiveness, her defiance. Was it trust? Was it hope? Perhaps it was a combination of the two.

He tilted his head to the side a bit and examined her eager eyes, awaiting his response much like he imagined a young student would look upon her teacher. He had to trust her; she had given a bit, now it was his turn. All of his life he had been trained, had been training himself, to rely purely on his logic, on facts, on science, on raw data for answers, but he knew in this situation all of that was not going to help him, not entirely. There was something about her that evoked his intuitive side, his spiritual side. Furthermore, what she was seeing had been seen by others. He simply had to find the link between her and Corvine.
He had to know what horrors lingered beneath the surface of the horrible place. He had to save her. He had to save himself.
Gently lying back in his seat, he looked at his patient languidly, and spoke softly to her.

“Agatha. What if I were to tell you that other of my patients and even staff have had similar visions to yours? What if I were to tell you that you were the only person to have suffered them previous to your entering Corvine? What if I were to tell you that I believe this place was actually calling out to you, trying to draw you here? What if I were to tell you that I suspect you might have some sort of historic link to this place?”

He took in a deep cold breath and bit his lower lip a bit. Maybe, he thought, that was too much too fast. She might suspect him of playing games with her. Reaching into his lab coat he produced a slim book, bound in fine leather and filled with lined pages waiting to be filled. He loved to gift journals, the potential for filling those pages was always so alluring to him. Nothing like the human psyche being made manifest on paper; more permanent than mere conversation.

“Agatha, you mentioned the lake. You have been confined to this room since your arrival here at Corvine, and I think that perhaps a nice outing to the lake may do you well. It may be the lake you saw in your vision. The one Henry saved you from.”
He was upset when he found the name Henry uttered with a slight edge of contempt in his voice.
“Would you care to take a stroll with me? To see the crows up close, to see lake before the fog comes, to perhaps explore at least the edge of the woods? It is growing late now, and it’s raining, but tomorrow will surely be more agreeable to this type of endeavor.”
Rising, slowly and carefully, he approached her and held out the notebook.
“Agatha, I want you to have this. It is imperative that you record your dreams and visions. Please. Even if there is something you want to tell me and I am not around to be with you, I want you to record those thoughts here. Agatha? Can I trust you with a pen?”

He shuddered as he considered the injuries she could inflict upon herself with a writing implement, but fumbled in his coat pocket nonetheless.
“Here Agatha. A nice pen for you.” As he placed the pen in her slim cold hand he quickly glanced around as though he were committing a great crime, as though someone were watching him. “Please, you mustn’t harm yourself, you must allow me to help you. Writing what comes to you, be it during your waking hours or hours of sleep… or even somewhere in between those two oftentimes terrible worlds, tell you must. I trust you with this, just as you must trust me with your innermost thoughts. I am here to help.”
He stood silently, gazing at her for a long while in silence, before turning all too abruptly and leaving the room. His last words were, “I anticipate our outing tomorrow Miss Agatha”, before closing the door and once more bolting the girl in, alone. He only hoped that the terrible sound of the locks sliding into place did not upset her overmuch.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Sat Jun 05, 2010 4:16 pm

Dr. Johannes was notably shaken by his first and brief interview with the young woman, Miss Agatha Horton. Despite the brevity of the encounter, she had somehow disarmed him, weakened him as it were. He was angry with himself, angry at all of the different emotions she had made him suffer, surely a combination of her beauty, her intelligence, her defiance, her vulnerability, the little look of hope she had rewarded him with and her files, her confessions he preferred to call them; that alluring gathering of documents he found himself constantly going back to and rereading, as though by doing so he could find something he had missed, something more about her.
He forced himself to retire to his room for a moment and open his small brandy cabinet, producing a small bottle of his favorite brandy and pouring himself a generous crystal glass. After taking a deep and satisfying drink, he closed his eyes, allowing the gentle warmth to fill his chest and calm his heightened senses.
He dropped himself in a long dark green leather chaise lounge, draping one long leg over the arm rest and pulled the new letter from his prospective resident pharmacists from his breast pocket.

Using a slim letter opener he emptied the parchment envelope of its contents and began to read.
Upon completion of the small note, he felt ashamed at his behavior towards the young man, and set at once to rectify the situation. He could not afford to lose so interesting a creature to the common outside world.
Somehow he knew that Julian belonged with him and Agatha at Corvine.
He placed his small laptop secretary bench upon his knees and immediately responded to Mr. Julian Lynne.

Dr. Mr. Lynne,

I beg you to forgive me for being so presumptuous about your present circumstances. As it stands we here at Corvine have what I suppose is, at least in modern standards, an aristocratic sort of lifestyle. After we finish our daily rounds, most of us spend time reading and having discussions, much like the cultivated gentlemen of yore once did. I do hope you join us here soon and add to our small but happy symposium.

I have included in this letter several hundred dollars to maintain you whilst we continue this correspondence. I hope you don’t mind, but I like to have several conversations with my perspective fellow residents considering how much time we shall spend together.
I beg you to forgive the intellectual scrutiny that you must undergo, and the time that must transpire, but I can assure you that it will be agreeable to a man of your sensibilities. I have included a picture of myself so that you might have a face to go with all future correspondences.
You may respond to online. Driving so far for deliver is certainly becoming tedious, and you must henceforth undergo your daily trials.

Sincerely,
Doctor Wolfgang Johannes

He looked through some photographs of himself before choosing a small portrait which in his opinion made him look as though he were in deep thought, and included it in the small parcel.
He hoped that the future interviews would go well.

x


Last edited by Kalon Ordona II on Tue Jun 08, 2010 11:00 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Post Length Rule Infraction: less than 30 sentences)

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Byron Huxeley on Sat Jun 05, 2010 5:07 pm

When he found yet another letter from Corvine in his pile of daily mail Julian could do nothing to suppress his growing wrath. The man, whoever he was, was certainly playing games with him, exactly what he had feared.
As he furiously tore open the new correspondence, his anger abated for a moment as he saw first, several bills of large denominations fluttering to the floor, followed by the photograph of a young man.
Setting the letter on his kitchen counter for a moment, he bent and gathered the scattered bills like a starving child gathering spilled rice.
He sighed contently as he counted the money. Just enough to pay his bill for the month with exactly 100.00 left over. He thrilled as he imagined all the wine he could buy, and real food, food without little bugs in it.
It was the photographs that next caught his attention. He picked it up and looked hard at the face before him.
He was surely a large man, judging by the size of his neck and face, which was possessed of a dignified, Anglo grace and power; he was perfectly chiseled, with a nicely defined jaw line and the slightly deep-set eye sockets of a Norse warrior. He had a slight widow’s peak with marvelously blonde hair, nearly white, a straight, slender nose, and a wide mouth with thin pink lips. His skin was spectacularly pale, having the quality of perfect marble, and completely flawless. It was his eyes that were the most striking feature; they were so light blue that they seemed supernatural, as though he were some creature of pure intellect, and over them were soft, heavy lids, making him seem sad and kind all at once. Julian had never seen such a perfect amalgam of gentle beauty and raw masculine strength- normally one was possessed of either one or the other, but he had both.

It wasn’t what he had expected; he had imagined him to be an older gentleman, those silly scholarly sorts that wear dusty tweed suits and read books that only five other men on earth had ever read while smoking a pipe and sipping Prince of Whales black tea.

Julian hurriedly read the letter and the elation he had been feeling quickly dissipated when he read the news that he was to undergo some sort of “daily trial”.
It was with a long and exasperated sigh that he threw himself onto his slim mattress and opened his portable computer, so long in disuse.
He quickly snapped a picture of himself using his internal cameral features, frowning at the pathetic results.
His boyish looks had suffered in his long period of isolation, poor health and impoverished diet. His red hair, not nearly as well kept as he would have liked, had lost much of its radiant luster. His emerald green eyes, normally his pride and joy and twinkling with some playful disdain, were tired and circled with gray. His skin, usually luminous and slightly olive in complexion was wan and in desperate need of some sunlight. And he was skinny, glaringly so; the slim and sinewy physique of an optimistic young man ecstatic at taking on the world had faded in exchange for an undernourished depressed creature hardly worthy to look at.
He looked at the glaring disparity between him and the strapping doctor and felt a terrible sadness fill him. He couldn’t believe how far he had allowed himself to spiral into so profound a depression, one which was so intense that it affected every part him, physical and metaphysical.

Shrugging off his thoughts, he proceeded to write the first of what he knew would be along chain of correspondences between he and Dr. Johannes, including his picture despite how displeased he was by it. He plainly and curtly let the Doctor know not only that he was grateful for the money and photo, but that he was prepared to take on the cerebral challenges as he sent them. Let the games begin Dr. W. Johannes.

x


Last edited by Kalon Ordona II on Wed Jun 09, 2010 2:17 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Post Length Rule Infraction: less than 30 sentences)

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Guest on Sat Jun 05, 2010 10:20 pm

'Historic link?' she thought to herself at his words, her brows coming together at the bridge of her nose in consternation. Others had visions like hers? The things he said...it was almost like he was admitting what she'd seen had been real... almost. He was at least suggesting something otherworldly was going on and that was not what she had expected. Again a sliver of distrust filled her at that. She'd never had any contact with those who practiced psychology or the science of the mind and she wasn't sure if this was a ploy to get her to admit to something...a trap maybe whereby he could keep her here. More patients meant more money for him...didn't it? What other motive could he have for telling her these things?

But looking into his eyes, she desperately wanted to believe him. She needed to and she needed someone anyone right now in this dark and solitary place away from those who loved and cared for her, the hint of someone extending a helpful guiding hand was something she willing jumped for. So, her caution eased and she lowered her legs to the ground, smiling a little at his offering the journal and a walk on the property. Her cooperation had been rewarded with privileges and she felt a budding desire inside her to not disappoint him. She'd disappointed so many people recently, she needed his approval and the comradeship he seemed to offer.

The smile faded though as he offered her the pen, her face darkening with renewed doubt and confusion. Where moments before she'd been delighted and feeling good about this session, optimistic for doing more work with him, now she was suddenly feeling dismayed and rejected. The way he offered the pen and spoke down to her...it was like the confidences he'd given to her minutes ago had not happened and the doctor/patient, stranger/stranger gap had broadened between them once more. He thought she might hurt herself with the pen. It was degrading and humiliating being suspected of such a thing, like she was a retarded child who didn't understand what a pen was for and had to be told. She blushed a little and nodded as she took it from him, not meeting his eyes so he wouldn't see how he'd hurt her just then. No, she did not plan to hurt herself and yes, she knew what a pen was for.

Something wrenched in her chest as he quickly left the room, her heart beating faster and her eyes looking after him wistfully. She did not want him to go. It had started with her wanting him to leave her alone and now that seemed like the worst thing in the world. The locks and bolts clicking and sliding into place made her jerk defensively on the bed with the finality to the sounds echoing through her. She comforted herself in his absence by hugging the journal to her chest and thinking of their "date" sometime tomorrow. Standing up from the bed, she peaked out the window and felt an eagerness in her bones. It didn't matter what he thought of her now, she would show him.

Turning back into her room, she started to set the book down on the small night-table by the bed when a strange feeling came over her. Time seemed to stretch and her vision distorted, the corners of the room slanting at a sickening angle. The breath left her lungs and she cocked her head to the side a little, feeling like she was in a daze as the vision cleared before her. In the left hand corner by the door, the walls were covered with vegetation, spreading out from the peak where the two walls came together. Agatha blinked slowly, feeling incredibly calm as she regarded the alien foliage not seeming to notice the change when trees appeared in the corner and the corner itself disappeared into a pathway leading between more trees. It was like the change hadn't happened; the trees had just always been there. Serenely, she stepped forward between the trees that had thickened without her notice and grown taller, the ceiling above disappearing into darkened night.

After a few steps, she looked back and saw the room through the trees. There was her bed and the journal on the night-stand, the chair where Dr. Johannes had sat sitting lonely without him in it. Turning back she continued through the forest, the trees surrounding her on all sides and soon a mist started to appear, white fluffy clouds billowing between the trunks like a slow moving snake. Glancing back once more she could no longer see the room but only trees behind her, no matter how far she craned her neck of tilted to peer through the trees. It was gone. There was no going back.

Continuing on, calmly, she became aware of the fog surrounding her making it almost impossible to see. She could almost trick herself that the ground had disappeared beneath her except she could feel the moss and twigs under her bare feet, her soles snapping a few dead and loose sticks here and there with every step. Calmly she made her way with the trees standing guard like ghostly people lost in the fog forever wandering as she was.

Eventually, she made her way to the lake, not being conscious of finding it; it had always been there with her standing a few feet from the waters edge. A faint dripping could be heard echoing hollowly from somewhere as she slowly walked up to the water's edge, bending a little at the waste to look into the black water. Her eyes opening wide was the only reaction she had as in the water submerged under the surface, she saw a girl, dead and floating in the deep. The girl had dark hair that flowed like wisps around her face, her arms held up from her sides as if gravity had no more hold in keeping them weighted down and her white plain gown swayed up a little, grown light and willowy in the water as the rest of her lower body faded into the deeper darkness and murky black. Agatha tilted her head to the side a little, wanting to reach for the girl who seemed to share a resemblance with her and bent even more, extending her hand to do so. The eyes of the corpse snapped open, the whitened and dead pupils looking straight at her and the mouth began to creep open but nothing emerged.

It was like being pulled back, like her body was falling backwards and her heart raced as the distortion began again seeming to stretch her body and mind painfully, her hair blowing with the force of it, like a vacuum was sucking her in. And she blinked, standing with her hand resting on the journal on the night table as if to keep herself steady. Looking around, everything was as it should be and she was still alone, the rain still tapping rhythmically at the window. Putting a hand to her chest she felt her heart beating quickly in her chest and she swallowed hard trying to calm it. She found her eyes drifting down to the journal under her hand and she licked her lips nervously, picking it up in a shaking hand. Slowly she rifled through the pages, looking at the blank and featureless lines and thinking over what had just happened to her. It was as clear as day in her memory still, the feeling of the twigs under her feet and the mist on her skin still tingling on her nerves. She sat on the bed and propped her feet up on her knees each in turn to look at the bottoms. But they were dry and clean except for the light dust that had covered the floor when she got here.

Picking up the journal once more, she scooted back on her bed, resting her back against the wall and started to write of the experience. She tried to include as much detail as she could, and even drew a picture or two, the memory so vivid and the details clear to her as if she'd lived it. In a way, she had. At the end she wrote a question, "What did they see?" wondering again about the others Dr. Johannes said had visions like hers here, but from the way it was positioned in her text, it was as if she were referring to the lake as an entity, wondering what it had seen when it gazed upon her with her own dead eyes.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Mon Jun 07, 2010 10:40 am

Dr. Johannes pursed his lips in a contorted attempt at a smile, perhaps one mingled with a bit of disdain. “So the young man thinks he can take on any of my ‘cerebral challenges’ does he?”, he said aloud, taken aback by the condescending and cruel manner in which he had spat the words, as though Julian were his prey and he were the alpha predator. The arrogant tone of the first of their electronic correspondence demonstrated the fact that Julian had accepted his challenge, and perhaps was even offering one of his own.
The Doctor leaned back in his chaise lounge as he gazed at the picture of the young man he had downloaded and copied onto photograph paper; any sort of masculine combativeness and pride he had harbored towards the boy crumbled as he gazed upon the nearly withered features of the youth. He was obviously tired, a fact made worse by the disheveled red hair, and glaringly underfed, as evidenced by his overtly angular face and protruding collar bone.
But the Doctor knew a hidden treasure when he saw one; this relic simply needed a little dusting off and care in order to be restored to its former beauty. He could plainly see that Julian, with only some good food and even better conversation, would be possessed of a remarkable beauty. His particular shade of auburn hair was a color one scarcely encountered; even more rare was the deep emerald of his seemingly intelligent eyes. It was going to be work, but surely rewarding work.
Johannes wondered where he would begin, and decided, after only a short pause, to begin with classical antiquity, the Greeks and the Romans. There were the histories, the mythology, the plays, the poetry and the letters between the great men. And then?
Johannes felt an elation he hadn’t felt in a long time. He decided to let the conversations drift where they would.

*******************************
His lids were growing inordinately heavy; the doctor sighed and rubbed his eyes. The boy had proved better than even he had hoped for. Already they had engaged in a long and detailed correspondence that had left him feeling engaged and excited for the future. But it was three in the morning and the intense concentration requisite of brilliant discourse was quickly feeling him. Besides, he found his thoughts constantly returning to his new and curious young patient. At one point, while he was responding to Julian, his long pale fingers flying across the keyboard in attempts to describe the enigmatic philosopher Diogenes, he found himself typing instead: Agatha, Agatha, Agatha, Agatha.
He shook his head, shocked at what he had unconsciously written and dismissed it as sleep deprivation.
Finishing his final email to Julian, he checked it carefully to make certain he hadn’t made the same mistake in other parts of the letter. Satisfied, he sent it and crept to the young woman’s room.

The apprehension he had felt earlier whilst standing before her room, that fateful first interview only a few hours before, came back with a vengeance. He shuddered a bit as his keys once more opened the several locks and the icy cold of the door handle bit into his flesh with some sort of ominous cruelty.
He slowly opened the door and peered in, thinking just then that it had been terribly ungentlemanly and inappropriate of him not to knock first. Fortunately, the slim young woman was asleep, the light from her dim lamp illuminating her lovely features while she slept. Carefully, as not to wake her, he moved to the side of her bed where she lay on her side curled up (defensively?), her journal only a few inches from her sleeping form.
He took the book in his hands and opened the first few pages; seeing them filled with writing, an intelligent feminine hand which he at once admired, made his heart race in his chest. He shut the book and tucked it into his coat, then gazed down at the young woman one last time. Without thinking, he carefully moved a silken ebony strand away from her face to have a better look at her. It was the thick black lashes resting on the pale cheek that made him pause even longer; he turned then, suddenly and quickly and left the room, carefully locking the young lady in before retreating to his chambers to indulge in what she had written with a glass of wine to be his solitary companion.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Byron Huxeley on Mon Jun 07, 2010 11:07 am

Going out for groceries was a complete shock to Julian Lynne considering his long period of isolation. He had long since run out of buggy lentils and had only coffee and rice left. He supposed, as he thought back on it, that he should have been starving and desperate to purchase whatever he could get his hands on, and yet, while he stood there in the middle of the near overwhelming place, blissfully empty, hunger completely eluded him. He bought more rice, tons of cheap wine, a wedge of morbier cheese, and some mushrooms. He knew it made no sense whatever, but it was all that appealed to him at that moment.
After all but dashing home, he made himself a fabulous gourmet dinner (compared to what he had been eating), slipped the rent money under the door of his landlord’s apartment, and even took a late night constitutional around the block.
That night, after showering, he could perceive the beginnings of illness; when he breathed in it hurt, and he knew one of those bizarre fevers he had suffered from since he started college was coming on.
Unfortunately, though he did enjoy the letters with Dr. Wolf, they continued, ad nauseam. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to continue the correspondence, but rather that he wanted to leave his present situation even more. And yet they went on, they increased in size as well. One month went by- the letters increased in length, and he could plainly see that he was being tested- and a difficult test it was. Every morning upon rising he would find one email from him, several pages in length, and broaching several topics, normally history, philosophy, psychology, and literature. They started with the Greeks, moved on into the Romans, then barely brushed the Middle Ages before devouring the 19th century, as though they were there themselves. The pair discussed novels, plots, character, the history of the treatment for hysteria and venereal diseases, and concluded with the aesthetic movement. Julian could plainly see, with his long quotations and Latin epigraphs that the Doctor was superbly educated and had at his disposal a magnificent library.
His intellect was challenged, and it received that much needed stimulation which at last lifted it out of that torpor it had slowly fallen into. Julian found himself running back and forth to the library each evening in order to meet his challenges, but, even though he lived in a lucrative metropolis, he could not ever find enough material to fully feel as though his responses were satisfactory. He recalled one letter in particular, one of the last ones (all of which he printed out and saved in an envelope which he titled “Letters from Corvine”), which was about Deconstruction and the obviation of the center, ran to the length of fifty typed pages.
But it was the dreams which most bothered him, the dreams which would not let him sleep at night, most of them taking place in those terrible woods, the dreams where that unknown watcher was following close behind him, terrorizing him… and that terrible crow with his missing eye.
Why was Corvine haunting him? Why was he nightly losing more sleep, why did the dreams continue in their intensity?
Unable to resist temptation, he wrote an email to Dr. Johannes, simply saying:

Dr Johannes? I know it’s late… I think it’s 4 am. But tell me, what is it about that place? It’s weird… you said once, when we first started writing, “Did you find Corvine or did Corvine find you?” What did you mean by that?


x


Last edited by Kalon Ordona II on Wed Jun 09, 2010 2:29 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Post Length Rule Infraction: less than 30 sentences)

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Roth Wolfe on Mon Jun 07, 2010 11:48 am

Dr. Johannes awoke with a start that morning, a dull headache pounding at his temples, perhaps the result of overindulging himself with his favorite wine, followed by copious amounts of brandy.
He found himself more and more inclined to drink of late, drink a great deal, and he hoped it was only the result of the loneliness he was experiencing.
Agatha’s journal lay open upon his chest; he had fallen asleep on his couch after having read the chilling work, and was determined more than ever to take her to the lake and woods. He was certain now that the young woman had some sort of link to the place, that her visions might help him in uncovering the secrets of the old institute.
Rising from his couch, a painful endeavor, he took some pain relievers, showered and changed, and went about his daily rounds. He did so as early as possible so that he could get Agatha out while some of the morning mist still lingered on the lake.
Knocking gently at her door to warn her of his entrance, he entered the room to find the girl sitting patiently at the corner of her bed, as though she had been expecting him.
“Good morning Agatha. I hope you are still inclined to take a nice walk? Forgive me for taking such a liberty, but last night I borrowed your journal. I apologize for such behavior, but curiosity got the better of me.”
He cleared his throat nervously as he handed the journal back to the woman, then stepped back so that he could open the door for her and let her walk ahead.
As he led her outside, opening the massive front doors of the place to reveal the old fountain lined with large crows, he wondered at the same time what the young woman must be thinking as he brought her outside into a word from which she had been forcibly removed.
As they moved past the fountain and front courtyard, Johannes decided to avoid the woods for the moment (they were simply too foreboding for his tastes) and made his way to the lake, the morning mists still lingering upon the impossibly black surface, just as he had hoped for.
He moved as close to the edge as he could, then sat down by the rocky shore, running his fingers through the gravel as he looked down into the waters.
He gazed up at Agatha and beckoned her to join him.
“Your journal Agatha. You saw a young girl in here, one who had drowned, and you were reaching to her. “
He watched her carefully then, waiting to see her reactions, wondering if the proximity of the place that had haunted her dreams would cause her to see something else, to divulge more to him. He thought then, that Agatha’s visions, much like the inky surface of the lake, would reveal secrets to him, much needed secrets, but the dark waters and turbulent thoughts might prove to be dangerous to them both.

x


Last edited by Kalon Ordona II on Wed Jun 09, 2010 2:37 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Post Length Rule Infraction: less than 30 sentences, questionable paragraph division)

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Guest on Mon Jun 07, 2010 12:57 pm

Dreams fled by her as she slowly floated to the surface of consciousness, her fingers lazily reaching out as the strands of the nighttime visions drifted past like seaweed on the bottom of the ocean, her body rising in the water out of reach of them. And just like seaweed on the bottom of the seafloor when viewed from above, as her eyes blinked open and she breathed deeply in awareness, the dreams of sleep were like vague shapes seen through cloudy and murky memory, swaying with the waves of the subconscious. The light that drifted through her window was soft, the sun barely above the horizon and diluted by the trees of the forest as it came spilling into her room.

Agatha's eyes blinked rapidly as they darted around the room, her brow frowning in confusion before memory blossomed in her features. She was in the Institute still and it had taken her waking mind a moment to catch up, the comfort of sleep lulling her into believing she was back home, safe in her own bed and room. As she sat up, she stretched slowly, rubbing her face clear of the debris of slumber and let her eyes trail over the room taking in its features. Memories came flooding back to her; the corner of the room, she could still see in her mind's eye the growth of the forest as it had been in the corner. Once more, she felt compelled to look at the bottoms of her feet, even though the sensations of walking through the forest had faded now. They were still clear of dirt, even more so now that through sleeping on her bed, she'd rubbed the dust off on her sheets in the night. Idly she rubbed the heel of her right foot and let her mind wander back over the vision, less clearer than it had been now with the light of a new day but still there, the details of having lived through it stark in her mind.

As her eyes continued to move over the room they came to rest on Dr. Johannes chair and immediately the first thing she remembered was his promise to take her outside. Smiling, she opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a wooden hair brush and began to comb through her dark and straight locks. She didn't have a mirror in the room, possibly because of the danger it posed if it were to break, but she did the best she could at straightening herself out. Pulling out her suitcase from under the bed, she set it on the bed and began to take out an outfit for the day, pleased that she was still able to wear her own clothes. The outfit she picked out consisted of a pair of black, relaxed pants that hugged her legs and went comfortably over her hips--not hanging on the hip-bones as was the fashion of women in her age group--a dark maroon tank top with spaghetti straps and a small black shirt that she put over top of it and left unbuttoned on the front, the sleeves of it ending at her elbows, showing off her slender forearms and graceful wrists.

Having put the suitcase away, she sat eagerly on the edge of the bedside, wondering if it made sense to expect the doctor to even show up. Afterall, the facility was large and he was very professional; he was probably busy. But she didn't have long to let the doubts fester as he arrived with a polite knock on her door before the bolts and locks were slid aside and he entered. She couldn't help the smile spreading on her features at the realization he had kept his promise and also feeling a certain level of humanity at his polite entry that this place sometimes made her forget she had.

Nodding her head eagerly at his question, she readied herself to rise when he handed her the journal. The smile faded in in intensity for a moment as she listened to how and why he had taken it in the night. Glancing at the nightstand before she placed it there, she realized she hadn't even known it was missing, not wanting to remember too much of last night too soon yet. It dampened her mood considerably, the battle of emotions that ran through her. Of course, he was the doctor and the one who had given her the book for the sole purpose of jotting down her visions and thoughts about them so he could study them with the detail of her clear and fresh memories. But still... She hadn't been under the illusion that the diary would remain private but it felt like a bit of a violation of her trust that he'd taken it without asking. It almost made her feel like he'd waited until she was asleep...but she knew that thought to be ridiculous, as soon as she thought it. Shaking the paranoia off like a fog clearing, she smiled at him again and stood from her bed.

"Alright, let's go," and she walked along with him through the hallways and eventually out the front doors. The first thing that caught her eye was the fountain right in the middle of the opening of the property, it's disuse plainly seen by the decrepit stone falling apart and the leaves that filled the basin, like the water had turned into an autumn flood at some point. But what really caught her attention was the dozens of crows that perched upon it, turning it into a mass of black feathers and beady eyes. Up close they were much bigger birds than they had originally appeared and that added a sense of threatening menace to them and the way they seemed to regard her. Cautiously, keeping Dr. Johannes between her and the birds, she continued to watch them as they passed until they were far enough behind them that she felt safe to turn away.

As they approached the lake, Agatha stopped a few feet away, the good cheer leaving her features as she gazed at the black water beneath the misty surface. She looked at Dr. Johannes as he beckoned her to join him sitting at the waters edge and she hesitated only a moment, swallowing thickly as she approached the lake for real this time. It felt like a severe deja vu as she drew nearer, allowing herself to bend slightly and look into the water, her heart thundering in her chest and her breathing deepening considerably. Expecting to see dead and whitened eyes looking back at her, she was relieved when nothing but the dark and murky depths were actually there, rippling with the soft sway of the water. The tension that had filled her every limb, eased considerably as she came to sit next to the doctor on the ground, her knees bent but her hands wrapped around them in a relaxed manner, letting out a sigh as her eyes wandered over the rest of the scenery.

When Dr. Johannes spoke, some of the tension came back, but it was merely a shadow compared to the amount she'd displayed when she had trouble dividing the reality from the vision she'd had. "The girl...was me, I think," she said in a hesitant manner, trying to remember to be cooperative. The doctor had already rewarded her for being forthcoming, and she had to trust him. She needed to trust him. "But...she also wasn't me..." she smiled a bit embarrassed. "That doesn't make any sense... I had the thought to reach for her to..." she hesitated then and quickly glanced at the doctor from the corner of her eyes, a quick little look that could have been easily missed if he hadn't been paying attention. "To get her out. To save her."

That hadn't been what she was going to say and it hadn't been the true feeling that had filled her at the time. She remembered very clearly, she'd reached towards the girl in the water...in an attempt to join her... She knew that information might possibly worry him and it might make him think that the vision meant she had a desire to kill herself, which couldn't be farther from the truth. But she'd remembered the disappointment and grief in Henry's eyes when he'd thought the same thing. Dr. Johannes was her only friend and the only one willing to listen to her and seemingly almost believe her story. She didn't want to wound how he thought of her or for him to treat her the way he must treat all of his other patients who couldn't be trusted with a pen or a mirror.

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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Spear-Face on Wed Jun 09, 2010 7:36 am

"You're losing it, kid. Perhaps you're in the right place after all," the voice mused, as Shannon took an excited step back from his latest and greatest masterpiece. "You simply lack the necessary intellect to fully grasp and appreciate a work of art as exceptional as this," the boy snorted in indignation. Though to the naked eye it fully appeared as though he spoke to himself, Shannon had long since stopped caring what others thought of his "imaginary friends." The voice chuckled, leaving a queer echo in Shannon's ear. "Whatever you say, Van Gogh. But let it be known that even an ugly baby seems beautiful in the eyes of its mother." Shannon rolled his eyes, but otherwise gave no indication that he had heard the voice. Cocking his head sideways at the canvas before him he, examined the giant dirty word etched across it in varying shades of scarlet. After a brief scrutiny of his work, Shannon decided that the giant letter 'U' needed to be a deeper shade of red, lest his OCD run rampant. Sighing, he ran a dirty hand through his shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair as he took note of his inventory.

His drawing supplies were stifling at best. Four years of good behavior (expertly feigned, as his narcissism would tell him) had earned him paintbrushes, watercolors, and a few jugs of water to go with them. He'd even managed to get himself a bonafide painting canvas, which could easily be smashed apart and rammed down some hapless victim's throat. Unfortunately however, he had been unable to wheedle a pencil, pen, or anything sharp from his caretakers. Perhaps he tried too hard to convince them he wasn't dangerous? Perhaps they suspected it was all just an act? He suffered no delusions as to his position, though he suffered them in spades when it came to deciding how to handle the situation. He was extremely dangerous, and everyone knew it, regardless of his pretty face and polite inclinations when under a watchful eye. Especially when said eye was trained to detect what he sought to hide.

Kneeling, he stuck his paintbrush in a mug full of water, murky from previous washes. Swirling the brush around for a few seconds, he took it out and tapped it on the rim to knock off most of the liquid. With his brush now mostly dry, he drug the end along his baggy beige cargo pants, adding yet another colorful stain to the fabric. He did so multiple times on various parts of his legging, until the brush was as devoid of moisture as it was liable to get. "I've never understood your taste for fashion," the voice said in a dull tone. Shannon smiled, instantly recalling at least a dozen prior occasions in which the voice had told him as much. "Luckily," Shannon said, grabbing his paper plate full of mushy paint, and standing back up to face his creation, "you don't have to. It's my body after all, and I'll decorate it as I see fit." The voice scoffed, causing Shannon's ears to echo yet again, "Don't be so sure of that, kid."

Shannon frowned as he dabbed a bit of red and black together, creating a hue that resembled coagulated blood, "If you ever take over again," Shannon said, as four-year-old bitterness crept up his throat like bile, "I swear I'll kill myself when I wake up." The voice paused for a second as Shannon shaded in his 'U.' "Boy, you know as well as I do, that you don't have the guts," it finally answered, mocking its host's bitterness. "And what if you're wrong?" Shannon demanded in a voice too soft for demanding. "Mmm," the voice purred, "then I'll have the rest of eternity to make you wish I was right."

Suddenly, a knock at the door made Shannon set his drawing supplies down, and straighten out the wrinkles in his shirt. He had to try to look presentable for the doctor, even if doing so was impossible. Much like his pants, his gray shirt (the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows) was also too big for his skinny frame, both in width and height. Shannon had a tendency to destroy his clothes, despite the fact that his room was devoid of sharp edges, or anything that might ensnare a loose stitch, or rip holes in general. As such, his original clothes had all perished within a year of his incarceration, and he had been forced to settle for the "one-size-doesn't-truly-fit-all-but-will-at-least-stay-on" generic clothes that the staff kept handy. At the very least, he preferred them over a straight jacket.

A sliding noise jarred his thoughts, and the scraping noises of a tray entering his room reminded Shannon of the hour. It had gotten dark without his noticing. "Feeding time," the voice said, "I suggest you eat. It's been three days." Shannon grimaced, and took a step toward the tray. Considering the nature of his crime, Shannon was not allowed to eat in the common area without the direct supervision of his caretaker. Shannon didn't mind that the good doctor had been too busy with his newest pet-patient to pay him any attention, though. He hated his fellow inmates. He wasn't fond of crazies that actually believed themselves when they denied their insanity. At first he'd found it amusing, but the novelty had eroded over the years, much like his passion for random stabbings. They left too much evidence.

"What do you think, Charles?" Shannon asked, calling the voice by name. "Some sort of chunky spaghetti... And I think I spy some artichokes. Such an odd side-dish," it answered. "Can't I just skip it one more week?" Shannon asked, bending over and poking his meal with the plastic spoon (really, is a fork all that dangerous?) he'd been given. Regarding them in much the same fashion he might regard a gaggle of aliens, he pondered the artichokes as well. "Only if you're serious about killing yourself," the voice chuckled.

- - - - - - - - - -

The world was a swirling blur of torment, fueled by the demons that perpetually clawed their way out of the great chasm of doubt. Though Shannon knew not where he was supposed to be, he knew immediately that he was dreaming, and that he was in a lot of pain. His heart raced like a cat's, heaving against his chest with a force and speed that put lightning to shame. Though it only added to the agony, he was glad that his eyes had, at some point prior to his lucidity, been gouged from their sockets.

Darkness smiled back at him as a burning brand was set to his flesh, possessing a heat that Shannon thought only the sun could possess. Ten kinds of agony crippled his entire being, giving birth to a hundred insane desires, and the demons in his soul bent their heads back and howled at the orgasmic rush. Dancing to the rhythm of his flesh as it curled black around hot metal, the demons gave voice to Shannon's agonized screams. "Please!!" he begged, flailing in vain against slimy, unknown coils that prevented all escape. "Stop!! Please stop!!" Laughter was the only response. Deep and guttural, it savored the boy's pain. "Please God," he cried against the black curtain, "Please let me wake up!"

And he did. Bolting into a sitting position, Shannon grabbed his face with both hands, making sure his eyes were still there. His breathing was erratic, and his heart rate wasn't a great deal slower than it had seemed while asleep. A cold sweat glued his clothes to his skin, and he very much pined for a shower he wasn't presently able to take. "D'aaaaw, the little baby had a nightmare," Charles purred, "I'd suggest you add it to the nightmare journal, but you've already filled the whole tape-recorder up, you little git." Shannon remained silent for several seconds, probing his body for wounds he knew weren't there. And then he came across it, the spot where he'd been branded in his nightmare. Beneath his shirt he felt no pain, but his skin was obviously abnormal. Lifting up the drenched garb, he found a nasty black scab in the shape of a skull. The skin was still undamaged where the eyes and nose slits were meant to be. "Best not to tell the staff about that," Charles said, eerily unperturbed by the strange fact that its host had been damaged by a dream, "We don't need them thinking you're even crazier than they already do."

Unsurprisingly, Shannon did not go back to sleep that night.


Last edited by Spear-Face on Thu Jun 10, 2010 12:16 am; edited 4 times in total (Reason for editing : Changed a few words. Nothing major.)
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Re: Letters From Corvine

Post by Aya MacArthur on Thu Jul 01, 2010 5:44 am

In a lonely room, bare of anything but the smell of disinfectant and a small mattress sat a girl. Though she was in solitary confinement, it was anything but. From an on-looker's prospective, Ashlee was the only one in the room; however, to Ashlee, the room was filled. It was so crowded, she thought that she may suffocate. Everyone she knew was there, mocking her. Their faces distorted in ways that would make a demon grimace in fear and disgust.

At first, when these images appeared, Ashlee was afraid. Girls should see visions of fluffy animals and rainbows, not demons. The illusions were not the only thing that had her worried. These images spoke, and not of nice things. Death, destruction, and hatred were just a few topics of choice. Their favorite, however, was Ashlee herself. Originally, it started off as them just talking about her and her life: how she was useless, a whore, and other such things a girl would hate to hear. Then the conversation was directed at her. Her new “friends” would tell her how no one wanted her around, that she was useless to the world, and just to end it. That's when it all began.

It started off with over dosing on her mother's anti-depressants, then to cutting and burning. However, the people that surrounded her wanted more than that. They wanted her skin and blood. Her “friends” convinced her that if she had gotten rid of her skin, that new skin would grow back and that people would love her more. Cutting out huge chunks of skin only sedated the demons for a while, then she started to bite the flesh off herself.

That's when she ended up in this mental institution, and it was the reason why she would always stay. Ash would have small periods of reprieve, but the voices always came back; which brings up the reason on why she was in solitary confinement.

Two days ago, she was sitting in the hallways, people watching when the voices started again. Wanting blood, she gave it to them instantly. Biting at her already scarred wrist, she tore away flesh. Blood covered the walls, and yet they wanted more. She spoke up against them and began to bang her head into the wall, asking them to leave her alone. That was when the orderly found her. Sometime during the entire fiasco, she ended up passing out. She awoke to being restrained on a hospital bed. After the doctors deemed her well, she was placed in this hole in a straight jacket. And here is where she would stay for at least a week, depending on her behavior. With how things were looking, she would be there a while.

“Don't you have anything better to do then watch me?” Ashlee asked the group who stood by. They all just smiled and got closer. She sighed and muttered: “So now you say nothing...” Ash closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall and made a wish. I wish I was the only person in my head...

“Now what fun would that be?” Asked Cain.

“Yeah, being alone is soooo boring!” Added his twin sister Catlyn. “My brother and I have been together for an eternity, and what fun that eternity has been!” Cain just nodded in agreement. Out of the two, Cain was the quiet one. Usually, he would ask a question based on Ashlee's behavior, then Catlyn would comment.

With these two, it was normally fun; however, Ashlee was just not in the mood. “Not today you guys, ok? I'm too tired for your shenanigans.” Catlyn began to pout, while Cain just nodded. Sometimes, Ash would think that Cain really didn't even want to be there, but then she would remember he was there for a reason: to make her crazy. “Can't I have peace, even for one day?” The twins shook their heads no. “But why? What did I do to deserve this?” Neither of them had an answer. None of them did, except Leo. He always had an answer for everything, and it was an answer that usually blamed Ashlee. Today, he decided not to speak up. He seemed more interested in simply watching her, something that caused her great annoyance, which is probably why he did it in the first place.

“Can I just go to sleep?” She asked the group. When no one replied, she laid against her mattress and closed her eyes, begging for peaceful sleep. A wish, she knew, was practically impossible. There was no such thing as a good night's sleep when it came to Ashlee. Nightmares haunted her dreams, and the voices usually kept her up a great deal of the night too. But for now, they were all silent, so Ash began to drift to sleep.
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Re: Letters From Corvine

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