Ophelia, Gorecki [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

Her long spindly grey hairs had been scrapped back knotted and clipped into a pin, her hollow cheeks and long jaw thrust upwards, the woman’s waxy yellow skin was thinning in places, stretched to cover her façade and yet there was enough for wrinkles to fold on her forehead. Small black eyes pierced through the dim candle light that flickered around the dusky room. Her hooked nose lowered towards her snarling, leering mouth creating the effect of a bird beak. Shrivelled old hands rested on the arms of the wooden chair, she rocked forwards and backwards slowly, coaxing life into the rocking-chair until it had built enough momentum to continue on its own. Turing pointedly towards the fireplace, she started a blood curling howl, the sound reverberating off the walls shaking the glass window panes and erupting into a merciless cry lasting for minutes on end before falling away leaving the woman panting for air. A shadow stirred. It was dark, a canny light being thrown onto the walls, every move made being bounced around with the candle light. Slowly, almost fervently Ophelia lifted her head and stared with large brown eyes drinking in the scene. She had woken later than she thought, the old woman feasting on her slumber to finish the sculpture occupying the centre of the room. It was made from stainless steal and the metal had been twisted and bent into a rim, stretching from every angle inside chords of string and lace had been tied. Corkscrews hung every meter or so along the string and they acted like chimes as a small gust of wind crept through the broken window and into the building.
‘Isn’t it wonderful’ the soft caw hissed in the atmos and Ophelia shivered, wriggling against the rope tying her limbs together.
‘Don’t move child,’ the old lady stepped from her seat and towards the metal spider web with a hushed awe. ‘you shall be free soon enough. But until then you remain here with Granny Lydia. Yes? Good.’ The gentle tones couldn’t have been more of a lie as her frail hands stroked the steel perimeter. Lydia moved with a heavy limp to the kitchen, the large slabs of stone echoing her steps as she faded from sight. Ophelia whimpered, visibly shrinking away from the artwork as if it had slapped her. From across the hallway she heard the sing-song voice of Grandma Lydia as she shuffled about the tiny space. She would be slumped against the wooden stove, her ancient hands fumbling to strike the match and light a fire. There would be no warmth from the orange sequins, only the knowledge that tonight she was going to die. It brought no comfort as she gagged on her own vomit in silence to hear the lyrics sung by Lydia:
‘Hush little baby don’t you cry, mommies going to buy you a mocking bird, if the mocking bird does not sing mommies going to make you a demons ring.’

Charlie stood up. Then he bent over closing his eyes against the pain and lowered his shorts. The cane came snaking down onto his bottom striking his lower back at the same time. Tears swelled to his eyes but he blinked them back, Charlie McHarvey would not cry in front of anybody. Defiantly not his class mates and even more so his teacher –Mr Bran – who glared at Charlie outwardly annoyed that he had had no reaction with the weapon. Silence stretched between them before Charlie straightened and returned to his seat, bracing himself as he sat down. The lesson continued without any further interruptions before the bell chimed for the end of the school day. The class filed out in silence and Charlie joined them, ducking away from view of Mr Bran and meeting with Lilly. Lilly stood by the apple tree, her green eyes twinkling in the summer sun, her olive skin perfectly smooth and soft. Their lips brushed together, Lilly’s hand wrapping around Charlie and his hand snaking down her legs. She pulled away, holding him at arms length and studying him.
‘Why do you do it?’ she asked at last, sounding exasperated. Charlie blinked once, twice then licked his chapped lips.
‘To keep him from ruining your perfect body’ he tried to move closer but she stopped him, shaking her head in disappointment.
‘I expected better than that Charlie McHarvey a lot better’ she turned to leave, her hand clasping at her back and her long blonde hair swinging in the movement. Charlie grabbed her arm, spinning her back around.
‘You expected better? What’s wrong with you! You go and do all that stuff with Al and leave me to cover for you, I take the blame and I take the punishment and all you have to say is you expect better? I don’t know why I loved you. You’re just a whore like the rest of ‘em, hook line and sinker is that it? Is that what I was, just bait, your get out of jail free card? Well I’m not anymore Lilly Birch. I leave tomorrow at first light and I aint coming back for no one.’ Charlie fumed at her before turning away and stalking off towards the hills. Lilly gapped after him but didn’t move. She’d known him for nearly fifteen years, her whole life and now he was leaving without a goodbye.

Dusk came in thick and fast. The colour drained from the sky, the rich orange and crimson leaking from the large chamber now turning into a bodiless mass of grey stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if a sickness had over come the land. Lydia returned from the kitchen, her left hand was cradling a small figure, her right hand clasping onto the doorframe for balance. Ophelia looked up, terrified her black hair caught in the dried blood scalping her smoky ashen skin, her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath coming in short sharp gulps. Lydia smiled, her yellow fangs tormenting the girl and she placed the object down beside her. Ophelia pulled away, her mouth clamped around the gag in her mouth, the one thing stopping her from being heard. Her eyes rolled madly in their sockets as she focused on the thing beside her. Grandma Lydia had already slunk back to the kitchen, she’d be leaning over the large black cauldron stirring the final ingredients to the potion. The thing beside Ophelia was motionless; it was small too, about the same size as a doll. Looking closer she saw it was a doll. Except it was alive. It was sleeping, its eyelids closed against the wicked happenings of life, tiny black eyelashes fluttering against the thick soft cream skin. It was a baby. No older than a couple of months it wiggled. There was no rope tying the child’s arms and legs to its body, there was no material shoved into its mouth to stop it from screaming and breathing. It had cloths on, something odd because normally it would be a baby naked not a fourteen year old girl. Ophelia moved closer, trying to touch the thing before her. It was beautiful, so perfect and delicate.
‘He’s your one Ophelia. The one you had last month, remember that?’ Lydia had returned and was watching them, she was laughing quietly as if she had just heard a funny joke. Ophelia was right then, not very old, one month. She remembered well enough. Her stomach had been swollen for nearly three months, growing bigger and increasing in pain. She hadn’t known what was going on, but then one day blood came down her legs, the pain became to intense and she was crying, silently screaming in agony as she pushed and pushed. Lydia had helped her. It was witchcraft, it must have been. It took two days, two days and two nights to give birth to that. She looked at the baby again. She hadn’t given it a name, she’d nearly died. She thought she had died at one point because she remembered the world swimming in front of her and a bright white light, the pain like fire as it burnt through her body paralysing her and her legs had been ripped open. Now, as she lay there bound and gagged she looked at the long scar over her stomach skin. It came up to her chest. Lydia had said she’d opened her up and cut the baby out before stitching her back together. Ophelia was terrified that that was true. If it was then she could have anything in her now. She felt sick and closed her bruised blue eyes.
‘What’s wrong girl? Feel sick? Not happy? Give him a name’ she moved over to them both and lifted Ophelia into the air, holding the girl as if she weighed nothing, her long nails digging into the skin and trickles of blood ran down her sides and thighs. Then, she pulled down the material covering her mouth; Ophelia opened her jaws and gulped down the air as if she’d been starved of it for her whole life.
‘that’s it, drink it in child, drink it in’ Lydia laughed wildly and put the girl on the floor again. She was filthy, her ash skin hidden under dirt and grime that came from years of not washing and lying on a floor crusted with urine and dust, coal black stains printed on her body, spiders and cockroaches scurrying away from her as she lay there.
‘help me’ she stammered weakly, her throat on fire from the effort of talking after nearly a decade of not being used.
‘no one to help you here my dear’ Lydia smiled, almost kindly as she gazed out the window. The glass was cracked, in places there was no glass at all. It had been blown out by the bombs or wind.

Charlie walked head bowed over the fells. The wind was strong up here at this time of night, a sliver of silver moonlight winked at him from the yawning skies above. It was just past midnight and Charlie grazed over the grass as if it were day time. Yesterday’s events played over in his mind, Lilly asking him for a favour while she an Al missed out on lessons, him covering for her, telling lies that got the skin shredded from his body as if he were a pig ready for slaughter. It was how he felt. He’d felt like he was going to die for nearly a year, the same time his only parent had passed away. They called it “a tragic accident” how he slipped in the river and cracked his head open. But Charlie had been there, he’d watched from the trees, the ferns and pines sheltering him from view of the killer. His father had been pushed. Pushed and killed by his best friend. The very next day the butcher had found Alistair hanging from a tree. Suicide they said. It probably was, the man was a slut and everyone knew it, he did bad things that shouldn’t even be thought of and dad had known that. But they’d been friends, something had changed that morning. Dad had only ever fished when he had a problem, now he was dead. Charlie quickened his pace, his mind now flashing backing to that night, the night when all the truths came out. He had had a sister, a little sister name Mia, and she was cute and never did anyone any harm. She was deaf and couldn’t walk; her mind was the age of a three year old and always would be. She was murdered