"Release". Proper name needed

[Second draft, the first being written between the hours of 11PM and 1AM. Constructive criticism, go.]

[I am aware that some of you may find this distasteful in light of the recent bushfires in Victoria, but for me, this is a process in dealing with it, in trying to wrap my head around why someone could do this. There are so many different reasons, but this is where my story has taken me...]

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I watched, captivated, as the sparks spread. They were fierce, unstoppable, and they were mine. Could it be ignored? It didn't matter anymore, if you didn't notice me. You noticed this. And it was mine.

It was growing, powerful; the winds and heat had helped fan it further than I had expected. I could barely contain myself.

You've just returned from fighting them, of course; you came in late, as you did last night and the night before. I heard you climbing the stairs, wearily, each movement a struggle. No doubt you were covered in grime and soot; no doubt you ached, barely able to think. The way you like it. The sound of water falling as you shower is soothing, but I cannot let myself fall to sleep.

Small sounds as you dress, and then you are climbing into bed beside me. A flash of memory hits, the ghosts of a time past, in which a younger you gently kissed the cheek of a younger I, almost asleep; a time when there was still a vibrant love that hung in the air between us.

How things change, how they fade and dull. A mirror put aside, covered in dust, a faint reflection perhaps to be made out upon fierce squinting; its clarity gone. Much like our love, I thought. The flames of our love had died out, but these flames of mine now would burn for much longer. This fire of mine called for attention, as it leapt about, flickering; here, now also there, continually growing. Hungry.

My fire didn’t just call for attention; indeed, it demanded it, daring others to try to ignore it, if they could. It demanded attention, like I had longed to do but couldn’t, and it was the fire itself that saved me. I remember the day it began.

Waking to white walls and the smell of disinfectant, exhausted and hurting; the pain gripping before I could even recall. Words were thrown around, in the minutes and hours that followed - "miscarriage", "everything that could have been done was", "my condolences"... That was where it all started, really. When the words made me want to scream, and I felt the knowledge that I was being ripped apart on the inside, I did nothing but wait for it, this terrible end I deserved. It didn’t come.

I once grabbed a knife, determined to give it a release, anything to get this out of me, but I couldn't do it. I don't know why. And the pain continued day after day, torturing silently, mercilessly, within the confines of my rib cage.

You were there, but from the moment I woke, you weren't, not really. It was like you had left; as though the death of our son, this murder I had let my body commit, had severed that which tied us together. They say you were there for me, and I suppose it appeared that way. You said the right phrases, you held me. But all the while you were away somewhere, in some other place; and I knew from your eyes and the cold rigidity of your arms around me that it was a place where our son was alive, where his mother wasn't also his killer. I knew you hated me for it, but all that mattered was that the pressure building up was crushing me. Sooner rather than later, I would combust. Fragments of skin, muscle, and bone would splatter the room in a spray of blood, and then the fire burning up from within, finally free, would take everything with it, leaving my remains a charred black dust, when it was done.

You turned towards fire-fighting more than ever. I knew you imagined every time that you were protecting him, saving him, as you could not save him from me. You accused me with your look, when you could force yourself to be around me long enough. Murderer.

And then I found my saviour.

I lit a match, outside one day. To see this thing, to see this thing that was inside of me, destroying me. That was when it came to me.

And it was so simple, you know. So obvious. I opened my hand and watched it fall. The patch of weeds it fell on burned, viciously, ferociously, and I could feel that this fire was the fire inside of me, leaving a little. Burning outside rather than inside. It grew. I knew I should put it out, but I couldn't. The burning was leaving me. I watched as it burnt, all of it; and as our home went up in flames I felt nothing but an ever-growing relief.

When the smoke and the flames alerted others, you came in your truck, you and your yellow-suited colleagues. You thought I was standing there silently due to shock, but I was silent with amazement, reverent. And when you put your arms around me and held me, like you used to, for that brief second; I realised just how powerful my fire was. Releasing me and bringing you back to me.

But even that couldn't keep you, could it? It was not enough, and so that moment passed. The fires were more and more my everything, as they wove their way through our lives, now separate, but bringing them back together. I lit them, and you had to take notice just as you could not notice me; had to put in effort, had to stop them; and so our lives were once more intertwined, although you could not know.

Even better, I was being freed. The fierce gnawing from within had calmed, slowed, and the only thing left was to create more flames outside, where more of the burning within would join in, leaving me a little freer. Slowly. Surely.

When it takes lives? Better still. Because you feel that you have lost, that you are also to blame for the murder of our son, you could not save him even when you tried. Remember, I wanted our son too. I loved him also.

There is more to the fire than you know. More than I knew. But I understand, now. All this time, it was all just the catalyst (is this the right context? i don't know if i've used it correctly?). These fires alone will never be enough to free me. And I cannot take this fire within any longer.

Peace is coming, shortly. I will finally be free. This is the final revenge for you too. Because with this love for you that I never quite lost, is this hatred grown stronger than that love.

But the fire has the solution. It has the solution to everything.

I can see you now, asleep once more, as I sit next to you where you lie on our bed. I am doused already. I take your hand for a second, and you stir slightly. Odd, how it could be a stranger's hand I hold. Your touch is no longer familiar to me in any way.

I strike the match, watch the small flame flicker. So small, and yet, it will grow. Ever hungry, but I shall feed it. As it has infinite times before. There is nothing to fear.

It was so simple, you know, all this time. So obvious. I open my hand and watch the match fall.

Is it obvious enough that she is setting herself on fire, and her husband/partner?

I know I changed tense somewhere =/

I'm tired and I don't even know if it's good, so comments please. A title would be nice too. I will revise and edit. (:

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Summary only...

Her Daddy Said So

So I found a hard copy of this story finally. I would not like to have lost it, since I keep records of everything. I got 18/20 for it... I wrote this last year in semester 2 for the Murder and Mayhem year 11 English course. Just in case the thought crosses your mind, this isn't written from experience in any way hahh. I haven't looked at it since I wrote it, sooo hopefully it's somewhat decent. From what I remember it was kindah horrifying and disturbingly painful to read, having got into the character while writing. Hopefully it is still as realistic as I thought it seemed then. I didn't have the heart to kill off my poor, brave, main suffering character, which could easily have happened with such a parent. >=( I wanted to leave an opening where she might escape and find a better life, out of her heartbreaking childhood. I guess hope comes out in my writing also.


She awoke from the pain, for an instant not knowing where she was. Bright lights assaulted her eyes as she attempted to see. The ever recognisable disinfectant smell that belonged almost solely to hospitals hung in the air [sentence too long aghhh]. She cringed. She hated the hospital, having been there often enough. Finally adjustng to the light, she saw her daddy sitting at the end of her bed. An involuntary shudder shook her small body once more.
"Daddy, I'm sorry!" she whispered. "I didn't mean to."
Her daddy looked up and smiled.
"It's good to see you awake, honey. You've been asleep for quite a while."
She smiled tentatively back at him as he turned to the nurse.
"She worries that everything is her fault... I'm not sure why. She's just a kid; they're always having accidents at this age. I could see it happening, too. I tried to stop her, but I was too far away. She just fell off the balcony like a little rag doll. God, I had my heart in my mouth."
Lowering his voice, he continued. She had to strain to hear [what he was saying].
"It's just that she seems to have more accidents than most, always falling off this or that, bumping into another. A few months back she managed to pull a mug of hot coffee off the kitchen bench. It poured all over her. Poor thing's screams could be heard around the whole neighbourhood, I'm sure. I'm worried she might have some sort of co-ordination or eyesight problems?"
The nurse gave a sympathetic nod.
"Yes, it's always tough when they're little. Mind you, it doesn't improve as they get older. The trouble I've had with my two boys... my God[, doesn't bear talking about.] Anyway, if you want, I could arrange for her to have a proper check up."
He thought for a while, then slowly shook his head.
"Might wait a bit, see if she grows out of it. I was quite clumsy as a child as well. It probably runs in the family."
He laughed, and the girl watching him intently from her bed relaxed further. When her daddy laughed, it was a good sign and meant she was less likely to do something wrong. But this was still one of those laughs that he used a lot around other people, especially at the hospital, when sometimes he was still angry but didn't want to show it. At times like that, he also said lots of things that weren't true, and was as nice to her as if she never did anything wrong. She still couldn't understand it.

But she was only a stupid girl, and she was so bad she couldn't understand the things other people did. Even when she tried her hardest, she still couldn't help but do something naughty. That's why she never went out of the house, except to the hospital. That was also why her daddy had to punish her, to teach her the right thing. One day she would be a good girl and her daddy would let her go outside to other places, and make friends with other people. Right now, if she was friends with anyone she would turn them into bad people too; she was a bad influence.

It was because of her that her mummy left, and because of her that her daddy was out of a job. It was because of her that the house was so messy, and her fault that daddy was always angry. If she could just be quieter, if she knew how to cook, if she cleaned and was good, then he would be happy and everything would be okay. But she was just a lazy bitch. Her daddy said so.

The nurse left the room, explaining she had some other patients to check on. The instant the door shut, her daddy stood up and came closer. He no longer made any effort to mask his anger, the fury twisting his face.
"You little shit! I'm trying to help you, and what do you do? You can't even learn a lesson without injuring yourself, costing your daddy even more money! I try to do right by you, but you don't appreciate anything!"
She fought not to cry, not to shrink down inside the blankets. She had done the wrong thing and had woken her daddy up too early. She had to accept her punishment. Crying was wrong. So was trying to not learn a lesson, which was why she nodded, taking every word to heart.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered once more.
"Oh, you will be! Just wait till you get home."
The nurse entered the room once more.
"That's a brave girl you've got there," she said brightly.
No she wasn't. She was a selfish brat.
Her daddy said so.

~

The girl was led upstairs. It was growing dark but she could see that the house her father had walked her to was just as dirty as theirs. The woman she was now standing in front of seemed rough and slightly grimy, in keeping with the surroundings.
"What's your name, girl?" the woman asked brusquely.
"I don't really have one, ma'am. But I think I was called Jesika, once."
She didn't say it aloud, but she thought this name had been given to her by her mother. She had a faint memory of a woman talking to her and smiling at her, [looking at her in a way she hadn't seen in a long time. In this memory the woman was] saying,
"Jesika, can you say Mummy? Can you smile for mummy? Come on..."
She was sure this was her mum. Maybe it was because she hadn't been able to smile and say "mummy" that her mother had left...

She was jolted out of her thoughts as the woman grabbed her arm.
"Come on, Jesika, then. I don't know if you know why you're here and if this is your choice, it's like as not, but that's not my business."
She stopped outside a door with no handle. Pushing it open, she said, "In you get."
Jesika walked in and sat down on the single item of furniture in the room, the small, grubby bed.
"Now wait here until someone comes in. Do what you are asked."

With those words, the door swung shut and she was left alone. When her father had left her here, it has been without a word of explanation. Without her father here, how could he tell her if she was doing something wrong? She needed him! Never had she been apart from him for longer than ten minutes, and never while away from home. She didn't go to school because she was so stupid; she couldn't even learn the lessons he tried to teach her.
So there was no way she could learn other, harder lessons.
Her daddy said so.
Before they had left the house today, he had told her it was time for her to get them some money, since she used so much of it. That had to be why she was here.
She didn't question the matter any longer. Questions were for people who were smarter than her.

Eventually the door opened once more and a man walked in, taking a swig from a bottle. Jesika sat on the bed looking at him. After a minute, he roared, "Well get on with it girl!"
"What do you want me to do, sir?" she asked, hesitantly.
He grabbed her by the collar and pulled her towards him, throwing the bottle to the ground as he did so. [The glass shattered, flying across the room.]
"I came here for a fuck, not a bloody question and answer session!"
He tore her shirt from the collar down, and from there ripped off the rest of her clothing [clothes].
He then slammed her onto the bed and took off his own clothing.
"You don't look like much, bich, but you sure are gonna learn a few things tonight!"
With another leer, he lowered himself on top of her.
All of this time, Jesika had remained silent. She had learned to accept anything without complaint. But even she could not stop her screams as her nine year old body was first entered by a man that night.


~

At the age of ten, she arrived home one morning to find her father passed out on the floor. Several beer bottles and a puddle of vomit lay around him. She knelt to wake him gently. Blearily, he opened his eyes and sat up.
"Ah, fuck." Putting his hand to his head, he cursed some more.
"I've got one bitch[hell] of a hangover and a lying slut[bitch] for a daughter who can't do anything but try to ruin my life. What'd I do to deserve all the shit in my life, huh?"
He snatched the ice pack she'd run to get and stumbled off to bed, leaving her to clean up.

Later that day, he called Jesika to his room.
"You want to be good some day, don't you?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Don't just nod!"
"Yes, Dad."
Now, do you see that you can't even answer a simple question right? How can you expect to ever make me happy, when I do so much for you and all I get in return are your screw-ups?"
"I don't know, Daddy. I'm sorry."
"Well, I've thought of something you might be able to do right, something that could make your daddy happy."
"I want you to show me what you can do in bed. You ought to be pretty experienced by now, yeah? Come on."
She hesitated. The chance for her to finally do something right, to make her dad happy, was the one thing she wanted most in the world, but this felt wrong somehow. Yet how could it be wrong? Her dad was telling her to do it, and he was never wrong.
Jesika slipped out of her clothes with practiced ease, clambering onto the bed. She was finally going to make him happy, and so she ignored the lingering doubt in her mind as she was united with her father in a way that was never meant to be.

Because her daddy said so.




Ms White : "Capable use of setting and dialogue and a sympathetic development of character."
- strong internal landscape
- middle section needs strengthening
- "A horrifyinh portrait of abuse. The protagonist's voice is clear and strong. How does this fit within the topic?"
Uhhhhh well I'd say it was just a little "mayhemic" but ehh fine. 18 out of 20, i'm happy. It's kinda bland at the start and I'm not so satisfied with it, tell me what you think?

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Summary only...