Inescapable
fear death. I do not tremor at the thought of my eternity. I do not plea for mercy; for my life to be spared. This is my fate and I almost wish it would come sooner. Sitting against this lifeless cobble wall is where I wait, wonder what is next, because to live you must die.
I hated being in here with nothing to do. It makes the voices in my head louder and all I want to do is ignore them… they are the reason why I’m here, sitting in this god-forsaken cell. It’s cold, damp and a piece of boning from my corset stuck into my lower chest. Two of them, two voices, and they WILL NOT BE QUIET. I’m trying to sleep but all I hear is them rattling on about how I’m going to get out of here. I do not need any more bright ideas from these two; they got me stuck in here to begin with.
My mother knew something was wrong the day I was born. It was a dark day; sinister clouds flooded the never-ending sky, closing it in making this city seem almost inescapable. The shrieks of crows flooded the town; at least according to my mother when she told me the story of my birth. Her midwives surrounded her bed as I was born; helping my mother, comforting her. “What a grim day to be born” my mother whispered, “ ‘Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain.’ But don’t fret today is page one of your story, I just hope it’s a happy one.” She smiled poignantly.
My mother didn’t hate me or despise me; she wasn’t scared of me, she loved me quite dearly. She possessed the all encompassing love that any true mother would have for her child, but she knew something was off about me. That more than just my soul had come to walk the gardens of Earth the day I was born.
I don’t remember the day they started talking in my head or even the moment exactly, I think they have always been there; In the back of my mind. But I remember the day I knew; I felt one of them wasn’t right; so wrong, so dark, so… evil. That voice; that one voice, never wanted to cause me harm, I knew they would both watch over and protect me, but that one voice wanted me to do bad things.
The garden, my childhood garden reminded me of a fairy kingdom, a faraway place; completely out of grasp from the horrors of reality. The essence of White English roses filled the air, butterfly wings danced in the sky and a single black crow sat on the fence. I was sitting in the soft carpet of grass playing with my worn doll; a doll that has seen years of love and joy. I loved my doll, but the voice, the evil voice, told me to hurt her. To destroy the doll that I adored: that protected me from the monsters under my bed. I didn’t want to harm my precious doll, but the voice made me.
I ripped the golden blonde hair from her porcelain head; each strand one by one until I held a bald doll. I found twine in my mother’s sewing box; it looked like rope, it was raw and rough. I didn’t want to do it but I did. I strung up my bald and bare porcelain doll on a low branch of a small tree. A tiny rope; a small doll; a perfect hangman’s noose. The wicked voice in my head; in my mind chortled, I will always remember that laugh. The thought of that malevolent cackle freezes my innermost core.
Soft light pierce my eyelids, dawn light welcomes the day. I gaze down at my small delicate hands now that I can see them for the first time in the peaceful light. They are stained crimson with blood and my cream white dress is now splattered and smeared with scarlet drops and tiny handprints. It’s silent in this cell and in my head. That is quite unusual. I’ve never actually spoken to the voices in my head; they are always just kind of there. Normally they are a burden but right now some company before the end of my story would be nice. Everyone dies, but no one should die alone.
If it weren’t for women, men wouldn’t be rich. Men wouldn’t have land; men wouldn’t have sons; men wouldn’t be consumed with pride. We women are the carriers of wealth; we are sold like horses and negotiated with land, money. “This is the happiest day of your life.” My mother cooed as I stepped into my ivory gown.
“For you maybe, I’m being sold to an old man.” I alleged, “I am being traded like a mare for breeding.” The look of anger in my mother’s eyes smouldered. A young handmaiden fiddled with my hair like a small sparrow fiddles with its nest. I was old; I should have been getting married at least 14. My father barred me from being married off until I was 21. But with being as old as I am it gave them the option to marry me off to an older man. I stared at the mirror; behind my eyes the voices talked.
The voices in my head were in conflict; a mini war played through my thoughts. One was answering the questioning thoughts that flooded my consciousness and telling me everything will be fine; what a lie. The other screamed at me to stop this; to get out; to do anything to ensure that I would be happy. Again the evil thoughts of what I could do came to mind; to escape. But this time it was inescapable.
There is a rattle at the metal door to my silent room; it disrupts the sense of calm that had settled in the room with the warmth of days light. I stand slowly and face the solid door, smoothing my soiled wedding dress. It was hardly a gown but it was beautiful. At least it was before I stained it with my sin. The door creeks open and the man in the red tunic steps inside.
“You will pay for your crime,” he laughs as he fastens the irons on my wrists. Another guard steps into the cobble cell, his footsteps echo of the walls of the small room. “A shame the beautiful are always so tainted,” he whispers in my ear. I look at him from the corner of my eyes. I say nothing as I am led from the cell.
Walking along the corridors of this labyrinth, the cries of men who face certain fatality ring out. The feeling of fear and inevitable death fill the halls, I am solemn; I pity those who fear death. I push back my long mahogany hair with my bound hands. If I face death, I will do so with dignity. I stand poised as I am lead to my execution.
I wonder how I will die, hanging, beheaded, drawn and quartered. Even as a little girl I always found death fascinating and relished in the public executions, they were thrilling and thought enticing. The light of morning shines from the doors at the end of this dark passageway. Bile rises in my throat, I am still alone. I pray those two annoying voices would return and stand with me as I take my last breath.
“I do not set my life at a pin’s free; and, for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing immortal as itself?” I speak softly to myself as I enter the courtyard. “What was that?” one of the two guards asked aggressively. I reply a simple, “Shakespeare.”
With every execution the crows come first; they sense the death days before it arrive. They were scattered around the court yard walls like little grim reapers. I have never liked crows, or ravens for that matter, their shiny midnight feathers scream doom. Their feathers scream an unforgiving destiny. No wonder my mother always said they were a bad omen.
The Headsman loomed on the platform, his death-stained axe in hand. He looked like a gentle man; a grim expression masked his face. I ascended the few stairs that lead to the end of my life; my story. The Headsman observed me, his hazel eyes traced down my marked wedding dress. He knew what I had done and the price I was about to pay.
Irony; this was true irony. My memories danced through my thoughts. My soon to be husband stood on the landing, a White English rose fastened to his garment. He looked like a gentle man; a greedy expression masked his face. I ascended the few stairs that lead to the end of my happiness; my true smile. The old man observed me, his dark eyes traced down my pristine wedding dress. He knew the prize I was giving him; that my father was giving him.
I couldn’t do it, and both the voices in my head agreed. All I wanted was happiness; but this man would suck it from me. He would use me until all joy was gone from my eyes. I pulled a small dagger from the sleave of my gown. Cold copper warmed by my skin; my white skin. It was a simple dagger, for a simple death. I killed him. I murdered the man who was to destroy my happiness. Blood drip
ped from the tip of this sin stained blade like morning dew dripped from a windowsill.
On this tiny stage I knelt at the stone pillow where I would finally lay my head to rest. It had been coloured with the life force of countless others. The metallic tinge of blood filled the air and saturated my senses as I breathed deeply.
Loss; so much loss, so many stories ended too soon on this dais, all at the hands of an innocent man. I stared at the sky as the announcer read my crimes to the crowd.
“People of London, this woman is guilty of the following!” he bellowed; his large gut rumbling as he spoke. He looked bored with his job; with his life. In this society there is no choice, not really. You are born into a family and from a young age is told what your role in life will be; a baker, a barber, a candlestick maker. You were born into your vocation and you accepted it. But he, he looked bored, like he wished to sail the seven seas or explore the mysteries of the land, not stand here and watch as the bodies pile up. “Murder and blasphemy; you are here by sentenced to death!” he roared again. The crowd cheered; I find it paradoxical how all of them call on another’s final demise but none truly wish it upon themselves.
I am alone; the voices in my head have deserted me as I kneel here waiting. I am not afraid to die, but to die alone. I search the gleeful mass for a face; any face that I recognise. I find two, the two most beautiful faces in the crowd. I have never seen them before but under their gaze I felt tranquil, I knew them; somehow, and they knew me.
Inhuman, how couldn’t anyone see how inhuman they were? Their wings; one pair was so very celestial; heavenly white and the other dark; blacker than the deepest pits of despair. It wasn’t these two wings or even beauty that made them appear not from this world, or time. It was the feeling they emanated, one a feeling of such pure untainted love and forgiveness and the other, totally immoral and unadulterated evil. But I trusted them both. I have no clue why but their faithful eyes proved that I could.
“We are here” the voices whispered peaceful in my head. I was not alone. I gradually lowered my head to the stone. My tiny heart raced in my chest as I anticipated the pain of the unforgiving axe, it came but only for a moment. I do not fear death, I do not fear my eternity; It is a new story that I await to write.