Tuesday, 14 August 2012 @ 18:03 | 0 Comment [s]Holy-moley. I read D.B.'s analysis of my story two posts ago: Brace yourself for some craziness.
I struggle to write this today, because I cannot remember. I wish I could, and I wish I had written this earlier, because I cannot remember why. I look through all these past entries, but they make no sense to me, and I'm confused, I'm very confused. Every night I wake up, my head swimming with images, with visions - of people that I have never seen before, of people that I have never known! And some nights, I wake up, tears streaming down my face, my voice hoarse, my throat burning, and I know not why. My heart feels cold, lost, like a dried up, barren spring, dead, empty... I'm lost, I'm so lost, I cry out every day, for help, but there is no help.
Every morning, I am roused; a doctor speaks in a solemn voice, his voice thick, coarse, heavy with the years of sorrow. He walks in, and the dark hollows in his face pierce mine - telling me stories of centuries of pain and cruelty. I see wings behind him, dark, black wings, with dark, viscous fluid dripping from the torn edges. As he blinks, a stream of dark liquid spurs within, and as he breathes life upon me, the scent of death overwhelms my being. He murmurs, and I stare blankly ahead. His teeth are a vicious, crimson red, and his tongue is blacker than Death itself. His skin was wrinkly, wretched and pale; his hands were cold and furious. He checks the apparatus firmly wedged in my arm, and grunts. He then checks the bandages, and grunts once more. He checks the monitor, and grunts a final time. He scribbles away at the clipboard, and coldly thrusts it back upon the hook. As he leaves, I catch a glimpse of his leg - a visible scar on his ankle, and he limps off into another ward, continuing the ridiculous cycle.In this paragraph, we are introduced to the doctor: seems like he's a reincarnate of Joseph Goebbels or Josef Mengele of some sort - cruelty, pain, darkness. The 'wings' mentioned, I presume, are not real, but simply a figment of the person's imagination: possibly because he's already in the midst of being poisoned by the nurse, possibly because he's viewing the doctor as this evil angel of death. A lot of dark imagery is used here, for example, "dark, black wings", "vicious, crimson red", "tongue is blacker than Death itself", "wrinkly, wretched and pale". It's also mentioned that the doctor 'grunts', very guttural, and very inhumane. Basically, the doctor is portrayed as a sort of evil presence.
I fall back asleep, and moments later, I feel warm hands on my arm, gently removing the needles. A gush of warmth rushes over me as I wake up once more, seeing my lady in white before me. She smiles, her teeth a perfect white; she walks, her movements graceful and swift; she speaks, her voice a soft, comforting purr. Her eyes were bright blue, her hair a beautiful, fiery red, tied up into a strong bun. The cap that sat atop her head firmly was a bright white, contrasting with the red of her hair. Her lips were full, coated in bright red lipstick, its Cupid's Bow sharp. Her nose was sharp and small, and her ears were decorated with a sparkling stud each. As she turned, I caught her scent - the delicate perfume reminded me of the rose garden outside my window. She scribbles something on the clipboard, and she checks my arm again, removing another painful needle. I beamed at her, and she smiled back once more. She gently arranges the bottles of dark fluid that the doctor placed on the cabinet, checking, tutting away, before she heads out of the ward. My heart lurched in disappointment, and I close my eyes, trying to sleep again. She returns, and my eyes shoot open to the sound of bottles clinking together. She replaces the bottles of dark liquid with bottles of pure, white liquid, and she approaches me, gently urging me to get up. She holds out a cup and pours in the white liquid - it smelled sweet, like maple syrup being warmed in a pot on a cold Christmas morning. I grab the cup impatiently from her, and downed the liquid in one go. It tasted sweet, like honey. I smile at her and lie back down, silently satisfied by her presence alone.This paragraph throws the reader into a completely new start. Instead of thrusting the reader further into the darkness of the doctor, we meet the complete opposite of him: the nurse. She's shown to be a Florence Nightingale of some sort, and we see a juxtaposition of the characters here - the doctor is portrayed in a cold and dark fashion , whilst the nurse portrayed with many references to light and warmth. The description of the nurse seems like of a beautiful woman - and remember how there was a reference to the doctor's "blood red" teeth? This lady has red hair, but, strangely, is described as "fiery red" - another allusion to warmth. At the same time, more subtle descriptions of red are used - "fiery red", "bright red", "rose garden". We also see a form of obsession that the person has with the nurse : "My heart lurched in disappointment". At this point, the nurse feeds her patient a white liquid - not of the doctor's prescription, but of her own. As a reader, I cannot help but feel suspicious at her actions - however, it is not noted, because after all, the patient is obsessed with her - too obsessed to care. She removes the needles that dosed him with a medical solution of some sort, but it is described as a comfort. The medicine is said to be sweet, here - but most medicines are bitter. These subtle hints foreshadow the few events as recalled later by the writer himself.
I cannot remember what happens next, I cannot. My brain whirls, my heart thrums, and all I can remember is the white of the bedsheets, the white of the covers, the white of the curtains, the white of the walls, the white of the furniture, the white of the windows, the white of the clouds in the skies in the world outside. Everything was white - my gown was white, my fingers were white, my nails were white. The white was overwhelming, but I loved it - it was pure, simple, angelic, and it reminded me of my lady in white - she was the most beautiful, the most wonderful lady I had ever seen.I like how this paragraph follows up to the previous paragraph. Lots of references to the colour white, showing us how obsessed the patient is with his favourite nurse. However, we also see in the first line, "I cannot remember.." We don't see why this is mentioned again, not until the end.
Oh - they are arguing again. I cannot remember why. I open my bleary eyes to see the doctor and the nurse conversing in hushed tones. As he opened his mouth, a dark smoke seemed to drift out, sinking to the ground, pooling at his feet. I could see veins crowd away at his pinched face, as the dark hollows in his face burned and spat at the nurse. She cowered in his presence, her lips moving quickly, her eyes glinting quietly, with a flame dancing in her eyes. Her red hair burned, and the fire was hot and white. White feathers fluttered away behind her, the wonderful woman.Again, "I cannot remember why". We see once again the contrasting figures of the doctor and the nurse together. Apparently, some form of confrontation is going on, and due to the patient's obsession, what he sees is completely distorted.
I cannot remember. I saw feathers. I felt my pillow, ripped out from below my head, and I heard an angry rip above my head. I couldn't breathe. I thrashed furiously. I bit into the pillow, tearing another hole into it, and my face was met with an avalanche of feathers."I cannot remember" - another chunk of forgetfulness. The very next line links the previous paragraph with the rest of the story - "I saw feathers... avalanche of feathers." What is happening in the paragraph is basically someone trying to kill the patient by smothering him with a pillow full of feathers. We are given a hint who it was - he had used 'feathers' as part of his description for the nurse before.
Her face was veined. It was wretched and cruel. Her red lips were contorted into a distorted smile, and her fiery red hair was blood red in the dark. Her cap no longer sat politely on her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and an angry blue. Her skin was pale, and her teeth was a brutal white. She pulled at the needles that were firmly wedged into my arm, this time furiously, and I felt my skin give way as the needle forced its way out. Pain shot through my arm, and I couldn't see. I couldn't remember.
Now, we see the nurse viewed in a different light. Her hair is now 'blood red', eyes 'bloodshot' - practically all the descriptions once used on the doctor, now used on her. We see her repeat what she did before, pulling out the needle in his arm - but this time, described in such a negative light, with no comfort derived from it. And the minute the needle was pulled out, "I couldn't remember." So now, we see that the medication had something to do with his ability to remember things, and by depriving him of his medication, he failed to remember.
The doctor walked back in. He pushed her roughly, and she slammed against the wall. Dark liquid slowly made its way through her lips and she slid towards the ground, unconscious.Personally, I like this paragraph. We see that as the doctor refixes the needle back into the patient and fills him with the proper medication, which is the 'dark liquid', things began to become clear. For instance, he could finally see the doctor's eyes for the first time, and he no longer lived in the world of illusions that he lived in. The 'dark liquid' was also imagined, as well - it was never dark, but simply medication. We also see the doctor smile, and look at the patient 'in worry' - something that seems very warm, in contrast to how he was first described. The story ends off with "I remembered". It's a powerful end, especially when we see how the patient struggled to remember throughout the whole story.
The hollows on his face blurred. He gently fixed the needles back into my arm, gently dabbing the wound with a cotton ball. He refilled the bag of medication with the dark liquid on the cabinets, and as the liquid traveled through the tubes, to the needle and into my body, I felt a strange, comforting warmth sweep through my body. His frown gradually softened, and his eyes were visible - it was a warm brown, that softly whispered to me, that sent waves of security through me. I closed my eyes, and re-opened them quickly, afraid that he would devour me - but he looked at me, hands hovering by the bedpost in worry. His wings had disappeared, the smoke and haze was gone. The room was clear, the and the dark liquid became a clear fluid. He smiled, and I did, weakly. I remembered.
There's a message behind the story, which seems pretty plain to see. Firstly, we cannot judge a book by its cover. Secondly, when people are good to us, we see what we like to see, but when we suffer under their hands, we see what we like to see as well, regardless of whether they are truly good or not.
My goodness. I swear, D.B. is a better Literature student than I am.
As such, I dedicate D.B.'s favorite song to him (not!!)
[Song-Of-The-Post: Call Me Maybe] (Check out the top!)
[14/4/2012 3:14:07 PM] D.B. : Tell whoever said that that the only difference between him and a bucket of shit is the bucket
[14/4/2012 3:15:23 PM] Me : XD hahaha