Soon is relative.

So, I said you’d hear from me soon at the end of my previous post. And yet, a significant amount of time has passed without any news or any sort.

I suppose I just haven’t felt very write-y lately. So, I’ll take the lazy way out of this one and share what I have actually written for my failed NaNo attempt. For two purposes other than laziness; first being that it is somewhat pertinent to this blog, being something I wrote. Second is that I feel written works should be allowed light to be read.

That said, this is an incomplete attempt at a first draft. I’m aware of flaws and even beyond that afraid of the reaction it might garner if approached as a full work. So, with that in mind, the following is a draft and an incomplete one at that.

Weave

Prelude to descent

At the first though, I supposed I should let you know of my story. I was wrong, however. This is not a story to be told, not a story to be known or relived. Not by me, not by anyone. At least, not by the me that was, or the anyone that is.

I make a promise, in a sense. This is not a tale to scare and startle, it won’t shatter children’s minds and unleash untold horrors into the world. It will mainly just terrify. Perhaps amaze, amuse and awe. But nonetheless, it will bring dawn to a feeling of dread that may change more than can be foreseen. It is an invitation; it will make you ask questions whose answers might terrify you more than any monster could. Consider this my only warning. If you will heed it or disregard it is now beyond my control.

If I must be called something, call me Mirian, for now. The name I was given, the human I was is no longer. But I have not yet told that tale. For the moment my past should suffice.

Chapter 1 – Mirian

I was born lucky, many have said. Tales such as mine seldom are worth telling, however. My life lacked the drama far too often found in literature. Would such a life be worth reading?

Perhaps not, but it is still my life. This is but a selfish tale made by me and of my own self, what else could I tell?

For the most part, the strangers and faceless were right, I had a happy childhood. My parents were caring and dedicated; they gave me as much luxury a child was capable of understanding and never pressured me into being the princess of fairy tales.

Cardboard boxes, porcelain dolls, and liberty to run and fall and hurt myself, they gave me all of it. And all of the care a child could wish for when I cried. I wasn’t one of those rich children, spoiled by having their every desired fulfilled, however.

That should be made clear, I was happy. Content with the life I had. That alone doesn’t say where I fit into the society that was. Or perhaps still is. That matters little to me now.

And then the little girl had grown up.

Again I feel sad that there’s little worth reliving. Or perhaps the perverted allure of a teenager’s adventures would be of interest? I tease, of course. Isn’t that the whole point of telling who I was without ever mentioning the trivialities?

Or did no one wonder why I would not present myself, shall we say, properly? All I have given is a name I claim to have been mine. But does it matter where do I hail from? The names of families long dead and friends lost to the mists of life hold little meaning to me; they would offer nothing to someone else.

Still, the lure of the unknown attracts all, old and young alike. The perversion, the promise of pleasure, the novelty of new possibilities… I had experiences that would otherwise be fond memories of forbidden exploits. But now, they are memories.

And then I lived on, for a time. I could perhaps even say I was happy while it lasted.

Chapter 2 – Death

Surprisingly enough, I didn’t die. Things might have ended up better if I had, but I’ll never know. It was a car crash. See? I wasn’t kidding when I said that my life was boring and not a tale worth telling; when the Mirian that was died, she was twenty three.

I was returning home from a party, well into the wee hours of the night. Not so different than most, but responsible as I was and playing to my strengths I wasn’t drunk as said most usually were. That people said I was born lucky wasn’t entirely a lie, many things outside of my control happened to be reasonably good to me in general. But that didn’t mean I would press the issue, I always was the careful one; adventurous, perhaps, but cautious all the same.

When the headlights of an oncoming sports car reached my peripheral vision, it was already far too late for me to do anything. I still tried, of course. Everyone always tries. We always struggle to stay alive, flee at the smallest sign of danger, bite and claw through steel and fire if we think it’s the only way to remain attached to this world. I was no different, always the same as others. I turned my steering wheel to the sidewalk, trying to get out of the path of the uncontrolled metal monstrosity.

And then it was over. I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by flowers and friends. With a foggy mind and numb body, tubes and nails stuck seemingly everywhere. I blinked, they rejoiced. Their little lucky Mirian had survived the ordeal.

If only the ordeal had not just begun at that blink of eyes…

Chapter 3 – Time and consequence

The first day was hectic. I had to endure nurses and doctors for hours, answer questions of the most startling nature, such as what my name was or how old I was. They had me moved to a more comfortable room and nearly smothered me with flowers.

By the heavens, my blinking of eyes was apparently worth more celebration than whatever the party I was at had been about. Not that I knew the reason for the party, at any rate, as far as it concerned me, it was something I was expected to attend to with friends and acquaintances. But this, this swarm of happy faces and encouraging remarks? That was all about me.

The second day was similar. My boyfriend, and I happened to have one who just seemed to always be at work whenever something happened, took a day off to spend it with me, holding my hands and refusing to let me alone. Helpful and caring, he finally left me with just my friends and slowly drying flowers at night.

On the third day the flowers had been trimmed. Though that’s an understatement, the hospital staff decided that they shouldn’t be there and removed all of them while I slept. It was a sanitary decision or something of the sort, it didn’t matter, I wasn’t consulted and I couldn’t claim to be bothered by the absence of the choking mixture of smells. But still, the room had returned to its sterile state. Fewer friends came by, my boyfriend had to stay for less time, and my parents took turns staying near me.

Their lives, of all others, had resumed. The pause caused by me held no one back other than my own self. For the most part I didn’t mind, I would be with them in any case, if it was possible.

If the accident, such as it was, had not claimed my legs.

They had not been amputated or severed; I still had them attached to the rest of my body as they had always been. I just was rewarded a new scar on the small of my back, a gash of apparent superficial nature that was still on the process of healing properly. The sick shadow of me would even have found such a taint an attractive feature. A trophy and award… But it had claimed my lower body to itself.

The realization, even from the first day, hadn’t hampered my optimism. The doctors said that it was possible that the damage was only temporary, that through physiotherapy I was likely to be able to regain the ability to walk. The extent of the changes hadn’t sunk in. Not by the first night, not by the second, not by the third.

Only by the one when I stopped counting had I truly realized the magnitude of what had changed. I was alone in a hospital suite. My boyfriend had just hung up on the phone, for the third consecutive day that he had not visited me in person. And my parents were busy making adjustments to their home so that I would be able to return to live with them once I was released from the hospital.

The liberties I was used to had been severed. The relationships I had formed had been forcibly changed. And the icing to the fateful cake was that I couldn’t stand for my own desires. I could seldom manage my needs on my own. The happy and lucky Mirian met an unfortunate event once, and it was one far too cruel to claim her life and be done with it.

Chapter 4 – Semblance of normalcy

The dust had to settle down, god knows how long it took to get things in place, but eventually they did. My apartment was vacant again, until such a time where I would be able to live on my own again, or had someone else who would care for me, I would live with my parents once more.

As to having someone else, my boyfriend called the day I was released to go home. He always called, every day, once, sometimes for less than a few minutes. At least, he did call every day until that one time.

“Hey Mir.” His voice crackled from the other side. It wasn’t the first time he called me Mir. Not sweetie, not love, not any kind of affectionate wording, just Mir, starting coincidentally after he stopped visiting me in the hospital as well.

“Hey.” I was tired.

“Look, I’m sorry but…” Not even asking how I am anymore. Always just apologizing, hopefully this call is because he at least remembers I’m out of the hospital and about to go home. “I can’t make it to take you to your parent’s, something came up and…”

“Yes, work. I know.” I sighed. “You don’t though. Don’t bother calling again, idiot.” I lashed out. I probably should have hung up right after saying that too. Maybe if I did he would have come to meet me personally, with flowers and chocolates, like in drama and romance, possibly riding a white horse and all of that too. No, not at that moment, I was far too tired to care and fantasize about a happy ending and a gallant knight.

“Wait, what are you saying Mir? Should I go there so we can talk about-” He tried to reply. I could tell from his voice that he felt quite shocked. But no, I was tired, far too tired to bother.

“Oh, so now you can come see me personally eh? You know what I have to say? We’re over, you moron. Don’t. Ever. Call. Me. Again.” And only then I hung up.

His name was Thomas. And obedient as he was, he never once again appeared or called. I can only imagine why, but I can imagine even if I’ll never be certain. I suppose he couldn’t justify dumping the crippled girl without shaming himself in front of his peers, so he preferred being the victim; I felt played when I realized this. Right or not, I cried for my own stupidity and liability. I counted on him, trusted that he would be there and all I could see were excuses. I felt like a pawn, forced to break up because he was far too coward to do that himself.

I wanted to curl up and hide. And that simple wish hurt me even more, I couldn’t so much as curl up without having to ask someone to help me with it. And to explain to them why, and to convince them that their aid was necessary and that it was something I needed and not solely wished. I was forbidden wishes, forbidden by untold rules and flimsy excuses to not do what wasn’t required for my continued existence. Excuses just like the ones Thomas made in every phone call.

My father was the one jolt me awake from the spiral of self loathing.

“Hey kid, time to go home!” Eloquent as always, my dad, at least I knew him enough to know he meant well. His cheerful tone and upbeat attitude were for my sake, he wanted me to feel welcomed and happy. It clashed with his slightly crumpled shirt; with the stubble he let form and the dark and sunken eyes of sleepless nights.

“Thanks dad.” I smiled at him, if only to pretend as he did. It didn’t make me feel better about it, it still hurt to lie, but if I could ease his mind it would be worth it. He was trying to help me; the least I could do would try to make him feel better.

Whatever had been my job before the crash was now gone, they didn’t want a cripple on staff and, shock and awe, had just the legal assets required to make a deal with me. By the time they stopped vomiting law books and proposing agreements, both me and my parents were already far too exhausted to insist on any better compromises. We were all just happy we could stop talking to each other, enjoying small victories and baby steps.

Even the ones that took the long half of forever to achieve.

It took about two months to finish making adjustments to my parent’s home. Reworking steps into ramps, switching out tall shelves for smaller and lower ones and in one case breaking down a whole wall for the sake of maneuvering through; all of it fueled by sleepless nights and fake smiles. For the good of one wheelchair bound girl who just dropped into the lives of all in one sudden second.

All of them consisted of my mother and father, of course. My ex-boyfriend was a distant past by this point, the friends I used to have had other matters to attend to. There were two who would still call for a chat every once in a while, but even those calls got more and more sporadic as the days went past.

As to the rest of the family, those were never really concerned. Family reunions no longer had the disservice of forcing me past my limits just for the sake of appearances. It was far too troubling for them to ask me to attend to any of them, the poor crippled girl who should be allowed some rest and not be expected to keep up appearances for the collective.

They never visited either. That was easier, after all, they could let me rest, as they put it, and not shame themselves with the company of an incapable while they could, oh, expose themselves to the public opinion.

Months. That was the scale of time it took for the changes to take place, for the life I would be forced to have to begin its new routine. It only took most others two days for their lives to be normal again.

Not that I had a choice in the matter. I couldn’t run after them, and it was far too much to ask that they waited for me. When a routine made itself apparent, it showed glaringly how different it was from before, and it told me I was powerless to challenge it. Such was my fate.

I wept in silence most nights, wishing for a past that would never come back, dreaming of a future that laughed just barely above my reach. But for the days as they blurred past, life was again what could be deemed normal.

Chapter 5 – Decay

Physical therapy and counseling, the two highlights of my day; please forgive my overjoyed outburst triggered by the thought of these two chores.

It was, for the most part, hell.

Counseling was apparently a mandatory part of adapting to my new limitations. I saw a psychologist named Martha. She was an older woman, around fifty or so, I supposed. Gray hair always locked into a solid mass behind her head, clothes always clean and impeccable, generally a mixture of greens and blues. And white. There was always white. And never any jewelry other than her wedding ring.

“So, how did last week treat you?” She asked in one of our countless appointments. Always the same question. She wasn’t even looking at me when she talked, just staring at her notes and waiting for her ears to pick up any reaction from me.

For the first few times I would trust her, in a sense. Tell her how I felt, how things had changed and how I wished for everything to go back. Her reply was never-changing, telling me the grief and pain were normal, that I would grow past them; that I was strong and the bad things would go away.

Not this time. I narrowed my eyes. She didn’t notice it. She did, however notice when I slammed my fist on her desk, toppling over one of the strange toys that I supposed was a required tool of her profession.

“You’re upset.” Oh, how so very keen of her to observe that. Perhaps she would have noticed all the subtle warning signs that I wasn’t even aware of myself? Still, at least hammering the desk got her attention, or as close to that as I imagined possible for her. She continued, calm and deliberate, almost as if automated. “Tell me, why are you feeling like so?”

“You’re supposed to help me, aren’t you?” I rasped.

“It’s what I’m here to do, yes.”

“Then it’s time I ask an open question of my own… If that’s the case why don’t you even care about what I say? Why ask the same questions and never do anything about what I say?” I was on the verge of tears, but anger was stronger still. I was almost yelling.

“You feel as if I’m not trying to help you?”

Good god, no. No more. She was going to play that game, wasn’t she? Divert whatever I wanted into a question of her own, something she would jot into her notes and not do a thing about. “I’m done here.” I began to storm out of the room when reality hit me once more, I couldn’t run. Or even stand up, for that matter. My dramatic retreat from enemy territory became a shameful, slow, painful crawl.

I looked over my shoulder once, she looked at me inquisitively. It was a trap, she wanted me to stop and ask what she wanted me to do so that I would turn around, so that she would still manage to do what she always did. After a second of stasis I continued to fight my way out of the room, struggling to direct the strength necessary to roll my wheelchair out of the door. Martha, dearest psychologist, bowed her head and jotted down more notes.

The other half of the coin was blissful when compared to Martha. The staff didn’t have names, or rather; their names didn’t matter to me. I had a physician that was supposed to oversee the whole process of rehabilitation and a number of nurses and assistants that worked to help me out with the exercises.

Again with the help, dammed pesky word. But in their case, help consisted of laying me, my body, down and moving my legs to flex the muscles. Supposedly so it would trigger reactions and allow me to be able to feel them again.

I felt nothing.

It was as if they weren’t there. For half an hour, I would just lay down while a stranger’s hands played with my body as if I was a doll. I didn’t care, I couldn’t feel it. I wouldn’t feel if they mowed my legs down in a windmill. The doctors clung to the possibility that I would regain their use, but even they had begun to consider that such good fate might be impossible. I had accepted its impossibility already, but no one else knew that.

The only others who still stood by me were my parents, and the doctors paid to do so. And they were trying so hard. They wanted so badly that I fought for a bright white light at the end of the struggle. I could let them have their fantasy. That much of it, at least.

Unlike Martha, these strangers didn’t care for my mind. They didn’t force me to surrender and expose the only thing left of me that was under my own power. My thoughts were my own, and while I played the role of a doll, my mind was free to wander.

That’s where the story starts. That’s what I am allowed to have and talk about. I had nothing else but my thoughts. And at first that was all they were. But I get ahead of myself, the hindsight of telling a tale from and of myself while looking at it from the end of the road gives me a different perspective from the one I had back then.

It isn’t yet time to tell of who I am… The Mirian who was still has a long way to travel before she is no longer.

Chapter 6 – Deceit

Fantasy, a realm of thought and privacy; an entire cosmos made by me and under my every whim. Imagining worlds different of the one my broken body was chained to was what I had left. I could be anything, do anything and there would never be any headlights slamming my life to the dirt. Not unless I wished it to be so. Not unless I decided that I wanted such a fate out of my own free will.

Yes, that’s how I thought back then. That was how Mirian deceived herself, detached her being from the cruel reality that imposed an insurmountable wall before her. The Mirian that was enjoyed the pleasures of her mind, to say the least.

It wasn’t unlike dreaming, the sense that what was there was actually real and the feelings from whatever physical forces were in action disappeared. I could walk through grassy plains, feeling a sun touch my skin and enjoying the scent of new blossoms; a gentle breeze and lazy streams crossing the rolling greenery.

That was my heaven. For as long as it lasted.

They toyed with the limp body in their tables and mattresses; that was of no consequence. Maybe the legs would move, maybe they wouldn’t. They didn’t ask for my mind, for my permission, for my consent. For those moments I wasn’t required to pretend to the living that I was so much as alive. Much less pretend I was happy. I could simply disappear.

But what is heaven if not a fleeting image to deceive and give us a flimsy hope to be crushed?

“So, I heard good news from the physician this morning.” The voice of one of the assistants; the grating, unnerving pull to earth that would wake up the dreamer Mirian. “He thinks we should try some water exercises soon.”

“Amazing,” I lied, wearing the fake smile that was almost a permanent fixture by this point. “I’ll be able to stand up in a pool?”

“That’s the goal. But we have to take it slow for now.” The assistant twisted my left leg a little. That would be substantially uncomfortable for anyone who could feel it, I couldn’t, but it still unnerved me. I could see it, even if not feel it. That couldn’t be good, right or so much as nice. The assistant didn’t notice any reaction from me. The twisting continued, I suppose, I just closed my eyes and ignored it.

From that moment on, I was no longer laying in a clinic, helpless and at the mercy of strange and stranger faces. No, from that moment, from behind my eyelids and inward I sat in a silk-lined throne. One without wheels, in a hall devoid of any hands to steer me wherever they deemed fit for me to go.

In there, I could stand. I could walk.

And there was no one I didn’t invite in, no one I did not wish to see, hear; smell, touch or taste could impose presence upon me. Not there.

The hallway itself was barren. A single crimson carpet stretched from where my feet touched, and felt, the floor; pillars of marble, ivory, obsidian and even stranger materials gave support to a simple ceiling. Chandeliers hung over head, needlessly gaudy and lit by ever-burning candles.

And there were no windows. I did not want any, after all. Instead, in the place where intricate glass might find home, stood only ever plain mirrors. I rejoiced in the silence, indulged myself in the absence of scent and the soft light gave life to innumerable shadows to appease my eyes.

No life, no strangers, no intruders. I wasn’t a princess; I had never been, but there… In that hallway behind my eyelids I was queen. I was absolute. I inebriated myself in the stasis of that single, silent, room. Because who could impose otherwise upon that face of my existence?

“… The important thing is to not lose hope. You’ll get over this Mirian.” The overjoyed voice of the assistant shattered my illusion.

“I know.” I breathed deeply. “So we’re done for today?”

“Yes we are. Want me to get your wheelchair now or would you rather rest for a while?”

Rest, he asked… As if I could rest in accordance to his terms. “I would like to go now.”

He just nodded and helped… Well, moved me to my wheelchair. After our farewells I found myself heading, being taken, rather, home by my father. My unchanging illusion beckoned, but it wasn’t time. Not yet, there was still the façade of life to keep, for my parent’s sake more than my own. My refuge would be denied, for a little while longer, I still had lies to live through.

Chapter 7 – Dreamer and Nightmare

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