Shalott

There is a silence that hangs in the air, heavy and thick, almost suffocating. It is only broken by the occasional scuttle of claws as the rats in the walls search for food, and the faint sound of screams from somewhere far below.

Raindrops are falling from the sky like thousands of tiny stars, and a cold wind can be heard, ruthlessly battering against the thick stone of the outer walls. In the last cell on the very top floor, someone is singing. It’s an old song; not one many would recognise these days. Though it’s the only song she has ever known.

She likes to sing because it allows her to pretend she is somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Her fingers twist gently through strands of her long hair, styling the thick auburn curls into a messy kind of plait, which she then secures with a tattered length of ribbon. She’s surprised they even allowed her to keep this. Maybe they hadn’t noticed. Maybe they hadn’t even cared.

Her eyes, a startlingly pretty shade of green (or maybe it's hazel), with flecks of blue and brown, rise from where her gaze has been fixed on her hands. She looks towards the window and suppresses a sigh. Though the window is very small and covered by an iron grill, there is enough space to see through to the sky. It’s dark out there, and the clouds are heavy.

“Cumulonimbus,” she remembers.

That’s the type of clouds she can see. She smiles a little, pleased with herself for recalling some of her old school knowledge. Education is a luxury, and she is forever grateful she received at least a little.

A strange feeling is pooling somewhere within her chest as she watches the storm raging outside. It feels like something should be happening. She can almost taste it in the air – change. A change is coming, and she knows it, somehow. Tonight will bring change.

She rises from her seat, pacing slowly over to her desk where a dull gaslight flickers, illuminating a small corner of the room. Her fingers run over envelopes addressed to somebody named, ‘Veronica’. A name that no longer resonates with her. She used to have a home, a name, a personality…now she is a number. A shell of who she once was. They changed her, that day, when they came to her house and took her away to an Asylum.

She stood up for what she believed in and they didn’t like it. They told her family she wasn’t safe, threw her in the back of a steel carriage and dropped her off here.

Still, looking around this little room – no, not room, this cell that she’s caged in – she might end up being driven to the point of insanity if she spends another night in this place. There is the faint sound of movement in the corridor outside, and she pauses, pursing her lips thoughtfully before silently padding barefoot over to the door, the ripped hem of her dress trailing on the cold flagstones. She crouches down at the side as the sound of a key twisting in the lock can be heard.

Slowly, the heavy door is pushed open, and she takes her chance. Darting forwards with almost inhuman speed, the girl manages to pass the Warden. She’s in the corridor for the first time in months. They used to take her downstairs for ‘recreation’. They stopped doing that. They didn’t tell her why.

There is no time to waste; she can’t enjoy her freedom just yet, not until she’s escaped the building. She won’t allow herself to get too fanciful in her thoughts. She begins to sprint, her bare feet almost silent on the cold flagstones underneath as she heads for the double doors that close this ward off from the rest of this floor. A cry can be heard from the Warden as he realises what has happened, but this only encourages her to run quicker.

She reaches the top of the flight of stairs; all caged in to prevent patients from jumping, and she glances behind her. The Warden is running along the corridor, red in the face, shouting threats at her. She risks a grin, and begins her rapid descent. Her bare feet begin to ache as they slap against each step rhythmically. The stairs are always cold. A few flights above her, she can hear the Warden hurrying to catch up with her.

Her heart pounds against her rib cage, the adrenaline in her blood making her limbs tingle.

The ground floor is within sight now, and she knows all she has to do is get out of the stairwell and make a run for it, past the nurse’s station as subtly as possible and then out the door. Not the front door, though; that’s guarded, she knows. The staff entrance, however, is not. She remembers where it is, and she knows, if she’s fast enough, she can make it.

She pauses to catch her breath, but doesn’t dwell for long. The Warden isn’t far behind, and if she doesn’t move fast, she’ll be caught. She knows she’ll be punished. The door creaks slightly as the girl pushes it open; crouching low, sweeping her eyes around the main corridor.

It’s quite dark down here; the patients in the main ground floor ward must be asleep already. They get out for exercise and recreation, so she supposes that must be tiring. A few gas lamps illuminate the nurse’s work station, and three night nurses are sitting together, chatting quietly amongst themselves while they either read or sew. The gas lights throw eerie shadows against the starch white of their uniforms.

Taking a breath, the hazel-eyed girl darts forwards, stopping once more just in front of the desk. The nurses are about half a metre away. If she makes a sound, they’ll hear her, and she’ll be found. She can’t let that happen; not when she’s so close. She can almost feel the cool night air on her skin. A few seconds later, she’s on the move once more, staying as close to the floor as she can, making barely a sound, she moves along the dim corridor, heading for the corner that leads to the staff quarters.

When she gets there, she rises to her feet, letting out the breath she’s been holding onto. She walks slowly along to the end, using her hand to feel her way along the wall. It’s very dark here; she’s not sure she likes it at all. She can feel eyes watching her in the gloom. What if one of them makes a sound, and alerts the nurses?

Where is the Warden?

He could be just around the corner, about to turn, candle in hand. He’ll see her. She walks faster. The sound of rain pattering against the window at the end makes her smile, and she reaches out, pushing firmly against the heavy door, willing it to open. It creaks loudly, and she winces, but it opens, and a gust of cool air blows in and curls around her bare ankles.

“Stop right there!”

This can’t be happening. She turns her head slowly, cursing under her breath as she sees the Warden at the end of the corridor, illuminated by only a flickering candle on a stick, flanked by two stern faced nurses. They begin to walk forwards, and panic sets in. They can’t take her back there, not now. Not ever. Freedom is right there, and she can’t let go of it. She needs to try.

The Asylum is set on a small island in the middle of a large lake. It prevents patients from escaping, but that won’t stop her tonight. She runs again, ignoring the shouts from behind her as she races forwards, feet splashing into great muddy puddles, covering her skin and her dress in horrible coloured stains. She doesn’t care, not even as the rain feels like it’s piercing her skin; thousands of tiny needles falling from the sky.

Her eyes focus on a tiny little rowing boat that’s leaning against the shore. That’s it. Her chance of escape, if she makes it across the main part of the lake, she can leave. The nurses and the Warden won’t be able to follow her quickly enough and she can slip away into the night, and never be heard of again.

When she reaches the boat, she allows a smile to ghost across her lips, despite the fact that she is soaked through to the skin, and still being followed by members of staff. She climbs in, setting herself down on the damp wooden bench and grabbing the oars between her hands, using one of them to nudge herself away from the grass, wobbling slightly as the boat floats out into the open water. She begins to row, gritting her teeth to stop them chattering. It’s freezing out here; it feels like her blood has frozen in her veins.

She looks over to the Warden and the nurses shouting at her from the grass. Their voices melt together and she doesn’t listen properly. They sound angry. They won’t catch her.

Her feet are soaking.

She glances down, and cries out in horror. There’s a small pool of water developing in the base of the rowing boat. There is a hole in it. She’s sinking. She can’t swim.

“Help!” she screeches, trying, foolishly, to stand up in the boat. A poor idea. She teeters, tripping over her own ankles as the boat jerks suddenly to one side, causing her to crash painfully into the icy water. A strong current pulls her under, and she flails, her hands barely scraping the surface. The lake seems to pull her down further into the darkness, and she tries to scream.

Water rushes into her throat, filling up her nose and her mouth and her lungs, and her hands tear uselessly at the freezing liquid surrounding her. She wants to cry. How could this go so horribly wrong like this?

She stops struggling. The water feels nice. Dark spots begin to cloud her vision, and she lets the invisible currents pull her further under. She closes her eyes, and the burning in her lungs fades to a dull ache.

She lets the darkness claim her.