The Tears of Time
Visions of Fire and Ice
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The Hospital is dark, except for a tiny square of light on the sixth floor. The Hospital has no need for rumour, because the truth is worse than stories woven by man. Death stalks the dying here, and Time is unable to slow the minutes.
That square of light might look like a beacon of hope to some stranger unaware of the truth. To those unaware it would be a welcome sign of life. But to those that know, and see and have heard? To them it is something, but immediately oppressed as Nothing. It will not be spoken of, or commented on. It will remain untold and silent.
Just like the girl who suffers in the light.
She is quiet now and though screams have ripped from her throat in the past they are forced away now. But the doctors know the signs, and they are already coming. They push the damp hair back from her sweaty neck, and plunge thick chemicals into her bloodstream. Paralyzed she lies in fear, but it is too late, and she is already dreaming.
This is what she dreamt:
Eyes open, staring; fire fields to the south, ice plains to the north. The wind is cold and sharp and bitter, driving onwards through skin and bone with unnatural force. Open wounds of brown earth gaped from the sadly blackened soil. The smell of gunshot, metal, old and new fire teasing, pricking, digging, like the tips of a hundred tiny needles. Broken roads ground to rubble snake haphazardly through the burning structures that used to make up a great city.
There is another smell. A sickly smell, one that cannot be hidden. The smell of blood. Blood that seeps through every material in these plains of torn earth. Blood that soaks the ground and poisons the blackened skeletons of burnt trees. Bitter blood.
Rewound, and the city rebuilds itself, the roads pulled together by unseen hands, fire and lava gushing back into the earth, the gashes sealing themselves. Dust from the roads pulls itself together into shapes made suddenly solid. They are people, running. Screaming. Hiding. And then back, to their ordinary lives.
Time plays backwards still, the city shrinks until it is gone and simply forest is left. Then up into the sky, a deep clear blue untainted by human hands. To the east where a walled garden stands, its golden gates guarded by a warrior. Tall and strong, his flaming weapon by his side, he simply nods, and the gates swing inwards.
Inside the wind becomes nothing. Dampened by the four great walls, no longer heard or even registered. A sudden calm descends. Time stops then begins to work forwards again. The Tree is ahead, tall, beautiful and strong. Its limbs spread out right across the garden, sheltering each living thing. Golden fruits hang from its slender arms, luscious, so terribly appealing. Eve is there, her tongue almost ready to surrender. The deadly serpent coils round the tree trunk, whispering softly in her ear. Adam watches, wary, but unwilling to stop what is happening.
Why deny such a calling? Why not reach out and take the fruit that looks so perfect; so ripe, so tender? It melts, perfect on the tongue and knowledge bursts like a dam flood into the brain of man. So the human is cast out. So begins suffering.
Back to the broken twisted plains, to the ends of the earth where man hides afraid. Here there is a deeper worry. Here there is Nothing. Nothing builds into a crescendo, a cacophony of noise delectable to every dead ear, pounding in the head. Fire bursts to new life and skeletons once more burn, the wind screaming wildly in man and beast’s ear. Until-
Nothing.
Eyes closed, the panic fades from her tense muscles and at last natural sleep closes in. The Doctor peering over her relaxes, sends away the medics, and sits, shattered, on the side of the bed. They think this girl is ill, and believe vainly that their medical attentions are curing her. They call her by many names, for there are many things that apply to her. She is patient #109, or ID 050254. The rest of the ward has been long empty, so many just call her Ella.
The doctor stands once more, wiping his glasses on his trousers. He takes the clipboard from the edge of the bed, and makes a note at the bottom. He scans the page randomly, not looking for anything in particular.
Patient #109
ID 050254
Name: Elanor Anne Cooper
D.O.B.: 09/04/93
Admitted: 09/06/2006, aged 13.
Symptoms: Suffering regular hallucinations and panic attacks, fear of fire, inability to regulate body temperature. First attack 06/06/2006 with several reoccurrences in the next few hours. Admitted 3 days later when attacks saw no sign of relinquishing.
Notes:
06/06/2007- Attacks intensified. Lasted 3 hours. Pupils dilated and blood pressure high but skin cold and temperature down.
For total list of reoccurrences see medical file.
He replaces the clipboard, sighs deeply, and then heads out of the ward. Behind him, curled up tightly between damp sheets, Elanor sleeps for once. Although she's not peaceful, the drugs take their toll eventually.
* * *
“Ella?” The teacher’s voice carried across the room. A dark head looked up from the desk, curious dark eyes surprised at being addressed. “Ella, why don’t you read out you story?”
“No,” she whispered, dark eyes widening with fright.
“It doesn’t matter if you haven’t written much,” Miss Grey replied.
“No,” she whispered again, her knuckles turning white against the paper.
“I’ll read it out then,” Miss Grey took the paper from her, turning before she could see the little girl’s hands shoot out to take it back, grasping thin air painfully. Miss Grey cleared her throat:
“Story by Ella Cooper. I can’t think of what to write, so I’ll just write about what I see out of the window. There are the tall pine trees reaching towards the sky to break the clouds apart. The sky is very cloudy today, a thick blanket of grey fuzz which stretches over the fields. In the night it will fall to the earth and cover our streets in the dark of fog. Well, that’s very good Ella, but you’ll have to write some more for homework. Oh hang on, what’s-,” Miss Grey’s face goes white, and she slumps suddenly onto the edge of the front desk. Ella leaps up, and runs. She grabs the paper and shoots out of the classroom. With the paper gone, Miss Grey recovers, teacher mode sinking in.
“Sorry class. Please keep writing whilst I go find Ella,” Miss Grey calls as she walks out of the classroom, appearing calm. Outside, she closes the door and slumps against the wall.
Across the playground, Ella keeps running through the field and into the park. Behind her on the tarmac a piece of lined file paper flutters in the breeze. Pencil pressed hard in childish writing covers a third of the page, with title and date underlined neatly.
12th October 2000
My Story, by Ella Cooper
I can’t think of what to write, so I’ll just write about what I see out of the window. There are the tall pine trees, which reach up to the sky to break the clouds apart. The sky is very cloudy today, a thick blanket of grey fuzz which stretches right out over the fields. In the night it’ll fall to the earth and cover our streets in a dark haze of fog.
And then, on the other side of the paper, pencil so light it's barely readable:
Miss Grey won’t see the car, just like it won’t see her because the fog will hide it.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The Hospital is dark, except for a tiny square of light on the sixth floor. The Hospital has no need for rumour, because the truth is worse than stories woven by man. Death stalks the dying here, and Time is unable to slow the minutes.
That square of light might look like a beacon of hope to some stranger unaware of the truth. To those unaware it would be a welcome sign of life. But to those that know, and see and have heard? To them it is something, but immediately oppressed as Nothing. It will not be spoken of, or commented on. It will remain untold and silent.
Just like the girl who suffers in the light.
She is quiet now and though screams have ripped from her throat in the past they are forced away now. But the doctors know the signs, and they are already coming. They push the damp hair back from her sweaty neck, and plunge thick chemicals into her bloodstream. Paralyzed she lies in fear, but it is too late, and she is already dreaming.
This is what she dreamt:
Eyes open, staring; fire fields to the south, ice plains to the north. The wind is cold and sharp and bitter, driving onwards through skin and bone with unnatural force. Open wounds of brown earth gaped from the sadly blackened soil. The smell of gunshot, metal, old and new fire teasing, pricking, digging, like the tips of a hundred tiny needles. Broken roads ground to rubble snake haphazardly through the burning structures that used to make up a great city.
There is another smell. A sickly smell, one that cannot be hidden. The smell of blood. Blood that seeps through every material in these plains of torn earth. Blood that soaks the ground and poisons the blackened skeletons of burnt trees. Bitter blood.
Rewound, and the city rebuilds itself, the roads pulled together by unseen hands, fire and lava gushing back into the earth, the gashes sealing themselves. Dust from the roads pulls itself together into shapes made suddenly solid. They are people, running. Screaming. Hiding. And then back, to their ordinary lives.
Time plays backwards still, the city shrinks until it is gone and simply forest is left. Then up into the sky, a deep clear blue untainted by human hands. To the east where a walled garden stands, its golden gates guarded by a warrior. Tall and strong, his flaming weapon by his side, he simply nods, and the gates swing inwards.
Inside the wind becomes nothing. Dampened by the four great walls, no longer heard or even registered. A sudden calm descends. Time stops then begins to work forwards again. The Tree is ahead, tall, beautiful and strong. Its limbs spread out right across the garden, sheltering each living thing. Golden fruits hang from its slender arms, luscious, so terribly appealing. Eve is there, her tongue almost ready to surrender. The deadly serpent coils round the tree trunk, whispering softly in her ear. Adam watches, wary, but unwilling to stop what is happening.
Why deny such a calling? Why not reach out and take the fruit that looks so perfect; so ripe, so tender? It melts, perfect on the tongue and knowledge bursts like a dam flood into the brain of man. So the human is cast out. So begins suffering.
Back to the broken twisted plains, to the ends of the earth where man hides afraid. Here there is a deeper worry. Here there is Nothing. Nothing builds into a crescendo, a cacophony of noise delectable to every dead ear, pounding in the head. Fire bursts to new life and skeletons once more burn, the wind screaming wildly in man and beast’s ear. Until-
Nothing.
Eyes closed, the panic fades from her tense muscles and at last natural sleep closes in. The Doctor peering over her relaxes, sends away the medics, and sits, shattered, on the side of the bed. They think this girl is ill, and believe vainly that their medical attentions are curing her. They call her by many names, for there are many things that apply to her. She is patient #109, or ID 050254. The rest of the ward has been long empty, so many just call her Ella.
The doctor stands once more, wiping his glasses on his trousers. He takes the clipboard from the edge of the bed, and makes a note at the bottom. He scans the page randomly, not looking for anything in particular.
Patient #109
ID 050254
Name: Elanor Anne Cooper
D.O.B.: 09/04/93
Admitted: 09/06/2006, aged 13.
Symptoms: Suffering regular hallucinations and panic attacks, fear of fire, inability to regulate body temperature. First attack 06/06/2006 with several reoccurrences in the next few hours. Admitted 3 days later when attacks saw no sign of relinquishing.
Notes:
06/06/2007- Attacks intensified. Lasted 3 hours. Pupils dilated and blood pressure high but skin cold and temperature down.
For total list of reoccurrences see medical file.
He replaces the clipboard, sighs deeply, and then heads out of the ward. Behind him, curled up tightly between damp sheets, Elanor sleeps for once. Although she's not peaceful, the drugs take their toll eventually.
* * *
“Ella?” The teacher’s voice carried across the room. A dark head looked up from the desk, curious dark eyes surprised at being addressed. “Ella, why don’t you read out you story?”
“No,” she whispered, dark eyes widening with fright.
“It doesn’t matter if you haven’t written much,” Miss Grey replied.
“No,” she whispered again, her knuckles turning white against the paper.
“I’ll read it out then,” Miss Grey took the paper from her, turning before she could see the little girl’s hands shoot out to take it back, grasping thin air painfully. Miss Grey cleared her throat:
“Story by Ella Cooper. I can’t think of what to write, so I’ll just write about what I see out of the window. There are the tall pine trees reaching towards the sky to break the clouds apart. The sky is very cloudy today, a thick blanket of grey fuzz which stretches over the fields. In the night it will fall to the earth and cover our streets in the dark of fog. Well, that’s very good Ella, but you’ll have to write some more for homework. Oh hang on, what’s-,” Miss Grey’s face goes white, and she slumps suddenly onto the edge of the front desk. Ella leaps up, and runs. She grabs the paper and shoots out of the classroom. With the paper gone, Miss Grey recovers, teacher mode sinking in.
“Sorry class. Please keep writing whilst I go find Ella,” Miss Grey calls as she walks out of the classroom, appearing calm. Outside, she closes the door and slumps against the wall.
Across the playground, Ella keeps running through the field and into the park. Behind her on the tarmac a piece of lined file paper flutters in the breeze. Pencil pressed hard in childish writing covers a third of the page, with title and date underlined neatly.
12th October 2000
My Story, by Ella Cooper
I can’t think of what to write, so I’ll just write about what I see out of the window. There are the tall pine trees, which reach up to the sky to break the clouds apart. The sky is very cloudy today, a thick blanket of grey fuzz which stretches right out over the fields. In the night it’ll fall to the earth and cover our streets in a dark haze of fog.
And then, on the other side of the paper, pencil so light it's barely readable:
Miss Grey won’t see the car, just like it won’t see her because the fog will hide it.
♠ ♠ ♠
Ivy, xXGreyWingsXx (c) 2008