Post by Wolfy on Mar 19, 2007 21:01:25 GMT -5
Here is another little attempt at a story (For those of you who remember Teacherous Waters... Which has to be completely re-written and I've no inspiration for it at the moment. ^^; )... This one is a bit of a different type of story compared to TW, and I quite like it. Hope you like it too. ^^;
Too many worlds have died since then. Too many lifetimes had come and gone. No one still remembered the tragedy that had occurred. No one... save Zianna. She had been cursed that day. Made to live forever, watching as humans went about their pitiful lives. Unable to interact, unable to explain. Only able to watch.. To wait... To live forever with her memories... With the knowledge that she could have saved them...
"ZIANNA!" The shriek shattered the unnatural silence. She had been caught, foolishly mesmerized by the madman's spell. Her friend's shrill cry of pain brought her back to the world. Too late... Far too late. She saw the child cut down... killed, before her eyes. She could do nothing. Nothing but stare, frozen as she was by a spell she could have avoided.
"Misara!" she cried out, in terror, in sorrow, not even she knew. A low chuckle greeted her frantic cry, instilling in her the knowledge that it was too late. Misara was gone. They were all... gone. Forever. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I could have saved you..." she whispered, focusing on the madman, the cause of all the sorrow.
"You can't save anyone, Zianna," he said softly, eyes emotionless, voice flat. She glared, shaking with rage. The spell had run it's course, and she lunged with outstretched hands. She would kill him with her own hands. She smiled at the surprise in his face as she wrapped her hands around his throat. But there was something wrong... No fear replaced the surprise. Triumph did. Suddenly, she felt her energy being sapped... in the same rate as the dimming of his eyes. Sinking to the floor, she managed to hear his final words through the dizziness. "My gift will be your curse... Eternal life... But the inability to speak of the past..."
Zianna awoke with a sigh. It was the same dream every night, the same sequence. The same reminder of the curse that she lived with everyday. Not by choice, though... Never by choice, she reminded herself, fingering the scars on her neck, her wrists, her chest. She had tried to force the release of her spirit. Tried, and failed. Always found in time, always "miraculously" pulling through surgery to patch up her wounds. Always something that prevented it. No matter where she went, how secluded she tried to make herself, something, someone, always managed to find her in time. And now, she was stuck in this hospital, watched everyday, poked, prodded, medicated. Someone always trying to get her to do the one thing she could not... The one thing she yearned to do... Communicate.
She looked at the bedside table, at the small dry-erase board she carried around. She could write.. But she still could not tell what had happened, what could, would, happen again. How could she explain that she wanted to die, tried to die, because she could not watch it again. She had tried to tell them without telling them. But they would not listen, did not believe. She shook her head, forcing away thoughts as the nurse came in.
"Are you ready?" she asked. Zianna picked up the board from the table and stood, nodding to indicate she was. The nurse, Doris, if the nametag was right, sighed and led Zianna through the halls to the doctors door. Not that Zianna needed the guide. She could, and probably had, walk through the maze to this door in her sleep. She bowed to the nurse - to Doris - and went inside. She knew what the doctor would ask. Everyday was the same.
"Why did you try to kill yourself?" he would ask. 'I told you,' she would write on the board, showing it to the doctor. Her small, neat handwriting would invariably have him squinting, leaning forward in his chair. Then he would sigh, lean back, and fold his hands together, looking at her sadly. "We can not help you until you let us in," he would say. Zianna shook her head. She had tried, as best she could through the curse, to let him know. A sigh escaped her as she sat in her chair, waiting for the doctor's first question.
"Zianna?" the doctor said, surprising her. His tone was hesitant, making her look up at him warily. Would he be prescribing more medicines that made her head fuzzy, her walls between the memories frailer? She shrank back into her chair, clutching the board as if it was a shield. The doctor looked at her, appearing to be awaiting some other response. Quickly, Zianna scribbled on the board and held it out. 'Yes, Doctor?' she had written. The doctor, after reading what she had written, leaned back.
"It appears that our methods are not working. We have been meeting daily for three years, and I still do not know anything about you other than what came to us from the hospital files." Zianna's eyebrows raised. Had it really been three years? It didn't feel that long to her. But then, she lost track of time so easily now. Shaking her head, she noticed the doctor had stopped talking, waiting for her attention again, and she gestured for him to continue. Clearing his throat, the doctor shuffled through some papers on his desk.
"I have decided that you should have a new therapist. He comes highly recommended. There is case after case of patients he has gotten through to long after everyone else had given up on them. I think it would do you good to meet him," he said. Zianna erased her previous message. 'When will I meet him?' she wrote. The doctor stood, apparently relieved by her easy acceptance of the change. That amused Zianna. Since she had gotten here, her routine had been exactly the same everyday. It was as if they were afraid that changing it would make her even less responsive and encourage her to try suicide again.
"He is waiting just outside. I'll go get him," the doctor said, walking to the door. Zianna watched him leave, then leaned back in her chair. She wondered what the new doctor would be like. If he would ask the same questions, if he would listen to what she said. Or if he would pretend to understand, like her previous therapist had. Zianna sighed. She had learned that all therapists were the same on some level. They didn't want the actual answer. They just wanted the patient to give them neat, textbook answers so they could prescribe some pills and send the patient on it's way.
The door creaked open, and Zianna turned to look. Her eyes widened and she mouthed a name. The doctor... He looked just like Sorin. He paused, seeming to be startled by something - her reaction, maybe - then smiled. "Hello, Zianna. I'm Simon," he said warmly, taking the seat next to her instead of the one behind the desk. Zianna, having collected herself a split second after his pause, simply looked at him, with the blank stare that unnerved most everyone. But not him. He merely smiled again and looked around the office before returning his attention to her.
"Do you dye your hair like that?" he asked. Zianna looked confused before she remembered. Her hand raised involuntarily to her two-toned hair, first blond, then darkening to black, as she looked at the doctor. No one had ever said anything to her about it, but she knew it was considered odd here on this planet, in this time. She shook her head slowly. 'No, it is naturally this way,' she wrote, handing him the board when she was done. He read the board, then looked at her. She raised her chin, defensive. He would think she was lying, she knew. Simon tilted his head to one side, studying her. "I believe you," he said simply after a moment. Zianna blinked, then narrowed her eyes, challenging him as she took the board back.
'Don't patronize me,' she wrote, almost angrily. 'No one believes me. I try to tell them, I try. They don't understand. They ask me to clarify, and I can't. I've told them and told them. I can't make it any clearer. I don't want to be here when it happens again, I can't stand watching it again!' She thrust the board at Simon, then was suddenly and abruptly calm. Unnaturally calm. She watched Simon, gauging his reaction in a detached manner. As if it had no impact on her what-so-ever. Simon calmly handed the board back to her.
"But I do believe you, Zianna. Tell me about it. Not the event itself, but the feelings, the emotions," he said softly. Zianna eyed him, then cautiously started to write. He stopped her. "Wait. Write it in this notebook, instead," he said, handing her a notebook and taking the dry-erase board and the markers from her. Zianna raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and wrote.
End chapter one. Chapter two and three are written, I'll post them soon.
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Prologue
Prologue
Too many worlds have died since then. Too many lifetimes had come and gone. No one still remembered the tragedy that had occurred. No one... save Zianna. She had been cursed that day. Made to live forever, watching as humans went about their pitiful lives. Unable to interact, unable to explain. Only able to watch.. To wait... To live forever with her memories... With the knowledge that she could have saved them...
Chapter 1 - Lost in a memory
"ZIANNA!" The shriek shattered the unnatural silence. She had been caught, foolishly mesmerized by the madman's spell. Her friend's shrill cry of pain brought her back to the world. Too late... Far too late. She saw the child cut down... killed, before her eyes. She could do nothing. Nothing but stare, frozen as she was by a spell she could have avoided.
"Misara!" she cried out, in terror, in sorrow, not even she knew. A low chuckle greeted her frantic cry, instilling in her the knowledge that it was too late. Misara was gone. They were all... gone. Forever. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I could have saved you..." she whispered, focusing on the madman, the cause of all the sorrow.
"You can't save anyone, Zianna," he said softly, eyes emotionless, voice flat. She glared, shaking with rage. The spell had run it's course, and she lunged with outstretched hands. She would kill him with her own hands. She smiled at the surprise in his face as she wrapped her hands around his throat. But there was something wrong... No fear replaced the surprise. Triumph did. Suddenly, she felt her energy being sapped... in the same rate as the dimming of his eyes. Sinking to the floor, she managed to hear his final words through the dizziness. "My gift will be your curse... Eternal life... But the inability to speak of the past..."
****************
Zianna awoke with a sigh. It was the same dream every night, the same sequence. The same reminder of the curse that she lived with everyday. Not by choice, though... Never by choice, she reminded herself, fingering the scars on her neck, her wrists, her chest. She had tried to force the release of her spirit. Tried, and failed. Always found in time, always "miraculously" pulling through surgery to patch up her wounds. Always something that prevented it. No matter where she went, how secluded she tried to make herself, something, someone, always managed to find her in time. And now, she was stuck in this hospital, watched everyday, poked, prodded, medicated. Someone always trying to get her to do the one thing she could not... The one thing she yearned to do... Communicate.
She looked at the bedside table, at the small dry-erase board she carried around. She could write.. But she still could not tell what had happened, what could, would, happen again. How could she explain that she wanted to die, tried to die, because she could not watch it again. She had tried to tell them without telling them. But they would not listen, did not believe. She shook her head, forcing away thoughts as the nurse came in.
"Are you ready?" she asked. Zianna picked up the board from the table and stood, nodding to indicate she was. The nurse, Doris, if the nametag was right, sighed and led Zianna through the halls to the doctors door. Not that Zianna needed the guide. She could, and probably had, walk through the maze to this door in her sleep. She bowed to the nurse - to Doris - and went inside. She knew what the doctor would ask. Everyday was the same.
"Why did you try to kill yourself?" he would ask. 'I told you,' she would write on the board, showing it to the doctor. Her small, neat handwriting would invariably have him squinting, leaning forward in his chair. Then he would sigh, lean back, and fold his hands together, looking at her sadly. "We can not help you until you let us in," he would say. Zianna shook her head. She had tried, as best she could through the curse, to let him know. A sigh escaped her as she sat in her chair, waiting for the doctor's first question.
"Zianna?" the doctor said, surprising her. His tone was hesitant, making her look up at him warily. Would he be prescribing more medicines that made her head fuzzy, her walls between the memories frailer? She shrank back into her chair, clutching the board as if it was a shield. The doctor looked at her, appearing to be awaiting some other response. Quickly, Zianna scribbled on the board and held it out. 'Yes, Doctor?' she had written. The doctor, after reading what she had written, leaned back.
"It appears that our methods are not working. We have been meeting daily for three years, and I still do not know anything about you other than what came to us from the hospital files." Zianna's eyebrows raised. Had it really been three years? It didn't feel that long to her. But then, she lost track of time so easily now. Shaking her head, she noticed the doctor had stopped talking, waiting for her attention again, and she gestured for him to continue. Clearing his throat, the doctor shuffled through some papers on his desk.
"I have decided that you should have a new therapist. He comes highly recommended. There is case after case of patients he has gotten through to long after everyone else had given up on them. I think it would do you good to meet him," he said. Zianna erased her previous message. 'When will I meet him?' she wrote. The doctor stood, apparently relieved by her easy acceptance of the change. That amused Zianna. Since she had gotten here, her routine had been exactly the same everyday. It was as if they were afraid that changing it would make her even less responsive and encourage her to try suicide again.
"He is waiting just outside. I'll go get him," the doctor said, walking to the door. Zianna watched him leave, then leaned back in her chair. She wondered what the new doctor would be like. If he would ask the same questions, if he would listen to what she said. Or if he would pretend to understand, like her previous therapist had. Zianna sighed. She had learned that all therapists were the same on some level. They didn't want the actual answer. They just wanted the patient to give them neat, textbook answers so they could prescribe some pills and send the patient on it's way.
The door creaked open, and Zianna turned to look. Her eyes widened and she mouthed a name. The doctor... He looked just like Sorin. He paused, seeming to be startled by something - her reaction, maybe - then smiled. "Hello, Zianna. I'm Simon," he said warmly, taking the seat next to her instead of the one behind the desk. Zianna, having collected herself a split second after his pause, simply looked at him, with the blank stare that unnerved most everyone. But not him. He merely smiled again and looked around the office before returning his attention to her.
"Do you dye your hair like that?" he asked. Zianna looked confused before she remembered. Her hand raised involuntarily to her two-toned hair, first blond, then darkening to black, as she looked at the doctor. No one had ever said anything to her about it, but she knew it was considered odd here on this planet, in this time. She shook her head slowly. 'No, it is naturally this way,' she wrote, handing him the board when she was done. He read the board, then looked at her. She raised her chin, defensive. He would think she was lying, she knew. Simon tilted his head to one side, studying her. "I believe you," he said simply after a moment. Zianna blinked, then narrowed her eyes, challenging him as she took the board back.
'Don't patronize me,' she wrote, almost angrily. 'No one believes me. I try to tell them, I try. They don't understand. They ask me to clarify, and I can't. I've told them and told them. I can't make it any clearer. I don't want to be here when it happens again, I can't stand watching it again!' She thrust the board at Simon, then was suddenly and abruptly calm. Unnaturally calm. She watched Simon, gauging his reaction in a detached manner. As if it had no impact on her what-so-ever. Simon calmly handed the board back to her.
"But I do believe you, Zianna. Tell me about it. Not the event itself, but the feelings, the emotions," he said softly. Zianna eyed him, then cautiously started to write. He stopped her. "Wait. Write it in this notebook, instead," he said, handing her a notebook and taking the dry-erase board and the markers from her. Zianna raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and wrote.
**********************
End chapter one. Chapter two and three are written, I'll post them soon.