Finally they walked to the wishing well. Her Heart was overjoyed and she felt as light as air with Noswads hand holding hers.
She remembered the last time she had felt like this, just the sheer joy of being alive, playing in the fields at the back of the house as a young child. The Little Red Haired Girl.
They had made plans and practical choices, worked out the finances as best they could, and now they were here, beginning their new life together after all these wasted years, Noswad had come to join her and they were to start living together and going to be married.
They sat in the sun on the edge of the large stone water well and Noswad promised love to her and future wishes for them, and she had never thought this day would come. She was truly happy. For a brief second, she felt herself falling down the well, it wasn’t real, but felt very real and foreboding, but soon recovered as she concentrated on Noswad’s hand in hers.
They discovered the pumphouse opposite, covered and barely visible through all the undergrowth. It was strange little building, perfectly round with a flat roof and a metal door, and they discussed what it could be used for.
“It can be anything we want it to be” Noswad had told her. ” Yes it could be our special picnic place, or we could use it for barbeques you….” her voice trailed off as she looked at his face…. he was lost in thought…not listening.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes of course, why are you so sensitive? Lets go back and I’ll cook us a great meal and we can enjoy some great music, and I’m going to enjoy taking you to bed.”
She smiled at the familiarity of that thought, the knowledge of his body and his pleasure and hers. By the time the smile had formed he was gone, and had started to walk back ahead of her “Hey, wait for me!”
“‘How have I got from the wishing well to the inside of the pump house?” she said aloud to the dark heavy air. As she was definitely alone and was feeling very anxious. She looked through the window in the metal door and could just make out the shape of the round well approximately 10 metres away but apparently ages ago in time for she had very little memory of getting in here. How strange. The little Red Haired Girl, the despondent child, sat down on the cold concrete floor to contemplate, it was going to be even darker soon. “How long ago was it that she got stuck in here?’ she couldn’t remember.
As she looked at her bloodied and dirty hands, it was obvious that no amount of effort was going to open the door. All her efforts were in vain, and she had to accept that here is where she would have to stay.
As it grew darker, her eyes grew wider and became used to the strange shapes and colours she saw amongst its blackness, but they would not focus and neither would her mind. She became as one with the darkness and it her. It became a cloak that made her invisible yet present, the pump house became her jail but also her safe haven from others, her breath was visible in the cold and became the cold ice used on a stage before a magical performance illuminated with little shards of moonlight slipping through the barred window like floodlights.
Rhythmic drops of water fell to the floor and the damp fusty smell reminded her of Nana’s Hyacinth planter when she watered the compacted mossy soil. The planter shaped and moulded to look like a slice of wood which always sat in the middle of the kitchen table in Spring. Nana’s kitchen…the smell of Hyacinths, compacted mossy soil, and fresh baking pastry. Her voice was hoarse, she presumed from shouting for help, but nevertheless it started a conversation with Nana and Nana talked back with soft comforting words.
“That’s it” she said aloud after talking with Nana “you really must be going crazy” and she thought about the help she had previously had with therapists and the help she had been getting recently, and she knew their voices running through her ears like the wise owls she could hear calling in the trees outside. She remembered what they had taught her, the reasoning and patterns of behaviour, the deep breathing to control the panic attacks, being kind to oneself and calming.
If she could remember all that, then she couldn’t be going crazy. Right?
© 2024 Jennifer Harris. Free And Alive 555
