Liquid Ink

liquid ink

After her father died things had gotten worse. Her mother never let her out. Ever. She didn’t go to school. She didn’t have friends. Most of the time she was locked up in her room, like now. Her mother would unlock the door when she needed her.

Her only pleasure was to draw. To paint. The Ink. She wet the paper, as she always did. The contours of a tower took form in the glistening water. She dipped the brush in the ink bottle, took it down on the paper, moving it under the roof and down one wall where the darker areas would be. Then she let the ink flow.

She loved how it moved. It was like it had a life on it’s own, like if she was the spectator. It was magic. The tower came to life.

A girl appeared in the window. She hadn’t even planned for that. A face took form. It was her face. It was her.

Dark shadows floated around her. On the desk. In the air. It stained the walls. The ceiling.

She was sitting by a desk in a room of stone walls. There was nothing else in the room but an old chest. She was gone.

She heard someone crying. A weep of deep, bottomless sorrow, a cry of loss of loved ones and despair. The door was open.

There was a steep, winding stone staircase going down.

It was dark. She walked slowly, following the sound. She saw light coming out from under a door further down. She heard voices. Noises. Someone shouting. She knew that voice. Her mother. She couldn’t tell the words, but knew to whom ever she was shouting at, the words would be hurtful. She passed the door, down the dark staircase.

She kept following the stairs. Another door. This one was open. She saw her father, dead on the bed. Her mother standing besides him with a knife in her hand. Her back towards her. She turned. Looked right at her. She closed the door and ran.

On the bottom of the stairs there was darkness. She heard the crying clearly now. It was her father. She moved slowly, carefully. So much pain. So much sorrow.

Father? She said. Is that you?

Her eyes were adapting. Her father was sitting on the floor. Someone was lying beside him.

Why didn’t you leave, he said. Sadness. Despair.

A light came on. A small flame in an alcohol lamp. She saw herself lying there. She held a rose in her hands. Her throat was cut.

You have to go. Now! His back still towards her.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t move.

He turned. His face was twisted. Tortured.

Run!!! He screamed. She turned. Her mother was there. Floating, like liquid. Changing form. Dark, grey and black forms of evil. Laughing. The forms filled the room.

She ran. She ran down a long hall. The walls were changing. Twisting. She could hear her mother’s evil laughter. Behind her, in front of her. Everywhere. A light. She ran towards it. Another door. It was closing. She threw herself at it.

She fell into the daylight. Turned around, fast, as to defend herself. She saw their house. She was back in the real world, in their yard. The shadows were gone.

Jane? Her mother’s voice from inside the house, upstairs.. She was angry. Jane, where are? I told you to stay in your room! How did you get out, anyway?

She got up and ran without looking back. She never returned.

http://www.kongregate.com/games/TheGameKitchen/the-last-door-chapter-1-the-letter

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ink

Domestic Violence