Ever had one of those dreams that was so vivid you thought it was real until the moment you opened your eyes? Or one so powerful you could recall it in such detail and precision throughout the course of a day?
I’ve had many such dreams, and this particular one was of no exception. It was a movie-like dream, involving a horse-drawn cart, a girl thrown into the dungeon, and a young man saving her from further torture. It was a dream that occupied my mind from the moment I woke up to the time I went to sleep the following night. Like other dreams I have had, I started ’embellishing’ it with more scenarios, and by the end of the second day, I had clearly envisioned in my head at least half-a-dozen scenes.
Unlike other dreams I’ve had previously, however, I decided to write this one down. And just like that, my journey as a writer began. Words seemed to be flowing from that place within me I never knew existed. Those that didn’t come to me naturally and immediately, I seemed to be ‘plucking’ them out of thin air. And as each word materialised on paper, it was as if a chain that had suffocated me rattled and broke free.
Four days later, in winter of 2006, Eleanor I, my first-ever attempt at story-writing was born. Here is the excerpt that started it all (in its raw form).
Little by little, she came to; her eyes flickered, struggling to focus. She emitted a fearful shriek as a silhouette of a man began to fill up her vision.
“Eleanor?” He called, concerned.
She swallowed and blinked rapidly, hoping that it would further ward off the thick fog stubbornly clinging to conceal her view.
“Patrick?” She croaked, finding reassurance in one end of his lips, twitching wryly.
She looked around, now able to make out the firm outlines of the window frame, the somewhat cylindrical curve of the top of the bed posts, the flicker of flames leaping in the fireplace.
“Where am I?” She asked, brows knitted close together as Patrick ducked his head down, face flushing.
“You’re in one of the maid chambers,” he replied. “I didn’t have much time…”
Still feeling too weak to wave a dismissive hand, she pressed her palms to the soft woollen blanket covering her to above her breasts, the corner of her eyes observing the clean white linen covering the sturdy mattress of a proper bed, her head was lying on top of at least two soft pillows.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, the lips that had begun to quirk up into a faint smile froze, quickly replaced by a mild look of incomprehension.
“How…?” She said hoarsely, frowning at Patrick.
He reached out a hand, the tip of his thumb brushing soft strands of her hair away from her cheek. “You fainted,” he said simply.
Eleanor hoisted herself up with one arm before Patrick could stop her, immediately emitting a small gasp, eyes closing as she collapsed onto the bed promptly, feeling the stabbing pain on her back.
“Let me help you.”
Patrick put a hand on her nape, the muscle of his upper arm flexing as she used it to pull herself up, her breathing came out through gritted teeth to suppress the pain.
He waited until she looked like she was comfortable before he reached for a small bowl and scooped a clear-looking broth, blowing a spoonful of the liquid several times before pressing the brass spoon to her lips, repeating the process again and again, moving both the plain white bowl and the spoon away each time her hand reached out to take them away.
He placed the empty bowl on the nightstand and walked over to the window, tightly strung back facing Eleanor as she looked on, unsure as to what to say. It seemed the one thing she had always uttered lately was ‘Thank you,’ and repeating it once more sounded… lame.
“Patrick…” she called after gulping the lump in her throat. Slowly, he turned around, staring at her with a look of utter anguish, concern and… something else she couldn’t quite comprehend.
“Eleanor, I wish you would put aside your pride for once and allow me to help you,” he snapped.
Her mouth dropped; of all the things she thought he would say, she hadn’t expected this; not even remotely.
“My pride is about the only thing I have left, Patrick,” she replied with an edge to her voice; her body shaking uncontrollably. “I had to beg them to take me in my Father’s place,” she continued. “And still, they put chains on me and dragged me out of the house. They pushed and shoved me as if I had been found guilty. They beat me…”
Her voice cracked, tears welling up in her eyes she had to bite the inside of her bottom lip, the cracking sound of the whip on her back ringing in her ears; each one stripping her dignity away. “If I break,” she said tremulously, “what have I got left?”
She turned her face away, the back of one hand roughly rubbing her eyes and nose, the shoulders that had begun to shake paused abruptly as she held herself back from sobbing.
Inhaling a deep breath and holding it, Patrick approached her. He sat at the edge of the bed and stretched his hand to cup her chin, giving her his sweetest smile as he turned her to face him.
“You still have me.”