Miracle on St. David’s Day

This was my GCSE creative writing coursework. I got an A for it. The task was to write a story based on the poem 'Miracle On St David's Day' by Gillian Clarke. This was my contribution. Look it up, it's a great poem.

The nice lady in the white dress entered the room. She looked at me sitting in the same place that she had left me with my hands on my lap and shook her head.

“It’s been two hours since I left you.” She said a slight Irish tint to her soft voice. “Have you been here the whole time?” I tilted my head and looked at her, causing her to sigh and shake her head again. “Come along then.” She placed her soft, cold hand on mine and led me out of the room. She gently directed me down the hallway to the rec room. We entered together, my huge frame and her small, delicate body a shocking contrast. She still held my hand and she took me to a big, comfortable chair. I sat.

In the centre of the room on a chair sat a woman. She looked startled when she saw me, though seemed to put on a mask and conceal it easily; making it apparent to me that she could control her emotions immaculately. She was reciting poetry. She finished the poem she had been reading and looked around the room. I saw her eyes rest on Martha, who as usual was wrapped in her own private, little cocoon of nothingness. She also spent a few moments watching Jack, a schizophrenic boy with brown hair. He had been very quiet all day, which was unusual as he suffered from severe hallucinations and paranoid delusions so could become very violent. He was staring at her in awe. She turned a page in her book and began to read.

“The Daffodils, by Wordsworth.”

My eyes which had been slowly closing into the warm, relaxation of sleep flickered. I recognized that name. Where was it from?

“I wandered lonely as a cloud,

That floats on high o’er vales and hills.”

In the dark recess that had become of my mind I saw him. In flashing, jagged fragments I heard his voice. I saw his young face.

“Listen to what I learnt at school today mummy, it’s a poem called ‘The Daffodils. Listen mummy.”

I shook my head trying to shake away the images and saw the poetry woman again. I heard the poem, her voice merging and intertwining with his.

“When all at once I saw a cloud,

A host, of golden daffodils.”

It was fully the voice of the boy now and I slipped into the flashback without struggle. I was me again, before the darkness had descended. I was fifteen and stood before my school. I watched the boy walk away with his mother. I heard the poem

“Beside the lake, beneath the trees

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.”

The leaves of the trees lining the street rustled and whispered excitedly with the wind. I turned away from the boy, the poem still going through my mind and imprinting itself on my memory. Before me now was the arduous trek home. The sky, which had been blue, was fast becoming an expanse of grey cloud. I sighed at that moment. I was in love with nature; however I could not help but groan at the looming rain clouds which held the promise of a fierce and unrelenting storm.

I took a step and felt a raindrop touch my cheek. I started walking, raindrops matching my steps and quickly overtaking them. I was halfway down the lane towards my home when I felt the presence. I felt it like a pin in the base of my spine and quickened my step, my water-laden clothes weighing me down. I could feel eyes staring at me. My breathing became harsh, ragged as I attempted to move quickly through the thick sludge, which had become of the previously dry dirt track.

Fear coursed unchecked through my veins and I stumbled. All force I exerted in attempts to rise were sucked down and absorbed by the thick mud. I felt the presence draw closer and redoubled my actions. I turned slightly and saw a dark figure looming over me. I made one last attempt to rise before I felt something strike the back of my head and darkness reigned over me.

I awoke and all I saw was black, all I felt was black. I turned my head and could see nothing. This movement caused my head to throb with a red hot, searing pain and when I touched my hand to the pain filled area it came away sticky with my own warm blood. I crawled across the floor and noticed it was damp, cold and rough, made of coarse stone.

“Where am I?” I whispered. My voice seemed a comforting sound to my ears in the all encompassing silence. Slowly, grey forms became clear to my adjusting eyes. A damp arm-chair stood in solitude in a corner. Rotting, wooden shelves lined the far wall of the room with a door breaking the almost perfect line. It was small, made of dark wood with a small brass handle and a several keyholes. In the centre of the room was a heap of rags and blankets. I leant against the wall and ran one hand over the surface. It was damp and cold, like the floor. It also seemed to be made of the same cold, coarse stone.

My head was throbbing with a slow, constant pain. The blood loss was making me dizzy and I crawled over to the heap of rags. I took a long strip of material and wrapped it around the gaping wound, tucking the end into the makeshift bandage. I took another large piece of material and wrapped it around my body, which was shaking with cold, shock and fear. I backed into a corner and curled up for warmth. I sat there, dazed, cold, alone and afraid for what seemed like hours.

My mind was reeling with confusion when I heard a clicking noise. I looked over to the door and heard the locks being slowly and methodically opened. I watched as the door was slowly opened wide. A dark figure holding a candle entered. The candle cast an eerie glow over their features so they were barely visible. I stood up, my fear dissolving in rage.

“Who are you?” I demanded angrily. “Where am I? Why have you taken me against my will? What right do you have?!” The figure ignored me and placed the candle on a shelf. It then removed a packet of candles and a box of matches from its pocket. It placed the candles along the shelves and lit them, making the room lighter and its features more visible.

Firstly it became obvious that the figure was female as her form appeared. She had broad shoulders and strong, muscular arms, with thick wrists visible below the rolled up sleeves of her flannel shirt. Her hair was a mass of tatted, brown curls tied back in a ponytail. As the light grew stronger details of her countenance were exposed. She was not particularly attractive, with a strong jaw and crooked nose. Her eyes were like those of a pig; small, black and squinty. All round she appeared quite masculine. She turned to me.

“Don’t make a sound.” She muttered menacingly. I felt my heart beat beneath my chest, involuntary fear choking me and numbing my senses.

“Who are you?” I breathed, barely audible in the thick, consuming silence.

“Shut up!” She cried, bringing the knife-edge down upon my cheek and slicing the flesh there. My hand flew to my cheek and I felt a wave of nausea as my hand connected with yet more of my blood.

“Why are you doing this to me?” My breathing was in short, sharp breaths and I gasped frantically, trying not to hyperventilate. “What have I…? What have I done to… deserve this?” Tears flowed, pain and confusion echoing the weak waters in amount and numbing my other senses.

“I told you not to talk!” She screamed in a banshee wail. She sliced the air with the knife again, bringing it down upon my left shoulder and creating a gash like the first. “What don’t you understand about the words ‘Shut Up’?”

I stumbled back on my hands and tore the skin on my palms due to the rough floor. I stared at her, wide eyes panic-stricken and terror-filled. I opened my mouth to speak again, to plead, beg, cry, anything that may help then thought better of it when I moved my shoulders and lightning bolts of pain struck the fresh cut. She glared at me.

“That’s better.” She muttered. She stepped back from me and stared angrily. She ran her finger along the blade and began to pace back and forwards across the room. My heart was thumping in my ears and a red haze coated everything in my line of vision from the pain.

"I was young once." She spat. "I was happy. My father wasn't happy though, no, he was not a happy man." She leant against a wall "He looked like you. My father, the man of the house, that stupid, cruel man! Had your hair, your chin, your nose." She screamed in undiluted fury and slammed her fists on the wall. I sat, enshrouded in confusion and loathing of this bizarre, insane woman.

"I'm not your father." I spoke up bravely. She looked over at me sharply.

"I told you to shut up!" She hissed "Why do you insist on talking!?" She looked up at the ceiling and tugged at her hair "I hate him." She whispered, staring blankly at the ceiling "And I hate you!" She bit down on the tip of the blade and for some reason that one action helped me to truly see her. I felt pity for her. She was completely and utterly insane. Her eyes contained traces of tears. She seemed alone in thought for a moment, forgetting I was there. That pity dissolved to fear when I saw the blank, black look in her eyes. She took a step towards me and I shrank away from her, pressing myself against the wall. She gritted her teeth and her eyes filled with anger. Another hesitating step towards me made my stomach flip.

She turned on her heel and strode towards the door. She opened it and paused. Slowly, she shut the door and almost as an afterthought blew out all the candles but one. She poured the melted wax onto the shelves and took the remaining candle out of the room with her, plunging me into unwelcome darkness.

I sat, shaking with cold yet numb with shock, frantically trying not to drift into hysteria. I don’t know how long I sat like that, rocking on the edge of insanity, but slowly in my mind I began to recreate her. I visualized every aspect of her physical frame and countenance. I wondered where she came from, what her past was, what her father had done. I gave her an approximate age. Suddenly I heard the rattling of the locks again and I looked up to the door. I slowly stood up, gingerly testing each foot and wincing at the pain in the back of my head. Standing back up gave me a little more courage and as the door opened I strode towards it, yelling in pure anger.

“Who are you? I’m sick of your game lady and I just want to get the hell out of here!” The only part of her that I could see was her hand wrapped around the edge of the door and I saw her fingers tighten around the wood and her knuckles whiten. Her voice hissed around the door and sent a chill down my spine, stopping me mid-stride.

“Do you have a memory span of five minutes? I told you to shut up. You’ve had hours to think it over to know not to talk. Shut your mouth.” Her hand withdrew and I couldn’t see her. In a swift, shocking movement the door flew open and crashed off the wall. The loud sound created by this was shocking in the near silence and I jumped involuntarily. Her large figure was silhouetted in the door, blocking out most of the light behind her. “Now are you going to be a good boy and hush?” She whispered sinisterly. I glanced at her cold expression and nodded mutely. “Now that’s what I like to hear.” She smiled and the facial expression created a ripple of fear, which danced down my spine.

I used the limited light in the room to my advantage then. I took in my surroundings in a few swift glances. A concrete room, concrete walls, floor and ceiling. Shelves on the left wall and next to the door, a sodden moth eaten chair by the right wall with a pile of wooden boxes and limp, cardboard containers. Tools of some kind on the shelf by the left wall. She was standing in the only way out, the room was windowless and contained only the one door. She smiled and lit a candle, shutting the door and plunging the room into darkness once more. She walked towards me and her temporary blindness as her eyes adjusted to the new light gave me the opportunity of my lifetime.

I darted over to the left wall with the shelves and grabbed the first tool my fingers touched. A claw hammer. No particular plan had formed in my head, just the fleeting attempt at freedom urged me on. I heard her curse as her eyes adjusted and she realised I had moved. I ran silently behind her and before she could move, rammed the claw in her back and forced it up behind her shoulder blade, the bone resisting the metal.

At the same moment she screamed in pain, my stomach lurched with revulsion at what I had just done and I released my hold of the hammer, causing it to dig further into her flesh as gravity pulled it downwards. I retched and stumbled backwards as her heavy frame collapsed to the floor where she writhed, trying frantically to remove the hammer from her back. I watched, my eyes wide with shock and found myself turning away from the screaming woman and wrenching open the door. I could not tell, I swore to myself as I ran up a flight of steps, I would not tell, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. I ran, panic-stricken and fearful.

“For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.”

I looked around and saw the poetry woman staring at me, her brow furrowed. I looked away from her and saw my nurse staring at me with her mouth wide open in shock. I looked at my feet and realised I was standing, my hands clasped together. I turned to Martha and she looked at me awe-struck.

“You spoke.” My nurse whispered. I looked at my hands then looked up at her.

“So I did.”