Undiagnosed Illusions

• Pia Bathgate, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2015

I always said I wanted to be a writer, Mum.
I pretended it was because words can heal. Words can be the thread to gaping skin, knit the bindings of insanity, dilute the crimson and cork the abyss. Douse passion, a wet blanket.
I must have been a good actor. I must have worn a twenty-four carat smile. I must have let my words heal. Because I lied.
I wanted to be writer because I could be the Gaea of the Ancient Greece. The Emperor Nero of Rome. The Hitler of World War Two.
I wanted to be a writer because I could weave a kingdom of ripe promises, build roads of concrete expectations, water gardens with dreams.
And then I could watch them burn. Let the tongues lick my cover. I could watch the faded-cardboard binding fall away, a charcoal history. You would not finish drawing the cursive ‘The End’ to your Hansel, Rapunsel, Prince Charming.
No.
I would print the eulogy to my own funeral. With these words, I could listen to the worn chairs of humanity finally peel away. I could sing the tunes of Lethe with Misery my queen. I could be a hero.
Maybe you were so caught up in your chocolate-dusted doll house that you forgot where real power came from.
Maybe you will learn what real pride is. One day.
Because you should be proud if you saw me now.
My words made Death my servant. I watched the congealed tears of the veins lose their colour. I painted ivory chalky. I stole the warmth of human breath.
I murdered someone.
They were the first to join my empire. They will mark my throne in the Underworld.
Maybe you will now know why I always wanted to be a writer.
The again, maybe you won’t.
Because you’re next, Mum.

I am coming for you.