Sanity

• Emily Chapman, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

Blazing flames danced along the wooden floorboards, pulling in the curtains and furniture into the raging dance one by one. Some flames had raced to find other partners throughout Harrington Manor, but only the brightest and the best dancers remained in the living room. Power and anger flowed into them, turning what was once a symbol of strength into destruction.

Anastasia lay surrounded by a ring of dancers, creeping closer and closer begging her to join their precarious dance. She wanted to join them, to be free like them, but she couldn’t. She didn’t deserve to dance first. They were dancers of annihilation, and they had to demolish the wicked and evil before she could free herself from the dark sorcery that clung to her like a shadow; there in the background but impossible to permanently remove. If the source of her curse was gone, then she could be free.

A tall, but muscular male figure stood over the limp and weakened girl. He wore acid washed jeans and a grey hoodie, the sleeves torn away exposing his tanned and tattooed arms. The hood covered his face, but electric blue eyes glowed behind the shadow that lay across his face. Anastasia felt nothing but comfort and security, despite being only centimetres from a burning fire. He gently lifted her into a sitting position, stroking her warm cheek. His fingers were cold, despite the burning dancers in the room.

Anastasia clung tightly to his shoulders when he swiftly lifted her into his arms. His grip was tight for security, but loose enough that she felt comfort. Two snow-white wings unfolded themselves behind the hooded man, lifting the two of them into the air. The wings penetrated through layers of wood panels like they were made from glass, freeing Anastasia from the fire and the Victorian home. Her eyes were shut tightly, preventing any splinters or dust from harming them.

When she finally opened them, reality had shattered away her dreams, and the last memory of him she had. She fought against the padded straps buckled tightly around her wrists and ankles that bound her to the bed as her psychiatrist fed her lie after lie and evaluated her outbursts and reactions. She looked over at the framed photo that sat on the bedside table, the face of the hooded man from her memory looking back at her.

Except he wasn’t a hooded stranger. He was Brady Alexander, the love of Anastasia’s life. She had lost him only three years ago, but she didn’t believe that. She knew Brady was still alive. He never died; he never abandoned her like that. Brady was the one who saved her from the house fire that killed her parents.

But nobody believed her story. They called her crazy and locked away so doctors would force lie after lie into her head and unnecessary medication down her throat. They wouldn’t let her believe her own truths, but she never gave up.

Brady Alexander was still alive, and one day she will prove it.