Post by thundie on Jan 29, 2011 21:52:54 GMT -5
[/i][/size]. I don't want anybody offended, if you're younger than 14, you probably shouldn't[/i][/size] read this. But I'm welcome to you reading it.Okay, I'm not gonna lie, this story is ... efffed up.I'm going to go ahead and warn you of gore, so its probably pg-14
I'd love feedback, good and bad, when it comes to writing I want the truth.
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Lucile
It was a strange year to be alive, 1925. Life after the Great War was dark. Followed by shadows, it was. Many people had seen horrors, and did not want to talk much.
I was a helping hand at a nearby hospital, I was crippled from the war, lost my left arm, had to change bed pans, make beds, occasionally clean things, never did much. Except, of course, look after Lucile Edwards. Lucile was a pretty girl, her hair was long, brown, and her eyes were a brilliant shade of green, and she was an honest head turner, her lips were a vibrant shade of red.
She was a cheerful girl, always laughing, always a joy to be around.
I knew her before I was drafted, before she became a war nurse. Some horrible things happened to each of us, and none of us were the same when we returned. Lucile never laughed much after the war, and when she did, it was for all the wrong reasons.
When I returned, I didn’t talk much. When Lucile returned, she talked too much, always talking about other things, things you have no clue about. Things like the Wodder-bushells following her through the corridors, and the Sooglidoors watching her in her sleep.
You see, after Lucile returned, she became a nutter. Nobody knew what really happened to her, it was a small tragedy, she was apparently on base, trying to assist perform surgery on a young lieutenant when they came under attack. Apparently, a grenade hit her and her comrades, and what happened after was horrible, it was nearly twenty hours before rescue came. She was found crying over the bodies of her comrades, trying to sew their wounds together, trying to help them, but it was too late.
Lucile sometimes curled into tight balls and cried, muttering things, things like “no, no, I healed you” or “leave me be! I tried, I tried to save you, I did, I swear”. She’s a haunted girl, Lucile.
I looked after her, because there was no determined cure for whatever she had. Eventually she became more friendly. She’d laugh and giggle. She’d talk quietly about her friend Lloyd, who’d visit her late in the day, sometimes bringing tea.
I feel as if it is my responsibility to explain why and how she became so very unstable.
Lucile was always a bit of an oddity, always writing and dreaming of other worlds on calm summer days. When we were school children, she’d always come up with silly games about monsters and other lands that existed far away. She’d talk of magic, and horrible beasts with twelve heads and fourteen large bulging eyes. I always found it funny.
After Lucile returned home, she hardly blinked, and never told me stories of faraway worlds and creatures with odd bodies. She’d mutter, dark things, sad things, things I never really took notice to, I was only keeping her company, making sure that she was comfortable. I never once asked her what she meant, I only ever asked if she wanted to hear a story. I would occasionally tell her about the news, but that mostly upset her.
She was always fairly calm, at least until she got a new doctor. Doctor Everett. He was dark haired, tall, and kind.
But the moment she saw him, she gave a great shudder, and went completely white. Her eyes became sunken. Lucile seemed to be loosing sleep over this. When he introduced himself to her, and held his hand out, she only cried. She’d cower, and wince, tears would drip from her eyes, and she’d scream things like “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, leave me be! Leave me alone, why don’t you?! I tried! I tried!”
Her anxiety grew every day.
She began to throw things, angry, she’d throw random things, things like picture frames that contained pictures of her and her family. Lucile became darker, day by day, her hair lost color, her eyes became a dull black, her skin was a sullen, icky, splotchy pale. She chewed her nails to the ends, she chewed them till they bled, she cried every night, and Lucile got no better, no matter what we tried.
We began to worry, keeping an eye on her, making sure she didn’t loose her cool at any body. She began to progress…at least until Lieutenant Hews showed up.
What a sunny day it was! Beautiful, brightest day we’d seen in a while. When we brought Mr Hews in, all was well. Until the night, at night, Lucile tossed and turned, muttering things like “Lieutenant”, “the bullet”, and “we can get it, Doctor, we’re almost there”.
It wasn’t until another one of our patients was being brought in, that it happened. Lucile hadn’t showed any previous interest in the Lieutenant, so we saw nothing wrong with leaving her alone with him while we brought in our new patient, who needed a lot of care.
It wasn’t until an hour and a half later that we returned. Lucile was out of bed. She was near the Lieutenant, and she had something in her hand, and was crying. “I did it, Lieutenant,” she said, her voice not quivering a bit, “It’s done. I finally did it.”
None of us expected to see what we did next, we’d never have guessed what she’d done.
Her hands were covered in blood, she had it splattered upon her face as well, Lucile was grinning wildly. She sniffed through her nose, and cheerfully said, “No need for any help here, doctors, I’ve got it, He’ll be fine!”
What we saw next was worse than the vision of Lucile’s face and hands.
Lieutenant Hews’ eyes were wide open in shock, and his face was dripping in blood, his tongue was on his chest, and he had a gaping, dripping wound on his left temple. Somebody had managed to drill into his forehead and cut around. The flesh was dripping and soggy, and through the small hole you could see the light pink matter that was his brain, at least before she had dug through it.
“I got the bullet out.” Lucile said, smiling and holding up a tiny piece of what I can only imagine was brain matter.
The whole bloody hole was sewn over with thick thread, so loose that you could have moved the pieces aside and continued to dig through this poor man’s head.
A nearby nurse swooned and said, “good god. His tongue, why his tongue?”
Lucile seemed to think this was a question, she smiled, “He was making too much noise, It may have disturbed our other patients, and I couldn’t find anything else, so I just cut out his tongue, that pretty much brought it down to whimpers.” She said, looking proud of herself. I merely parted my lips, and breathed out the breath I’d been holding for nearly two minutes.
This scene was horrific.
“…Is…is he….?”
Somebody asked, eyes wide. I stepped forwards and felt for a pulse, and saw another horrible thing. Across from his body was Doctor Everett, on the ground, covered in blood. His eyes were surprised as well, but his throat was spread apart, and you could see the inside of his neck. He was, certainly, dead. I staggered back at the sight, and looked to Lucile, who was still smiling broadly, while everybody around her just looked around, sad, was still holding the scalpel she’d done all her damage with.
I walked towards her slowly, held out my hand, and she took it, calmly, I pulled my hand from hers, and said,
“Lucile, the scalpel. Please.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
I widened my eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re doing? Lucile, you’re dangerous. Do you see what you’ve done?”
Lucile only snickered,
“Of course I know what I’m doing! I’m saving lives, now move, there are more to do.”
I shook my head, but she only became angry, she looked a bit more like she used to, but only laughed.
“The other doctor,” She jerked her thumb towards the dead body of Docter Everett, “Tried to stop me from saving people, I didn’t let him, now move, Thomas.”
I shook my head again, and held my hand out.
“Let me help you.”
Lucile narrowed her eyes and laughed,
“I’m no fool, Thomas. Move.”
I couldn’t do anything, so I moved. She looked triumphant, and she ran from the ward, out into the corridor, and onto the busy streets of London.
The next thing that happened was unbelievable. One of the nurses had called the police as soon as we’d walked on the scene with Lucile. We followed her outside to see only one thing, her thin, pale body holding the scalpel, dead on the ground.
She had a grin on her face still. Petrified onto her face.
Her right wrist was slit, and her left hand was crossed against it, scalpel held in hand, glimmering.
