Cosmic Twists 1 (Old Version)

Part One - Lara - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dark hills surrounded me like a giant concaved wall for as far as my tired eyes would let me see. The giant towering peaks loomed over the black-tiled rooftops of Furdock, with harsh rock faces protruding from the tree line, glaring down upon us in the shadows. The sharp, snow-topped summits penetrated the grey clouded sky, blocking out any sunlight, if there was any, and allowing nothing or no one to escape the coal pit. The rocky outcrops clawed us in as the decrepit city of Furdock shrivelled into itself with shame in the palm of the devil’s taloned hand.  All along the valley stretched shadows of towering mountains folding between each other. On days when the sky was lighter, the point at which the white summits touched the sky line became indiscernible. On those days, Furdock valley fell into a void of still muteness surrounded by a blanket of white. In Furdock, it was a rarity to ever hear a bird sing other than the menacing crow’s cackle, or the stray dog’s howl as they scavenged in the dingy streets.

I put down the quill on the parchment and look out at the open window. Many times I have dreamt of running away from here, but there’s nowhere else to go, even if I had the choice to run. No one’s ever spoken of a world outside these mountains. I often think about what my future might be like, but for now it’s nothing but a great blank space. In reality, I’ll probably always be like this, with the only difference being the possession of a marriage certificate and a few babies in my arms. But I would much rather think about a blank space, so that I can at least visualise my fictional adventures as a possible reality for myself, but that will never happen. Those in the city who have expressed their curiosity for a different way of life have often disappeared several days later, so it’s best to keep our heads down. Besides, one wouldn’t dare venture into the forests of the foothills alone.

So, in my chamber, I stay, and I write. I wait for something to change, but change never comes. I often read about the silver years of Furdock from the few books that collect dust on our bare bookshelf, about the days when the city once sparkled with glory and glamour from the sacred Furnic Quartzite, and how it was spoiled by the inevitability of human greed and vanity. Furdock has become a lonely place since then and, for as long as I can remember, I have felt alone. I’ve spent most of my days writing and painting in my room. I like to write about adventures I wish I could have, with me as the main character, but the Lara in those stories is much braver and bolder than I am. I’ve never been allowed to keep many things in my room, and my mother doesn’t let me wonder freely in the streets, out of ‘protection’, so I often end up trying to paint portraits of myself, but they never quite look like me. I always make the face a little too full, compared to the protruding cheekbones of my heart shaped face, and my eyes never sparkle like they seem to in my paintings. Maybe it’s the Lara from my stories; her lean, athletic body only emphasised my own weak limbs and underfed stomach. If only my hair would fall as softly and wavy as I can paint it, but the smoggy air causes our hair to be dry and brittle. No one has nice hair here, and I’ve never seen anybody with hair lighter than mine. I guess that’s the one thing I do like about myself.

Seeing my finished paintings is like seeing a better version of myself, only, it reminds me of how gaunt I really look. They’re a cruel reminder of how I’d prefer to look in another life, and for that reason part of me wants to resent them and stop painting, but there’s nothing else I can do here, and it’s the only face I know that makes me feel a little less alone. Sometimes I look at them hanging all over my room, hoping that one day they would speak to me like I do to them, so that I could have someone to listen to like they listen to me.

My thoughts are interrupted by a creak as my chamber door opens slowly. Hunched over in a gown behind the door is my mother, beckoning me to join her downstairs. She’d stopped talking to me a long time ago, and only looks at me now when she has to, as if I remind her of something that every bone in her body has grown tired of trying to forget.