When I became a Gothic Literature major at university, no one was surprised. My friends often told me my fascination with "perturbed" and "grotesque" novels mildly disturbed them. I often brushed them off with laughter since I knew they'd never really understand. As for my parents, they couldn't care less as long as I ended up with a degree at the end of my four years. They were more concerned about the staggering amount of debt that they were helping me take on.
I suppose they're saddled with all of that now.
It helped that I stayed close to home for my degree, choosing to attend the prestigious Leeds university, a whopping ten-minute walk from the house. My classes were great. They were engaging, entertaining, and fun. My classmates and I had countless debates on deeper meanings and plot lines. By the end of my first year, I became an Einstein with classics that I held dear to my heart.
Maybe a little too dear.
I shift in my wooden chair, trying to awaken my sleeping legs and ease the numbness from my bottom. How long had I been sitting here now? My head turns left, right, left again, as if I'm preparing to cross the street. The moans of sick patients fill the small quarters, the sounds raising the fine hairs on my arms.
"My dear Mina,"
My body freezes. I bite down on my bottom lip.
I'd lived a fine life; an average life. It was nothing to sneeze at or boast about. I was an average student throughout high school and an average student in my first year of university. There was only ever one man I dated, and that ended when he'd robbed me blind and took off with some guy. I dedicated most of my life to the literary arts and pursuing the history within them.
So, how did I end up here?
"Mina," his deep voices travels across my skin like a slippery snake. My stomach knots itself twice over and for I moment I think I'll have to stop one of the nuns and ask for a bucket.
"Wilhemina,"
My name is Audrey.
"Yes?" The voice that passed my lips is sweet. It's too high pitched and too feminine. My voice, my original voice, was nothing like what travels through my vocal chords now.
"You are really here, my love?"
I curl my hands into fists, the finely trimmed nails cutting into the uncaloused flesh of my palm. A part of me hopes that this is a dream. Maybe I spent too much time reading last night for my upcoming essay, or maybe I fell asleep listening to an audiobook; however, I knew neither of these things could be true. I hate listening to audiobooks, I don't have a long enough attention span for them. That, and the pain from the accident still lingered in my neck. My lungs still ached, and I vaguely wondered if maybe my eyes looked as terrifying as they'd felt then.
"Yes, I'm here,"
But I don't want to be.
"Look at me, Mina."
I'd rather not.
His hand comes to a rest over mine and I flinch, ready to pull away. His grip stops me. Just yesterday I was fine. I was having a heated debate with some classmates over the true meaning of gender in certain works of Gothic literature. I had been way to hyped up on caffeine, but that's the way of the college student life. Coffee runs through our veins, not blood.
Maybe that means I'm safe.
"Wilhelmina," A rigid female voice speaks the false name now and I know I have no choice but to respond. I look up, my eye catching the reflection in the window across from this body. The main female protagonist of Dracula looks back at me.