crimes of passion

 

Prologue

Dear Diary,

As I write this the tears scatter the page, a reminder of what I’ve lost. He was everything to me, my world, my life- everything revolved around him. That’s all gone now, ashes in my memory, a corpse destroyed by deceit. I remember his laugh the chorus of church bells angelic- like songbirds. But now that laugh is death, his eyes empty sockets, unseeing unknowing. His mouth a gaping hole, frozen in twisted agony. I smile maliciously, the flames of envy possessing me. He begs for me to stop, but I don’t. I continue ruthlessly, his face contorted in agony. Already the mark of death is upon him. But I don’t care, his pain, my happiness. Even though I know it is wrong I can’t help but continue. They say that two wrongs don’t make a right but how can I forgive him after what he did to me?

He turns to look at me’ why are you doing this’. I laugh and slowly caress his face ‘Oh you know’. I leave a lingering touch, jealousy scorching his skin- it sizzles. I back away and slowly expose one shoulder – smooth tanned skin. He glances fleetingly, a cloud of lust enveloping him. How could it be so easy? Did he honestly think I wanted him back? He smiles tentatively ‘that was just a joke to scare me right?’ I smile at him sweetly ‘of course, of course it is ‘I murmur .My insides are churning, the feeling of nausea envelops me. Lies. What has become of me? That sweet little girl now a devils advocate.

I walk, my hips swaying gazing at him intently. I take his hand and kiss it, red upon white, stained forever. He reaches out to hug me whispering sweet nothings ‘I knew you’d forgive me ‘I say nothing kissing him passionately- bloody desire. I pull the trigger.Bang.Hes dead, blood on my hands. It was me I killed him.

Guilty

Chapter 1

Scarlett

10 years later

Damp, the walls are closing in on me, threatening to consume me. I lay here, a broken shell of the past. The tears fall, the pity starts, my fist against the wall. My fingers crunch, a sickening sound. I feel nothing, detached from pain. My inmate groans, her sleep interrupted.’ For god’s sake can’t I ever sleep?’ I say nothing, there’s pity in her eyes too. She wonders why I don’t speak, why I do nothing but stare into space. She wonders why I’m here, what I did that was so bad. Every day she tries to get me to speak, to say something that will trigger it.But it doesn’t the trauma of that night paralyzes me forever. I hear her pleading with the doctors that visit,’ you have to help her’ she cries ‘this isn’t normal’. They shrug non committedly ‘it’s not our problem’ .She gasps in disgust ‘I thought that’s what doctors were for’ They look at her as though she is stupid ‘she’s a criminal- she doesn’t have feelings ‘She looks at me waiting for a reaction ‘that doesn’t mean that she should be treated like this, humans have rights’ But already they are gone and she is left humiliated.

 

‘Don’t you ever feel anything; do you have no feelings at all?’ I gaze at her blankly, feelings what are feelings? What is the point of them when your life has been destroyed? None exactly, I may have destroyed my past but I am not about to destroy my future. One wrong word, one wrong move and I’m dead, hanging like a dancer suspended in flight. I can feel the noose slipped round my neck, rough against smooth. The rope tightens, the crowd jeers. I gaze at the sea of faces before me, one last time before I live my last breath.

I can’t let that happen.

Chapter 2

Bluebell

From the moment I saw her I knew she was different, her eyes reflected loss and regret- glittering emeralds .But I didn’t know how different she would be, that her voice was a silent story, waiting to be told. She sits there deep in thought, serene like an angel, glistening golden hair fanned across her shoulders – the picture of innocence. She doesn’t belong here this angelic creature, a beauty so unearthly and eerie that it makes you catch your breath, long to be like her. But then that’s when I’m wrong, she’s here for a reason, a crime so terrible that no one dare speaks it. But I’m not afraid. This ‘angel’ killed in cold blood, a murder drenched in blood and torture. Crimes of passion they called it. They say that her boyfriend cheated on her, that she caught them and flipped. She locked him up for days on end, no food no water. The conditions were damp, an enclosed space, and mould patterned walls. Sometimes you would hear the scuttle of rats, sometimes you heard worse. If you believe the rumours, there were ghosts, forgotten spirits crying out to be heard. The endless screams an echo- there were voices ‘help me help me’ over and over again. Some people say she became possessed, that the ghosts were the cause of this. ‘Look at her’ they would cry ‘she is a victim not a murderer’. Then again appearances are deceiving.

What happens next is hazy; no one knows the exact events that took place that night. But we do know one thing. His corpse was found a week later, a mutilated body beyond recognition, criss crossed scars, battle wounds. She lay next to him, blood on her hands. They looked at her, her eyes brimming with tears ‘It was me, I killed him’. They took her away then, bound her hands, and marched her to the police car. That was 10 years ago, now all that is left is silence, she can’t speak, her body is immobile. She lays there paralysed by her crime. I scream at the doctors that visit pleading them to help her. They do nothing; say it’s not their problem. I thought that was what doctors were for- to help others. But I guess not these ones .They radiate a sense of evil, their eyes a pool of murky darkness. So if doctors can’t help her then who can?

Chapter 3

Mathew

I lay here, a rotting corpse, buried underground- a pair of decaying bones. I remember that day, the night I became dust, a broken soul-death. She was the one that killed me’ innocent little Scarlett, Poor Scarlett’ they’d cry ‘It’s not her fault’. So who’s fault is it then? Mine? Sure I’m dead why not blame me. Of course they do how could Scarlett had done anything, the ultimate role model, marred only by my death. But that stain is a speck, they don’t care what she’s done. Possessed by ghosts? Sure, why can’t they accept the fact that she is evil, a devil’s advocate, a flame of lies her crown. Pity surrounds her like a cloak of deceit, why do you feel sorry for her? Why I am not mourned and yet she is revered as a saint. What justice is that? But then I guess I am partly to blame for I was the one who betrayed her trust, who chose someone else over her. ‘I was young’ I cried, too immature to know the consequences of my actions; that it would be the thorn that destroyed me- forever. I never loved her; she was just a bit of fun, a rebound girl if you like. She knew this of course, accepted it laughingly, she agreed ‘What’s the point of serious relationships?’ ‘It all ends up in heartbreak anyway’. But I guess that was one of the many lies that she spun.

Now my identity is fragmented, remembered yet forgotten. My soul flitters restlessly, moving from place to place, I will seek my revenge…I promise.  

Sinner’s paradise

He sits on a throne of fire, eternal flames his paradise.  Slowly but surely he turns to face his audience, a sardonic smile on his lips ‘Welcome, Welcome to Sinners Paradise’. His audience claps, robotic in motion- as though their movements were engineered by puppets.  Suddenly his speech is fuelled by an underlying anger , a hunger to avenge the past, so many millions of years ago ‘ My people, my  followers , merry band of men , it is time to carry out my work and fight for what is rightfully ours’ . There is a great cheer at this statement and he continues his speech ‘we have been so cruelly condemned, apportioned blame for actions conceived by humans, why should we be scapegoated for the actions of others? Why should we lie meek and mild as we wait for our fate to be carried out? No we will fight, fight until judgement day if need be’. The roar becomes deafening, the flames crackle, and huge plumes of fire surround him like an emblem of evil light. He walks forward, his movements pronounced, flamboyant even as he reinstates his cause , persuasion on his lips ‘ so who will join me and make a name of themselves , be remembered forever for all eternity? It is a hard question to ask, a life-affirming decision that would divide them forever. If they say yes, there is no turning back, no embracing the light once more, a golden aura gone, a gauzy black their nature. They look at each other, some apprehensive, unsure of what is expected of them, whilst others are exultingly celebrating their chance to wreak revenge. Then there is me, an isolated spectre, neither black nor gold, a grey mist my guise. This was never my choice, you must understand, they forced me, betrayed me to these ‘barbarians’, I thought they were on my side… it seems as though I was wrong. They turn to look at me, to see what my choice is. That thought is laughable- what choice? I have no free will, a prisoner in another world. Before I give my answer you must understand why I am here. And so our story begins, a pen dipped in ink, a scribe to my senses.

Thomas

I am an angel, powerful and magnificent- one of God’s chosen, a golden being made of light and glory. My piercing blue eyes are all knowing, my senses heightened, my beauty breath-taking. You cannot see me, you do not know me but I know you… all of you. I am the angel erased from history, the shadow in a divide of darkness and light. I am the piteous whisper of wind, rustling through the trees, condemned to an eternity of wandering. It began with Luther, you all know who he is , the intrinsically immoral angel that refused to bow down to Adam and Eve. Pride was his downfall, he failed to understand God’s intentions ‘ we are superior beings’ he cried ‘ I refuse to kneel’. He continued his passionate admission further ‘ you expect us who are fashioned from gold and light to kneel before beings of mud?’ . A few nodded enthusiastically, Luther was almost equal to God, and his words had substance. Yet God refused to accept Luther’s words and condemned him for all eternity. Fast forward a hundred years and Luther had set up his own kingdom aptly named a sinners paradise. How ironic I thought, we who were once friends, now mortal enemies. But he had not forgotten me, oh he was clever that one, all part of his plan along. He came to me, caught me unawares sobbing uncontrollably. I was surprised – primarily because he had sought me out and secondly because he was on forbidden territory ‘what are you doing here’? I whispered frantically, relieved that there was no one to witness our reunion. ‘You have got to help me’ he whispered tear drops trickling down his now imperfect features. Fear clenched my heart, expecting the worst- a mass execution perhaps? He whispered his treacherous lies, pouring false emotions into his rehearsed speech. He knew, knew I who had only known goodness and light would fall into his deviated trap.

He led me to believe that he wanted to atone for his sins, he was always a dramatist that one. Even now as I remember these events from so long ago, feel the simmering rage threatening to boil over. And of course I helped him, innocent, vulnerable fool that I was, too naïve to sense the treachery behind those words. You can guess what came next, something too painful to even describe. He took my innocence, poisoned my senses and then I realized it was too late.

Haunted past

Epilogue

I could feel their stares behind my back, dripping with undisguised malice, their laughter poison ink dripping down my back. I clutch my fists; anger mingled with tears, salty, streaming down my face. I make my way forward, ignoring the cruel jibes; they are just words Louise, just words, nothing more nothing less. Yet I struggled to convince myself, one word a punch, a sentence a stab, a paragraph was murder. It held bittersweet memories for me, I knew where this had happened before, the past was all but a shallow barrier…Its true history does repeat itself.

I swing back to the present, and look frantically for a place to sit, the teacher looking expectantly at me, her eyebrow arched, as she waits to begin. ‘Well’ she asked her blazing green eyes boring into me, as though she was peering into my soul. I shivered and made no reply, finally settling into a seat near the front, smiling weakly at the teacher as she tsked at me. ‘Good. Now that we have that sorted let’s begin’. The lesson was blur, I zoned out as the teacher droned on about the importance of mathematics, the essentiality of numerical data in defining and shaping the world. So what I thought to myself, what is maths, when life is misery, when every waking moment is a death trap, so what?

We file out of the classroom, 1,2,3,  like soldiers, we are regimented , watched, spied upon, every wrong move- a step closer to death. But no one knows, nobody knows but the puppets that control us and … me. I know, I know because I am one of them, the chosen, the people above all others.  In my mind’s eye, I see you, I know what you do, what you have done, I’m watching you.

 

caged in

Caged in, trapped I can’t breathe. What is happening to me?  My world has turned cold, no  air, no warmth, the views of the horizons barred, blocked out by bars. All I have left is the remnants of the past, ghosts swirling, twirling, gliding round the room. They move like dancers, suspended in flight, revenge upon their lips.. . at least that’s what it seems to me. Maybe I’m just cynical, perhaps they are here to comfort me, remind me of the good times, they are after all just distant memories. But then they turn malicious, their eyes glow red, fast motion, they turn on me – I can’t escape I choke on their malice; it engulfs me like the shadows of death inevitable. Time goes slowly here, no tick tock to signal the end, only the endless stretch of time. The rats scuttle, their claws scraping the ground beneath me. I lay restless, the rough wood against my cheek, my hair lank, greasy, matted with filth. I sigh, if only, if only. But I have to endure it, survive the ordeals, before my chance comes. Don’t worry I will escape. It’s just a matter of when.

 

Chapter one

They rush round the ward, blue and white they mix together, muffled chatter buzzes round my ears. I hear my name, a snippet of a conversation, they laugh- it’s unnatural. Panic mode sets in, the alarm bells ring, my hands clutch together, rocking side to side, 1.2.3. Over and over. They come towards me , the colours merge, my vision a blur. The screams begin. They come faster now, the dreaded weapon is near.  They smile reassuringly ‘don’t worry’ they murmur soothingly, as though they were taming a wild horse. I want to cry the tears like rivers , salty sweet, pure release. Yet I cannot do so. I have to play dumb, a mute, succumbed to  their needs, their wants ,desires . So I lay still, silent. One nurse steps forward, jangles keys, gleaming gold, glistening in the light- they catch my eye . They turn the key, the lock clicks- the sound of judgement . I await my fate , it comes closer . I plunge into darkness lose all sense of smell, touch, sound, all the senses stripped from me. They joke now, mock me torment me, their smiling faces twisted, they feed upon my pain. Like vampires they suck the life out of me, the syringe moving deeper and deeper until….

‘Mummy mummy’ I run, my chubby little legs trailing behind me. She thrusts me into her arms, plants a perfumed, lipsticked kiss upon my cheek – a tattooed declaration of love. I hug her tightly and she holds me, as though she doesn’t want to let go. I didn’t understand then, the events that would follow that moment and change my life forever. That was the last time I saw my mum, she left me , abandoned me to the fate of wolves , hungry for my inheritance. I was rich but what does a little girl know of wealth? Nothing , but to naively trust each individual you encounter, to trust their sweet lies over bitter truths. I’m sorry you must forgive me, for this story has no end nor beginning, no chronological sequence of events , only a selection of memories that you must piece together to form a narrative.

It began when I was born ...

Lost in translation

I am the fine sand that mingles between your toes,

I am the only one, who knows how life goes,

I am the fire that erodes your weary soul,

I am the whisper of treachery infiltrating your goals,

I am a nobody but I am everyone too,

I am a golden eagle through and through,

I am the person with many faces,

I am the animal in many places,

I am the desert ,  no mercy,

I am the adventurer Percy,

I am the isolated, mottled library book,

I am the glistening tear , drowning-look,

I am a king and servant too,

I am the humility and the arrogance of –who?

I am shhh- lost in translation.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Anne Boleyn

 

Anne Boleyn, a temptress, a seductress, a woman destined to hold power over men; hungry for attention. Anne Boleyn, a mother, leader of reform and a woman intelligent beyond compare. Two different representations but how far do these representations merge into one another? Is Anne a figure of rebellion, striving for freedom, equality and knowledge? Or is she the six fingered witch capable of casting a spell over all mankind? It is hard to separate the myths from the facts, when contemporary accounts from the time outlandishly described her sexual and incestuous exploits. If every account puts forward the same argument does it mean they speak the truth? Or is it propaganda against a woman that rejected feminine norms and expectations, refusing to bow down to male patriarchy? Epic, intelligent, provocative and hugely entertaining, Anne Boleyn presents a compelling case for a much-maligned woman ahead of her time.

The exact date of Anne Boleyn’s birth has not been recorded, but is estimated around 1501 to Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wiltshire, and his wife, Lady Elizabeth Howard. The Howards/ Boleyn’s were highly prestigious at the time of Anne’s birth (and of course their star rose further with Anne’s marriage to Henry VIII), which allowed them to provide for their children. As a young girl, Anne was sent to the French court as a Lady in Waiting to Queen Claude, whom she served for seven years. She stayed at the French court until 1522, when she was deemed ready for marriage, initially betrothed to her cousin James Butler. Sadly the betrothal ended in failure and once again Anne was an eligible marriage prize ready for the taking. Yet Anne took matters into her own hands, seeking a marriage that would bring her family more wealth and power than they could ever dream of. Certainly Anne was no ordinary woman and as a result forged her marriage to Henry VIII, with a cunning and a resilience that we can only admire, not revile.  Yet others did not see it that way. What was a strumpet and low born commoner like Anne Boleyn doing entertaining the king, when their beloved Catherine of Aragon (of noble birth!) was far more worthy of the role as Henry’s Queen consort? They did not for one minute blame Henry VIII, did not believe that a man was so capable of cold blooded treachery. It was all her fault they claimed; she led him into temptation and in turn the whole of England and Rome, is on their knees begging for redemption. Cleanse us of this sin they cry. Yet Henry VIII was obsessed with his young mistress, who made him feel virile and strong again. She was his happiness, his strength, a reminder of his virility. She excited him with her passion and resilience for life, her revitalizing inability to be acquiescent to his wishes. How refreshing from the dull, subservient Catherine, seven years his senior. It is unclear as to why and how he became attached to Anne Boleyn but her sister Mary Boleyn was his mistress first. It is possible that Anne chaperoned their visits and in turn he realized Anne’s glittering potential; that she was the true Boleyn mistress and in 1526 he began his pursuit of her. Yet she would not become his mistress physically; it was against her beliefs she claimed. He could not take her maidenhead out of wedlock; she was no fragile flower to be crushed and disused after intercourse. No she was a woman in her own right and only upon marriage would she fulfil his desires. Yet getting Henry’s marriage annulled was proving far more difficult than expected. When it became clear that Pope Clement VII would not annul the marriage, the break from the Catholic Church in England began. In 1532, Henry granted her the Marquessate of Pembroke. Henry and Anne married on 25 January 1533. On 23 May 1533, Thomas Cranmer declared Henry and Catherine's marriage null and void; five days later, he declared Henry and Anne's marriage to be good and valid. Shortly afterwards, the Pope decreed sentences of excommunication against Henry and Cranmer. As a result of this marriage and these excommunications, the first break between the Church of England and Rome took place and the Church of England was brought under the King's control. Anne was crowned Queen of England on 1 June 1533. Only 3 short years later , would Anne Boleyn be condemned to die, to suffer at a Frenchman’s sword, reviled by the treacherous plot against her that Henry had cooked up, to rid himself of this wife who gave him no male heir.

During Anne’s short reign, her most notable achievements centered on religion. Although not quite the Protestant queen that her daughter Elizabeth I would become, she was a stealthy reformer, dedicated to providing religion for the ‘common people’. The Catholic Church had previously believed that services should be held in Latin, despite the high illiteracy rate in England at the time. Yet the reformed religion believed that religion should appeal to the masses and with the sobriety and solemnity expected of religious faith. Unlike the Catholics, she believed (to an extent) that opulence was sinful and should be eradicated. As a result solemn colors such as black were used. She was also an avid Bible reader, who told the women in her household to dress and behave soberly; cultured, she was a patron of scholars, and keenly interested in the reform doctrines that Henry himself would not embrace. Her intelligence, wit and non-conformity were to be her undoing. In April 1536, Henry had Anne investigated for high treason. On 2 May she was arrested and sent to the Tower of London, where she was tried before a jury of peers – which included Henry Percy, her former betrothed, and her own uncle, Thomas Howard – and found guilty on 15 May. She was beheaded four days later. Modern historians view the charges against her, which included adultery, incest, and witchcraft, as unconvincing. Following the coronation of her daughter, Elizabeth, as queen, Anne was venerated as a martyr and heroine of the English Reformation, particularly through the works of John Foxe.^[6] Over the centuries, she has inspired or been mentioned in numerous artistic and cultural works. As a result, she has retained her hold on the popular imagination. Anne has been called "the most influential and important queen consort England has ever had”, since she provided the occasion for Henry VIII to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, and declare his independence from the corrupted Rome.