ooc; visions
The ground shimmers and pitches beneath me.
What is happening?
Move. Must move, but I can't. A strange tingle starts in my fingers, travels up my arms, into my chest. My whole body trembles. A terrible pressure squeezes the breath from me, weighs me down to my knees. Panic blooms in my mouth like weeds. I want to scream. No words will come. No sound. He reaches me as I fall to the ground. Want to tell him to help me. Focus on his face, his full lips, perfect as a bow. His thick dark curls fall across his eyes, deep, brown, foot-long-lashes eyes. Alarmed eyes.
Help me.
The words stick fast inside me. I'm no longer afraid of losing my virtue; I know I must be dying. Try to get my mouth to tell him this but there is nothing but a choking sound in my throat. A strong smell of rose and spice overpowers me as the horizon slips away, my eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay awake. It's his lips that part, move, speak.
His voice that says, "It's happening."
The pressure increases till I feel I will burst and then I'm under, a swirling tunnel of blinding color and light pulling me down like an undertow. I fall forever. Images race by. I'm falling past the ten-year-old me playing with Julia, the rag doll I lost on a picnic a year later; I'm six, letting Sarita wash my face for dinner. Time spins backward and I am three, two, a baby, and then something pale and foreign, a creature no bigger tan a tadpole and just as fragile. The strong tide grabs me hard again, pulling me through a veil of blackness, till I see the twisting streets in India again. I am a visitor, walking in a living dream, no sound except for the thumping of my heart, my breath going in and out, the swish of my own blood coursing through my veins. On the rooftops above me, the organ-grinder's monkey scampers quickly, baring teeth. I try to speak but find I can't. He hopes onto another roof. A shop where dried herbs hang from the eaves and a small moon-and-eye symbol--the same as on my mother's necklace--is affixed to the door. A woman comes quickly up the sloping street. A woman with red-gold hair, a blue dress, white gloves. My mother. What is my mother doing here? She should be at Mrs. Talbot's house, drinking tea and discussing fabric.
My name floats from her lips. Gemma. Gemma. She's come looking for me. The Indian man in the turban is just behind her. She doesn't hear him. I call out to her, my mouth making no sound. With one hand, she pushes open the shop's door and enters. I follow her in, the pounding of my heart growing louder and faster. She must know the man is behind her. She must hear his breath now. But she only looks forward.
The man pulls a dagger from inside his cloak, but still she doesn't turn. I feel as if I'll be sick. I want to stop her, pull her away. Every step forward is like pushing against the air, lifting my legs an agony of slow movement. The man stops, listening. His eyes widen. He's afraid.
There's something coiled, waiting in the shadows at the back of the shop. It's as if the dark has begun to move. How can it be moving? But it is, with a cold, slithering sound that makes my skin crawl. A dark shape spreads out from its hiding spot. It grows till it reaches all around. The blackness in the center of the thing is swirling and the sound...the most ghastly cries and moans come from inside it.
The man rushes forward, and the thing moves over him. It devours him. Now it looms over my mother and speaks to her in a slick hiss.
"Come to us, pretty one. We've been waiting..."
My scream implodes inside me. Mother looks back, sees the dagger lying there, grabs it. The thing howls in outrage. She's going to fight it. She's going to be all right. A single tear escapes down her cheek as she closes her desperate eyes, says my name soft as a prayer, Gemma. In one swift motion, she raises the dagger and plunges it into herself.
No!
A strong tide yanks me from the shop. I'm back on the streets of Bombay, as if I'd never been gone, screaming wildly while the young Indian man pins my flailing arms at my side.
A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray. p. 13-15.
Think? I can't think. He begins to remove the other glove. My body arches, goes tight. Oh, God, it's happening. It's happening. Over the rounded bow of Simon's back, I see the room shimmering, feel my body tensing with the vision. The last thing I hear is Simon's concerned voice saying "Gemma, Gemma!" and then I'm falling, falling into that black hole.
The three girls in white. They float just beyond Simon. "We've found it. We've found the Temple. Look and see...."
I'm following them quickly through the realms, to the top of a hill. I can hear cries. Fast, we're going fast. The hill falls away, and there is the most magnificent cathedral I've ever seen. It shimmers like a mirage. The Temple.
"Hurry...," the girls whisper. "Before they find it."
Behind them, dark clouds gather. Wind blows their hair about their pale, shadowed faces. Something's coming. Something's coming up behind them. It rises up and over them like a dark phoenix. A great black winged creature. The girls don't look, they don't see. But I do. It opens its wings till they fill the sky, revealing the thing inside, a churning horror of faces crying out.
And then I'm screaming.
Rebel Angels by Libba Bray. p. 415.
It comes over me so suddenly I can scarcely draw a breath. One moment, I see the turret and the men, and the next, it's sliding sideways. I'm in a tunnel, being pulled fast. And then I am inside the vision.
I'm in a small room. Strong smell. Makes me gag. Birds shriek. Wilhelmina Wyatt writes on the walls, a woman possessed. The light's too dim. And what I see jerks about like a windup toy. Words: Sacrifice. Lies. Monster. The birth of May.
The scene shifts and I see little Mina with Sarah Rees-Toome. "What do you see in the dark, Mina? Show me."
I see Mina on the back lawn of Spence smiling up at the gargoyles. And then I see her drawing a perfect likeness of the East Wing, drawing the lines I have seen stretching across the earth. The scene is washed away, and now Wilhelmina writes a letter, the words etched with angry strokes: You've ignored my warnings....I shall expose you...
"Miss? Miss?" My eyes flutter open for the briefest of moments to see Mr. Miller's men crowded around me on the lawn, and then I'm in the dim room again. Wilhelmina sits on the floor, the dagger in her hands. The dagger! She takes out a small leather roll, which she unties to reveal a syringe and vials. Carefully, she wraps the dagger in the leather pouch. So that's where it is! All I need to do is--
Wilhelmina rolls up her sleeve, exposing her arm. She taps fingers against the veins at the bend of her elbow. She plunges the syringe into it and lets go, and I feel a whoosh inside me.
"Miss!" someone calls.
I come to on the back lawn in the soaking rain. My heart beats wildly out of time. My teeth grind. A strange exhilaration takes hold.
"She's smilin', so she must be awl righ'," one of the men says.
I feel very odd. The cocaine. I've been joined to Wilhelmina Wyatt. I feel what she does. But how? The magic. It's changing. Changing what I see and feel.
The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray. p. 475-476
"This is what it's come to," I say, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. "Only the dead want my company."
My knees are the first to go. The force of my vision is so violent, I sink to the ground, clutching my stomach. My muscles are taut. The sky seems to tear in two; the clouds are limned in red.
God. Can't breathe. Can't...
Wilhelmina Wyatt stands among the headstones, her face contorted with fury. She grabs hold of my hair and drags me toward the graves. I kick and fight, but she's strong. When we reach Eugenia Spence's grave, she gives me a hard shove, and I fall, watching in horror as the ground closes over me.
"No, no, no!" I scrabble at the sides of the grave with my fingernails, crying, desperate. "Let me out!"
The earth falls away, and I am standing on the heath in the Winterlands before the Tree of All Souls. I see Eugenia's frightened eyes. "Save us...," she pleads.
I kick for all I'm worth. The grave collapses, and I cover my eyes as the dirt rains down on me.
It is silent. I hear...girls playing. Laughter. I take down my hands and open one eye. I'm on my back in the cemetery. The breeze brings the sounds of a croquet game on the back lawn. There is dirt on my boots and my skirts where I've been writhing. Wilhelmina is gone. I am alone. Eugenia Spence's grave is whole. The violet I dropped is there, and all I can do is sob--out of fright and frustration.
On rubbery legs, I weave through the gravestones. The crows descend like black raindrops. They light on the headstones. I put my hands to my ears to silence their hideous caws but they crawl under my skin like a poison.
I stagger down the hill and sit, crying softly, hugging my knees to my chest. If I hadn't kicked my way out of that grave...
Or was I even there?
The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray. p. 598-599.
What is happening?
Move. Must move, but I can't. A strange tingle starts in my fingers, travels up my arms, into my chest. My whole body trembles. A terrible pressure squeezes the breath from me, weighs me down to my knees. Panic blooms in my mouth like weeds. I want to scream. No words will come. No sound. He reaches me as I fall to the ground. Want to tell him to help me. Focus on his face, his full lips, perfect as a bow. His thick dark curls fall across his eyes, deep, brown, foot-long-lashes eyes. Alarmed eyes.
Help me.
The words stick fast inside me. I'm no longer afraid of losing my virtue; I know I must be dying. Try to get my mouth to tell him this but there is nothing but a choking sound in my throat. A strong smell of rose and spice overpowers me as the horizon slips away, my eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay awake. It's his lips that part, move, speak.
His voice that says, "It's happening."
The pressure increases till I feel I will burst and then I'm under, a swirling tunnel of blinding color and light pulling me down like an undertow. I fall forever. Images race by. I'm falling past the ten-year-old me playing with Julia, the rag doll I lost on a picnic a year later; I'm six, letting Sarita wash my face for dinner. Time spins backward and I am three, two, a baby, and then something pale and foreign, a creature no bigger tan a tadpole and just as fragile. The strong tide grabs me hard again, pulling me through a veil of blackness, till I see the twisting streets in India again. I am a visitor, walking in a living dream, no sound except for the thumping of my heart, my breath going in and out, the swish of my own blood coursing through my veins. On the rooftops above me, the organ-grinder's monkey scampers quickly, baring teeth. I try to speak but find I can't. He hopes onto another roof. A shop where dried herbs hang from the eaves and a small moon-and-eye symbol--the same as on my mother's necklace--is affixed to the door. A woman comes quickly up the sloping street. A woman with red-gold hair, a blue dress, white gloves. My mother. What is my mother doing here? She should be at Mrs. Talbot's house, drinking tea and discussing fabric.
My name floats from her lips. Gemma. Gemma. She's come looking for me. The Indian man in the turban is just behind her. She doesn't hear him. I call out to her, my mouth making no sound. With one hand, she pushes open the shop's door and enters. I follow her in, the pounding of my heart growing louder and faster. She must know the man is behind her. She must hear his breath now. But she only looks forward.
The man pulls a dagger from inside his cloak, but still she doesn't turn. I feel as if I'll be sick. I want to stop her, pull her away. Every step forward is like pushing against the air, lifting my legs an agony of slow movement. The man stops, listening. His eyes widen. He's afraid.
There's something coiled, waiting in the shadows at the back of the shop. It's as if the dark has begun to move. How can it be moving? But it is, with a cold, slithering sound that makes my skin crawl. A dark shape spreads out from its hiding spot. It grows till it reaches all around. The blackness in the center of the thing is swirling and the sound...the most ghastly cries and moans come from inside it.
The man rushes forward, and the thing moves over him. It devours him. Now it looms over my mother and speaks to her in a slick hiss.
"Come to us, pretty one. We've been waiting..."
My scream implodes inside me. Mother looks back, sees the dagger lying there, grabs it. The thing howls in outrage. She's going to fight it. She's going to be all right. A single tear escapes down her cheek as she closes her desperate eyes, says my name soft as a prayer, Gemma. In one swift motion, she raises the dagger and plunges it into herself.
No!
A strong tide yanks me from the shop. I'm back on the streets of Bombay, as if I'd never been gone, screaming wildly while the young Indian man pins my flailing arms at my side.
A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray. p. 13-15.
Think? I can't think. He begins to remove the other glove. My body arches, goes tight. Oh, God, it's happening. It's happening. Over the rounded bow of Simon's back, I see the room shimmering, feel my body tensing with the vision. The last thing I hear is Simon's concerned voice saying "Gemma, Gemma!" and then I'm falling, falling into that black hole.
The three girls in white. They float just beyond Simon. "We've found it. We've found the Temple. Look and see...."
I'm following them quickly through the realms, to the top of a hill. I can hear cries. Fast, we're going fast. The hill falls away, and there is the most magnificent cathedral I've ever seen. It shimmers like a mirage. The Temple.
"Hurry...," the girls whisper. "Before they find it."
Behind them, dark clouds gather. Wind blows their hair about their pale, shadowed faces. Something's coming. Something's coming up behind them. It rises up and over them like a dark phoenix. A great black winged creature. The girls don't look, they don't see. But I do. It opens its wings till they fill the sky, revealing the thing inside, a churning horror of faces crying out.
And then I'm screaming.
Rebel Angels by Libba Bray. p. 415.
It comes over me so suddenly I can scarcely draw a breath. One moment, I see the turret and the men, and the next, it's sliding sideways. I'm in a tunnel, being pulled fast. And then I am inside the vision.
I'm in a small room. Strong smell. Makes me gag. Birds shriek. Wilhelmina Wyatt writes on the walls, a woman possessed. The light's too dim. And what I see jerks about like a windup toy. Words: Sacrifice. Lies. Monster. The birth of May.
The scene shifts and I see little Mina with Sarah Rees-Toome. "What do you see in the dark, Mina? Show me."
I see Mina on the back lawn of Spence smiling up at the gargoyles. And then I see her drawing a perfect likeness of the East Wing, drawing the lines I have seen stretching across the earth. The scene is washed away, and now Wilhelmina writes a letter, the words etched with angry strokes: You've ignored my warnings....I shall expose you...
"Miss? Miss?" My eyes flutter open for the briefest of moments to see Mr. Miller's men crowded around me on the lawn, and then I'm in the dim room again. Wilhelmina sits on the floor, the dagger in her hands. The dagger! She takes out a small leather roll, which she unties to reveal a syringe and vials. Carefully, she wraps the dagger in the leather pouch. So that's where it is! All I need to do is--
Wilhelmina rolls up her sleeve, exposing her arm. She taps fingers against the veins at the bend of her elbow. She plunges the syringe into it and lets go, and I feel a whoosh inside me.
"Miss!" someone calls.
I come to on the back lawn in the soaking rain. My heart beats wildly out of time. My teeth grind. A strange exhilaration takes hold.
"She's smilin', so she must be awl righ'," one of the men says.
I feel very odd. The cocaine. I've been joined to Wilhelmina Wyatt. I feel what she does. But how? The magic. It's changing. Changing what I see and feel.
The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray. p. 475-476
"This is what it's come to," I say, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. "Only the dead want my company."
My knees are the first to go. The force of my vision is so violent, I sink to the ground, clutching my stomach. My muscles are taut. The sky seems to tear in two; the clouds are limned in red.
God. Can't breathe. Can't...
Wilhelmina Wyatt stands among the headstones, her face contorted with fury. She grabs hold of my hair and drags me toward the graves. I kick and fight, but she's strong. When we reach Eugenia Spence's grave, she gives me a hard shove, and I fall, watching in horror as the ground closes over me.
"No, no, no!" I scrabble at the sides of the grave with my fingernails, crying, desperate. "Let me out!"
The earth falls away, and I am standing on the heath in the Winterlands before the Tree of All Souls. I see Eugenia's frightened eyes. "Save us...," she pleads.
I kick for all I'm worth. The grave collapses, and I cover my eyes as the dirt rains down on me.
It is silent. I hear...girls playing. Laughter. I take down my hands and open one eye. I'm on my back in the cemetery. The breeze brings the sounds of a croquet game on the back lawn. There is dirt on my boots and my skirts where I've been writhing. Wilhelmina is gone. I am alone. Eugenia Spence's grave is whole. The violet I dropped is there, and all I can do is sob--out of fright and frustration.
On rubbery legs, I weave through the gravestones. The crows descend like black raindrops. They light on the headstones. I put my hands to my ears to silence their hideous caws but they crawl under my skin like a poison.
I stagger down the hill and sit, crying softly, hugging my knees to my chest. If I hadn't kicked my way out of that grave...
Or was I even there?
The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray. p. 598-599.