A background in drabbles
Kensington, 1912
“University?”
Her father sounds astonished at the very idea. Outside the door, Elizabeth Morris crosses her fingers and hopes. She knows that this isn’t what he wants. He wants her to be like her older sister. He wants her to be pretty, and obliging and marry a nice boy and settle down. But she’s not nice enough to look at for that; she’s small and pudgy and short sighted which makes her squint when her mother takes her spectacles away from her. The only place she’s ever really fitted in is at school and she doesn’t want that to end.
St Hilda’s, 1914
“You’re enlisting?”
They are at a tea party at St Hilda’s; properly chaperoned, of course, because everything at the women’s colleges is. Still, he is there, and he’s smiling at Elizabeth with that wonderful smile which she knows is reserved for her.
“Of course,” he says. “It would be the grossest dereliction of duty not to do so,” and Elizabeth feels a strange clutching sensation inside which she can’t explain. Her fiancé (her almost fiancé, for he hasn’t had permission from her father yet) smiles and takes her hand.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It will all be over by Christmas,”
Kensington, 1918
The fever hasn’t broken, like the doctor said it would. Instead it’s grown worse, and now Elizabeth is wrapped up in a fever dream that is taking her far away from here. In her dreams she is dancing with her fiancé again. He isn’t dead, somewhere in the muddy fields of France. He’s here instead, holding her in his arms.
Somewhere, far away, someone is crying, but Elizabeth barely hears them now. She’s lost in her own world, sinking into a delirium she won’t come out of.
“Come away with me,” he whispers, and tilts her face up towards him.
Leeds, 1920
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
It’s a question she asks often. Her Sire has never answered it to her satisfaction. He’s given her answers, talked about the chosen, of the disease which made her bright in his eyes. He’s spouted religion. Elizabeth rejects it all.
She doesn’t believe in his god. She doesn’t believe in any god, either cruel or benevolent, although she’s tried. Life is too random, too arbitrary for that. She doesn’t believe and she hates the trail of disease her Sire and all his childer leave in their wake.
She just doesn’t know how to leave.
London, 1950
There’s another purge. It’s been the third since 1920, and they’ve had to flee another city. Now they are here, in London and her Sire is bright with hatred for the clean and the living. Elizabeth finds that more and more she agrees with him. Why should they be so bright, so happy? Why should they live whilst she and her people had to die?
There’s malice in her too these days, and she revels in her own endless sickliness.
Why should they all live so bright and so loud when she will always be sickly, weak, and ever dying?
York 2010
Enough. Elizabeth is tired of torpor.
She’s tired of being beaten up, tired of the hurt, of the fear, of everything that comes with being a Morbus. She’s fed up of never knowing if each day will be her last, and frankly, the ill will against the living is wearing kind of thin. Her old doubts are coming back to her. Is there really a god? Could there be? Why would he go to so much trouble just for this?
She isn’t sure what has finally pushed her over the edge. All she knows is that now she is done.
London, 2011
The court is busy, bright and bustling, and Miss Elizabeth Morris is afraid. She hasn’t been to a court since the last time she was woken from torpor, to be handed back to her Sire. She was scared then and she’s scared now. She hates courts, she hates the crush of people, the mass of potential enemies.
But she needs to be here. She’s left her Sire, at last, and needs some kind of protection. She’ll find it somehow, and she’ll find it here.
This time it will be different. She’ll start again. She’s going to be safe this time.
“University?”
Her father sounds astonished at the very idea. Outside the door, Elizabeth Morris crosses her fingers and hopes. She knows that this isn’t what he wants. He wants her to be like her older sister. He wants her to be pretty, and obliging and marry a nice boy and settle down. But she’s not nice enough to look at for that; she’s small and pudgy and short sighted which makes her squint when her mother takes her spectacles away from her. The only place she’s ever really fitted in is at school and she doesn’t want that to end.
St Hilda’s, 1914
“You’re enlisting?”
They are at a tea party at St Hilda’s; properly chaperoned, of course, because everything at the women’s colleges is. Still, he is there, and he’s smiling at Elizabeth with that wonderful smile which she knows is reserved for her.
“Of course,” he says. “It would be the grossest dereliction of duty not to do so,” and Elizabeth feels a strange clutching sensation inside which she can’t explain. Her fiancé (her almost fiancé, for he hasn’t had permission from her father yet) smiles and takes her hand.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It will all be over by Christmas,”
Kensington, 1918
The fever hasn’t broken, like the doctor said it would. Instead it’s grown worse, and now Elizabeth is wrapped up in a fever dream that is taking her far away from here. In her dreams she is dancing with her fiancé again. He isn’t dead, somewhere in the muddy fields of France. He’s here instead, holding her in his arms.
Somewhere, far away, someone is crying, but Elizabeth barely hears them now. She’s lost in her own world, sinking into a delirium she won’t come out of.
“Come away with me,” he whispers, and tilts her face up towards him.
Leeds, 1920
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
It’s a question she asks often. Her Sire has never answered it to her satisfaction. He’s given her answers, talked about the chosen, of the disease which made her bright in his eyes. He’s spouted religion. Elizabeth rejects it all.
She doesn’t believe in his god. She doesn’t believe in any god, either cruel or benevolent, although she’s tried. Life is too random, too arbitrary for that. She doesn’t believe and she hates the trail of disease her Sire and all his childer leave in their wake.
She just doesn’t know how to leave.
London, 1950
There’s another purge. It’s been the third since 1920, and they’ve had to flee another city. Now they are here, in London and her Sire is bright with hatred for the clean and the living. Elizabeth finds that more and more she agrees with him. Why should they be so bright, so happy? Why should they live whilst she and her people had to die?
There’s malice in her too these days, and she revels in her own endless sickliness.
Why should they all live so bright and so loud when she will always be sickly, weak, and ever dying?
York 2010
Enough. Elizabeth is tired of torpor.
She’s tired of being beaten up, tired of the hurt, of the fear, of everything that comes with being a Morbus. She’s fed up of never knowing if each day will be her last, and frankly, the ill will against the living is wearing kind of thin. Her old doubts are coming back to her. Is there really a god? Could there be? Why would he go to so much trouble just for this?
She isn’t sure what has finally pushed her over the edge. All she knows is that now she is done.
London, 2011
The court is busy, bright and bustling, and Miss Elizabeth Morris is afraid. She hasn’t been to a court since the last time she was woken from torpor, to be handed back to her Sire. She was scared then and she’s scared now. She hates courts, she hates the crush of people, the mass of potential enemies.
But she needs to be here. She’s left her Sire, at last, and needs some kind of protection. She’ll find it somehow, and she’ll find it here.
This time it will be different. She’ll start again. She’s going to be safe this time.