The Writers' Circle

This is a piece i have written for my GCSEs but i thought it wasnt TOO bad. Still a work in progress. Comments much appreciated :)

A rag doll lay discarded across the bed, the worn velvet quilt enveloped her fragile body. Her hand hung limply over the side of the bed clasping a double whisky with gnarled fingers. Old and worn they spoke of another life. Cheap, red lipstick clung to the tightly pursed lips, smudged and distorted, it covered its blank canvas with a sticky substance. Heavy bags hung under her eyes. Smeared mascara ran down her cheeks, its black ink painting her aristocratic cheekbones. Cat like green eyes lay dormant under wrinkled lids. Faded black hair cascaded down her face. Her pasty cloth skin contrasted against the jet black hair, once rich with colour. Tangled, unruly curls twisted, unkempt, encompassing her helpless body. Cigarette butts smouldered in the ashtray with fragments of lipstick lingering on their tips. Peeping through the dense mesh of black hair were dull crystal earrings, their teardrop shape failing to produce the splendour they once had. Spherical pearls did not shine, their grandeur lost to age. Time had changed many things. The large pendant, emerald green in colour, lay heavily suspended amongst the chains and adornments, supported on an elegant swan like neck now thin and frail. Draped around her narrow shoulders was a matted mink fur coat with glass buttons and embellished stitching. Its pastel brown bulk smothered in stains of vomit and booze and cigarette holes littering its surface, unwelcome promotion of a past willingly forgotten. Buried beneath the mass of fur, a sapphire blue satin top with lace edging clung to the emaciated waist, her ribs and spine seemed to protrude from her skin. The straw stuffing was slowly running out. A lacklustre skirt draped around her hips whilst dull colours of crimson, cobalt, jade and plum failed to dance about her brittle legs. Darkened by dirt these colours had faded with age. Thread bare and scarred, the thin material disguised the past it had once known. Her doll like legs were covered by thin, ripped material revealing the flesh beneath and ladders climbed up her calves. Soiled bandages replaced shoes. Flesh remained exposed. Glass bottles, half empty, half full, littered the floor their contents spewing on to the Persian rug. Cigarettes had left charred holes amongst the patterns and unidentifiable stains grew in patches.  Oak floorboards creaked as the bottles stirred from their drunken dreams. In a far corner the wallpaper peeled exposing blemishes of damp, and wreaking a foul odour. In another corner flies feasted on rotten food. A fine breeze drifted through the room, disturbing the chandelier above. Glass droplets sang together in harmony but the concerto remained unfinished, as half the choir had been sold for food. 
	Crash! A whisky glass falls through frail fingers. Shards of glass and brown liquor shine in what little light is present. Weighed down by jewels, her hands fall to her sides, each finger bearing a ring encrusted with gems in gold and silver casings. A dejected hand sweeps the wisps of hair from her face, and then falls exhaustedly back to her side. Rising to her feet she sways a little, steadying herself on the antique furniture. A cigarette is lit. A discarded match falls to the floor. Still intoxicated and a drum beating in her head as she clambers over broken bottles to a hidden target. Concealed by a sheet irregular shapes jar at every angle. Fingers dance across the surface their shadows taunting her mind with forgotten memories. The moment is dreaded. A breath is drawn. Muscles tense. A hand rips through the silence and specs of dust shower the room in a dark snow. The sheet sails through the air, landing gracefully upon the bed.
	My nightmare stood before me. Its antique corners chipped, its surface stained, its handles broken, its ghastly head staring, staring forever, staring at me. My mind felt paralysed, unable to think whilst my body staggered to stand upright. I could feel my heart beating, my breaths drawing in. The jewels around my neck swung heavily, a metronome never ending, counting the anxiety growing within me. One. Two. Three. Four. The world has stopped. I remain with the beast before me. It rears its ugly head and curses my name. I see what it sees, a forlorn coward, a drunk, a fallen star. I sink to my knees, the adornments I relish intertwined together. But still the beast before me stands proud, unmoved. Tears run down my face, they drip to the ground. My head hangs forwards, the tears cascade faster and faster down my skin. My eyes are clouded, shapes are camouflaged, colours distorted and I remain alone with the beast opposite me. He laughs at me, no compassion in his heart. He laughs at the pitiful creature weeping on the floor cowering like a dog.  I beg at his feet. The laughing doesn't cease. I scream, the words bitter on my tongue. Silence. One. Two Three. Four. Time passes by. Still silence. I linger on the floor my legs still weak. My tears dry, my heartbeat slows. I brush the hair from my face. I rise to confront my nightmares. Sitting upon a wooden stool we stare at one another. His antique frame engraved with roses, lavender and lacewing butterflies. My fear fades. They seemed to dance around the wood as the light shone upon them. He smelt of mahogany, of woodlands in La Ceiba, of fresh pine and fresh air. I lay my hand on his side, I felt the smooth wood and the rough grains. I felt the dents and fissures. Upon his surface dust settled and dark stains obtruded from the dark wood. Brass handles clung lifelessly to their foundation, there smooth surface had become dull, unpolished, there presence mistreated by time. Each leg adorned in decoration, vines wound there way around his leg blossoming into tulips. His feet were engraved with beautiful shapes, swirls and circles. I remember the fondness I once had for him, the one that stood before me now mimicking my every move. I counted the faces before me. One. Two. Three. Four. Four glass pools each one an answer to a different question. 
	In the first a child smiled gaily, a toy bear with one glass eye being dragged by its ear. Its worn seams beginning to break and its limbs clung precariously to single strands of thread. She ran down the hall, the pretty pink dress billowing behind her and the bear catching her ankles every other step. The hallway gleamed with polished marble and the vast windows sparkled as the light poured through their panes. The girl's leather shoes echoed as they hit the shining floor. Statues, exotic plants and portraits lined the walls. A maid in a black uniform with a white apron swept and polished one of the many ornaments that littered the entrance to the grand library. The oak doors gaped open as if to swollen the child as she passed through them. They lay embedded in a stone arch carved with gargoyles and holy saints. Its vastness seemed an attempt to intimidate those who pass beneath it but to no avail.  Within the library books concealed every surface, their leather bindings stacked in limitless piles threatening to topple over at any second. The child wove between the precarious maze of books, scarcely breathing for fear that she may demolish the skilfully balanced piles. Each wall was filled with volumes upon volumes of books, ladders obscuring them and dust was not to be found. A wooden staircase in the centre of the room, beneath a glass roof, spiralled up to yet more bookshelves. The child emerged in a clearing to find what she had been looking for. 
"Mother, will father return today?" she chirped, breaking the silence of the immense room.
"Yes," she replied with a cold tone, children new nothing of men. 
"Where has he been?"
The mother paused she had asked herself the same question, "On business, now go play I am busy."
The tone in her mothers voice did not effect the child of 5, life was simple and the girl skipped away unaware of what her mother feared. She sat there alone at her desk, she had money, a beautiful child but she feared that she would lose it all.
My mind yearned for the memory to continue, for times when life was easier and I was happy. Teasing me with fond memories of a time long ago, this is the cruelty of he whom stood before me. I remember the taste of fresh, red strawberries, plump and ripe, the sun through summer leaves and the smiles that seemed eternal in all whom I loved. So young I was so naïve, so innocent, so unaware of secrets behind closed doors. My hatred for the beast who taunted me grew, growing faster, faster. But still he taunts me, a new memory appeared upon the second dark pool.
Before me a fire, its flames tasting the hearth wall, its sparks playing amongst the embers, its ominous shadow dancing upon the walls scaring children as they stirred from their sleep. The walls of the study were dark, shadows fighting for space upon the floral wallpaper, their twisting shapes and dark corners obscured the true design. The room felt cold. A storm raged from behind the large velvet drapes their blood red even more sinister in the dark light. Two auburn wing-back armchairs presided by the fire its passengers old and worn. A cigar smouldered in the ashtray. The sweet scent of scotch and smoky aroma of Cuban cigars wafted through the room. The room remained silent. A small hand turned the handle of the oak doors and entered the study, her terrified face illustrated the nightmare that haunted her mind. Had she dreamed the gunshots she feared so much? With light feet, she crept to her parent's side. Step by step, she edged across the floor. Fear flooding her mind. She reached her fathers side. A gun lay on her mothers lap. Consumed by paranoia, death offered release. She knew her answer.  She fled. Her feet raced. Faster, faster, faster until she could run know more.   
Tears sear my cheeks as his evil taints them with acid. What cruelty, what deed could cause such evil? "STOP IT!" I scream, my chest bursting, breaking with every thought. Yet he still mocks me. My pain is his amusement. "I was just a child, it wasn't my fault!" I fall to the floor, a crumpled mess upon the floorboards. Again I scream, "I was just a child, it wasn't my fault!" I rock back and forth my knees to my chest. My hands clap over my ears but still I hear his laughter. "Stop, stop, please stop, please," I beg at his feet my voice breaking into weeping. I rock, holding my knees, I am just a child, afraid. One. Two. Three. Four. Silence falls on this room of my torment and torture. 
	Does he have no mercy? Another image appears upon the third reflection. I peep over the wooden ridge my crazed curiosity drawing me to the vivid memories. A child listened from her hiding place, her green eyes staring between a small gap in the cupboard. Three men argued frantically, papers past between them and fists slammed upon tables. Dressed smartly in black suits and briefcases in their hands they continued to discuss the case of the young countess. 
"Send her to a boarding school," declared the shortest man, quite round and plump.
"Who shall pay for that? She is an orphan and as such should be in orphanage," shouted another man with a stern expression. 
"A countess in an orphanage!" the third man objected to the contemptible idea, "it is out of the question." Still the bickering continued the same arguments repeated again and again. 
"We can't just leave her on the streets," the third man unknowingly had come up with their solution.  The girl gasped in her hiding place, trying to stifle the tears that filled her eyes and caused her to weep. The cupboard door flung open and a man's firm grip clasped around her arm with a burning pain. She lashed out at him my arms and leg flaying, trying to strike him. He held fast until she fell still. The two other men exited the room, they did not look back to see there colleague strike the girl again and again until her bloody pulp lay still on the floor. While I lay there helpless, he knelt down next to me and whispered in my ear, "You're scum and always will be, you see that," he pointed a finger at my mothers dresser in the corner, "You see that," he grabbed my hair and turned my head to face the direction of his finger. Blood dripped down my face staining its pale colour. "I want you to see me when you look at it," his voice was filled with malice, he threw my head to the floor. I didn't dare move. Business, that's all it was, business. He left. Silence. One. Two. Three. Four. Still silence. My body trembles, shivers from the cold. I am left alone in this derelict house, my parent's house, my house. No one knows the pain in which I suffer but he who mocks me still, whose jealousy and gall of those he worked for led him to mutilate a child. 
	"Stop, please stop," more laughter. My past has returned to haunt me and only one more hardship remains. Death. Death comes to all of us in different forms. Is this death taunting me? No it is he that one who cursed my name and beat my body. "I was just a child," I whimper again and again, does that make me less deserving? My mother's adornments swing on my neck, her clothes twist around me, trapping me in their grasp. I shiver, I have grown cold. No smiles have graced my lips, no laughter has graced my throat, and no love has graced my heart. Am I not already dead? 
	"Is this what you wanted?" a blank expression greets my agony. I wait, wait for the fourth memory, his final torment. I wait, it does not come. Still I wait. One. Two. Three. Four. I wait, contemplating the deed I know will fill the final page of my life. The answer lies in the fourth black pool, fourth reflection, fourth and final chapter of my suffering. Crash! The glass shatters beneath my fist. One. Two. Three. Four. Four shards of glass land upon the disfigured rug. Blood seeps down my knuckles. I reach without delay for the largest fragment. I caress it in my hands. I do not fear it. It slices through my skin. My hands fall to my sides, we continue to stare at each other. My mind grows distant, the world is vague, shapes distorted. But still I see him vivid in my mind. She falls to the floor, red ribbons spewing from her arms. Silence. One. Two. Three. Four. Still silence. The discarded rag doll lies upon the floor.