Silver to Rust

Memories can be so painful. In Angeline Fowl's case, they brutally dragged her down into an abyss of insanity. And that insanity adversely affected her son's life forever. Alternate Universe - what could have happened if Holly hadn't cured Angeline.

Written by: Stardust Firebolt

Dedicated to: Blue Yeti - for compelling me to write this idea out, and school - for stressing me out enough to make me want to turn to writing as a form of escape.

(Angeline's point of view)

I lie flat on my back and look listlessly at the ceiling, wondering what colours it will display today, other than the original white. But today it has decided to behave, so it's just white, quite normal, quite ordinary. Which is good, because at times the ceiling gets bored of its mundane life and decides to pretend that it were something else. I hate it when that happens, because it always chooses to act as a film projector. Then it begins to play the movie of my life, complete with flickering, seemingly ancient scenes that I can't quite remember and sharp, clear ones that were the most special to me. The wedding scene, for example. I don't think I would ever forget that. They say you look the most resplendent on your wedding day. Well, I think so too. And I have to add that your husband would look tremendously dashing and suave.

But I digress. The ceiling shows me the memories I've tried so hard to erase from my mind. And even though I try to forget, the ceiling relishes in tormenting people and brazenly displays them before my eyes. The audacity! I'll have to ask the maid to kill the ceiling one day. I will ask her to take a paintbrush and end its pure, clean life by splashing it all over with crimson blood. How dare it show the ugly, ugly things people call "memories"? Yes, the memories were something to cherish once, like the silver necklace I received from him. But all I see now are the vicious roots of rust which begin to curl themselves around the silver, tarnishing its beauty. Silver to rust. Such a quick change in just a space of time. Did I mention that I hate time, and I blame time? It's all time's fault that I am reduced to this pathetic state of just staring at the ceiling, and wishing, wishing, wishing. The endless waiting for his return is intense agony. After all the waiting, he has still not returned. And I constantly ask myself, "Why?" Was it because God thought I was sinning too much or if He just likes me to suffer? All that questioning and waiting has taken a toll on the little, special things in my life, like that necklace, and my memories. But the tall people in adorable white coats reckon that all that waiting has taken a toll on my mental health as well. They speak in whispers about my deteriorating sanity. My threadbare sanity. I still laugh quietly at their delusion when I remember what they say. Silly doctors, thinking they're so smart. They're wrong! I think the craziest thing has got to be the ceiling. Why don't they diagnose the ceiling and take it away? The ceiling is the malevolently evil one, it always takes out its fiery whips to lash out at me, scarring me horribly.

I don't want to risk hurting myself with hideous memories in case the ceiling decides to change its identity again, so I turn to the side. I've been doing that a lot lately - tossing and turning. I like to toss and turn because it gives me the feel of running away. Running away from what, you ask? Hmm...from everything of course. The unbearable waiting, especially. And the responsibilities I am now burdened with, because now that he's not around, I not only have to take care of Arty darling, I need to watch over the house too. But doesn't anyone understand that I have to stay in this room and wait for him? Why doesn't someone else I'm too busy waiting, and I have no time to manage household matters? Painful as the waiting is, I miss him too much to leave this room and go about my daily routine. What if I'm too caught up in my routine and begin to forget my grief? If it's something I want to cling on to, it's that sanguine hope that he will one day return, even though the days grow darker with time. And if I put my grief aside and go back to being 'normal', I might stop thinking about him. And that would be horrendous. Ah, the tendrils of love have wound themselves too tight around my ankles. They have seduced me into this trap. And all I can think about is him, him, him.

Life was much simpler then, of course. Maybe it's not a foolish fantasy if I keep hoping that I'll be back to who I was before I got married to him - young and naive. I would like to be carefree once again, and be able to love wildly and freely like a dewy-eyed child. And to rebel against the expected commitment of love. I want to just run, run, run.

But now I am forced to wait, and the time stretches longer still. I turn to the other side, and a shaft of sunlight hits me directly in the eyes. Arrrrgh! Don't they know I hate the dawn now? I know I used to like the gradient of colours splashed over the rippled surface of the sea, making it an intricately woven carpet of nature, but now I hate it for what it represents - another day! I don't want to be disappointed with another day of waiting. Stupid maid didn't close the curtains properly! Must tell Arty darling to sack her once and for all.

I hear them, I hear them again, they're coming for me. Why doesn't anyone understand? The memories are coming back again, clashing back and forth violently in my mind, even though I've told them to go away. I keep seeing Timmy, who was my childhood sweetheart, the 'he' I was talking about, the one who did not return. The memories keep on wanting to torture me so that they can laugh at the state I've become. It's so unfair, it's so unfair, it really hurts. Oh, Mummy!

I see it. I see it all, the movie of my life. Timmy darling is calling me from school now, so faithfully and loyally like the sweetheart he is, blinded by love. When did passion drive everyone so crazy? When did emotion overcome logic? The scenes keep jumping back and forth, and I want them to stop, my heart is hurting so much. No more, no more, no more! Why are they driving me crazy?

Timmy giving me the silver necklace, Timmy getting down on his knees and proposing. Me accepting, and Timmy giving me a kiss. Someone presses the rewind button on the video recorder and my memories backtrack, stopping to one where Timmy gives me flowers. Then Timmy and me at the beach. Timmy and me walking in the park. Timmy sitting beside me on the bench, saying nothing, letting silence speak for us.

No, no, please. Don't make me cry. I don't want to think about him anymore, get him out of my head, out of my head. The memories are being irritating centipedes that are crawling all over my brain, out of my ears, then all over my skin, making me tingle. I keep trying to tell Arty that they're coming after me, but he doesn't seem to understand. I shiver - with fear of confronting my memories, or anger at them tormenting me, or excessive grief, I don't know. Maybe the tall men in white coats will examine me again and diagnose me with something I haven't heard of. They sacrifice what I feel for their own scientific terms. They don't understand. They won't ever. They just pretend. They just want to show off their qualifications.

But Timmy won't get out of my head. He was always that stubborn.

I have to think of something else. Something else, to stop this prickly feeling behind my eyeballs, to stop the onslaught of tears. I've cried enough. No more. NO MORE.

Mr. Simon. Yes, my maths teacher. That's a memory good enough. He was the strict one who would always whack me with a ruler if I forgot my multiplication tables.

One times six is six. Two times six is twelve. Three times six is eighteen. Four times six is twenty-four. Five times six is thirty. Very good, Angeline, you're getting there. Very good, very good, very good. You're forgetting Timmy. Six times six is thirty-six. Seven times six is forty-two. Eight times six is forty-eight.

And I delight in the fact that the silver necklace continues to rust.