I gave a writing competition a shot, for the recent Summer 1816: Creativity in Turmoil at Sheffield Gothic. The rules were simple: 500 words max, beginning with their preselected line from Shelley’s Frankenstein. My entry won 3rd prize, which is pretty cool since they were judged by some of the leading Gothic academics I’m studying. The winning entry was absolutely fantastic, which is no surprise – a romanticist scholar, published poet and playwright, Dr Monika Lee’s parody had the whole audience laughing.
So here’s my effort, with some edits – I’ve actually removed the Frankenstein opening, and adjusted my imitations of Victor’s grandiosity to fit more with the overall tone. It’ll do!
I stood back, admiring the silence that we shared. The folds of her dress crumpled together under the moth-struck flicker of the lamplight. The lank length of her hair feathered the pillow, ruffling at the crown of her head in the breeze from the open window. Her eyes – distant, deep, still pensive – looked up to the ceiling, and her parted lips were left on the verge of a word she could no longer whisper. Even so, within that expression I read a strange accusation that I had not come across before. She was saying, ‘I know you.’
I turned away and lit a cigarette. She had left a packet of Malboro on the cabinet, where the lamp hummed to the transfixed moth. I needed the air to still me, so I might savour the taste of the night: perfume and salt and smoke, thickly coating my tongue. I exhaled smoke. The blood in my temples clapped like applause; in the absence of an audience, my body congratulated itself. How strange it felt. I breathed in. Stranger still was the lingering picture of her lips etched into my eyelids as she was saying, ‘I know you.’
I looked back over my shoulder and breathed out. I wanted to alter her face, to pick up the pieces and smooth the hard line of her jaw. Make those eyes less familiar, those lips less talkative. She was saying, ‘I know you.’
Breathed in. I paced to the window, breathing out through the small crack. I gripped the window ledge, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. The streetlight outside glared at me, orange and burning and smeared in my weary vision. The cold of the night breeze clung, viscous, to my skin. At my back: ‘I know you.’
A faint shuffling sound cut my ears. Inhaling the smoke, I faced her. She had moved her left leg, I think. It had been turned outward at the knee, only slightly, curling her hip upward as if to close herself. Now it was open. Not dead. To my face: ‘I know you.’
I clung to my breath until my compressed lips pulsed against each other; I could feel my teeth penetrate the fleshy coil of my lips’ insides. Every inch of her body fell under my gaze. The moth-struck flicker of the lamplight danced along the folds of her dress. Her crown of hair ruffled in the kissing breath of air. Her eyes – distant, deep, still pensive – looked up to the ceiling. Her opened mouth, with that faint crinkle of blood in the lace of her chapped lips, clung to the words that choked me.
‘I know you.’
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