LMS VII: Novel

Currently Eastern European Summer Time lol, but will be EST starting July.

I don't really have a title for this novel yet, but I've been building it up for years and I was planning on launching it this year, so this was my perfect opportunity. I'm kind of competitive. I'll be posting the chapters here! I've posted one chapter (The Stone Baby) on here and bits and pieces related to the project recently. I'm excited!!

Chapter I

Far away, hidden in the formidable northern seas, is a small island that no one can find unless they are led to it by the cold, steady hands of fate. It is desolate, and no vegetation grows. No living organism, whether plant, animal, or fungus would dare to anger the jagged dark rock that rules this place.
The island is shaped like a teardrop and at the topmost point, there is a mountain. For millennia, the sea has attempted to soften this mountain as it has many others, but it has yet to succeed. The mountain is as jagged and sharp as it was when it first formed. Not even snow can rest in its valleys as it immediately melts and runs to the sea. The rain is no braver and jumps back into the clouds it came from, leaving the mountain dry and desiccated. The rock that it is made of is so dark that not even sunlight, as rare as it comes, is able to bounce off of its crests and slopes, leaving it as a sharp, black void that neither the Earth nor Sun can close.
On the edges of the island there are dead bodies, human bodies that have now degraded into skeletons as time has passed. They seem to be the only thing the island holds onto, as clusters of its rock form around the skeletons’ limbs, insisting on not letting go of the vacant abodes of the poor souls that were led there. And to further prove its point, the rock also grows out of their eye sockets and between their ribs, making sure that not even the sea is able to wash them away.
In the very center of this island, facing this ominous mountain, is a large castle. It is worn down and decrepit. Where there is supposed to be a moat, there is only dry rock and rubble. The drawbridge, made of oak, is adorned with ornate carvings that are now scarred from the breaks in the rotting wood. It has not been let down for many years and the iron chains that hold it to the curtain wall are quite rusted. It is a miracle that the drawbridge is held up at all. Three of the four barbicans positioned on either side of the drawbridge no longer had watchmen and were abandoned. The stones that made them were loose and would fall at unpredictable times into the moat. The stairs that led up to the supposed post were missing and what was left of them could not be depended on to hold any kind of weight. The sole barbican that was functional was hardly in a better state than the rest and in it lived a watchman. If a ship were to pass by the island, the passengers would see his neon green eyes glow through the fog from it. He is always watching and never sleeps.
In better days, there were four watch towers and two flanking towers that were included in the curtain wall, but two of the watch towers and one of the flanking towers have fallen and the others remain unused. The chemin de ronde can no longer be called so as half of it no longer exists and its machicolations are now large holes. The corbels that separated each one were sculpted to be fierce, open-mouthed dragons, but they are now worn down and disfigured, with each face displaying varied expressions of anguish and despair.
Past the curtain wall is the lower bailey. It is mostly empty, but there are remains of stables and mews where the horses and hunting birds, respectively, used to be housed. A blacksmith’s and a carpenter’s workshop can also be found nearby along with a tiler’s kiln and a stonemason’s lodge. The bakery in the dependency is the only structure in the lower bailey that is active, and the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods can be smelled all the way from the corps de logis every night. Across from the aforementioned structures are the garrisons, the animal pens, and the storage facilities like the granary, barn, and storehouse’s back wall, which is where the buttresses for the inner wall were located.
This inner wall is in a better state than its outer counterpart. It is mostly intact and housed the gatehouse as well as the portcullis. The portcullis, in particular, is one of the only things in the castle that is consistently taken care of and fortified. There are five iron bars that were installed vertically and another five installed horizontally, which made uniform square holes all throughout. The iron has no signs of rust and each bar is about three inches thick. Its winch is located right above it in the gatehouse room, where a sole guard lives.
On the other side of the inner wall is the upper bailey. Located there is the donjon, corps de logis, and mosque. There is also a well, but no water comes out, so it’s essentially just a hole in the ground. The donjon is a large dragon head with two horns serving as its watchtowers. It is around five times larger than the mosque, a poor thing that was forgotten a long time ago. The corps de logis, the supposed pièce de résistance, is the biggest shame of this architectural nightmare. It was once very beautiful and grand, painted with gold and adorned with pearls, but the roof now sags and the entire edifice has grown to be the same color as the rest of the island, a soulless black. The windows are all shut and forever curtained, not allowing anyone to see what is inside.
In this wretched building lives a man, who calls himself a king, his wife, and their three children; two daughters and a son. The children, now adults, have never seen another home and they were content with this until the eldest child, a woman of twenty-two years, saw something she could not forget.

I am that daughter and I will get out of here. Dead. Or. Alive.

Chapter II

The name that I was given was not the name I was born with. This is so because my father aimed to not just keep me imprisoned physically, but also spiritually. A soul that does not know its name is easier to control than one that knows itself and its purpose. To my detriment, I have yet to find out my true name and I’ve been on Earth for twenty-two years.
My father comes from a long line of men and women who were gifted magical abilities to help make the world a better place. These magical abilities were quite diverse and ranged from being intellectually gifted, commanding animals, to the elemental, although the latter two were rare. With these abilities, my family helped advance civilization, bring on justice against oppressors, and maintain peace. However, as expected from man, over the course of centuries, more and more members of my family used these magical abilities for their own gain and now, as punishment, these abilities only come around every couple of generations. My father, somehow, was one of those lucky generations. He has the ability to manipulate rock to his will. Unfortunately, he has only used this ability to serve himself and destroy others through building this island and trapping us here.
I was also born with magical abilities and these said abilities mirrored my father’s, but I was never great at developing them. In fact, I lost these abilities altogether only this last summer. I fell ill and have been unable to recover them since. Paired with this loss is an awful sickness. It makes me see things that no one else on the island sees. I am tortured by these awful sights and no one else shares in my plight. My mother and sister do not believe what I see. They don’t see the black rock, the skeletons, the way they actually look. The way my father looks… No one sees these things. Everyday, I have to pretend that I am fine and that I am sharing in their hallucinations. It is very difficult to pretend you are living in a paradise when all you see is hell. When my father found out I had lost my abilities, he was very angry with me. He said that he knew since the beginning that I was a stain on his legacy and that I wasn’t going to amount to anything. He continues to view me with disdain and treats me as an inconvenience.
Another symptom of this illness is that I am constantly exhausted and in pain. My father’s venom glows under my skin and it concentrates on certain areas of my body at random times. Recently, it has been my lower back. It’s hard to sit sometimes, let alone move. The sharp pain yells at me that I am not good enough and will never get anywhere; that I will always remain in this prison…
My sister, Marwa, shares a similar illness although hers is much more advanced. She lays in her bed all day and never wants to do anything. She tells me everything is fine, but I see the venom and how much it has spread. For me, it ripples and disappears all throughout my body. But for her, the vein-like streaks remain and their glow has only grown stronger over time. Her eyes are the most telling sign that she is in a dire state. They are glazed over and have lost their vibrance. I try to stick around and help, but it is frustrating when someone won’t put in the effort into themselves despite being given the tools to do so…
I am now sitting in my room. It is the only place in the entire castle where I feel somewhat safe. It has a simple setup. There is a blanket, a pillow, and some small things that I own. Most of them being seashells. There is also a small window. When I look out of it, I mostly see the sharp black rock that infests this island, but through the cracks, I see the sea. Sometimes, I put my hand out and try to imagine that I can touch it, but all I feel is the cold. My father told me a long time ago that the sea wanted to kill us, so the island was keeping us safe. But, it’s harder to believe those words now when I see a man with black eyes and sharp canines oozing neon green venom saying them.
I usually stay in my room all day if I can help it. The only time I leave is for dinner. This is also when my father has his sermons. Other than that, I stay in here and am either reading, pacing around my room, or both. I love to read and to learn in general. For example, I taught myself how to sing and it helps me during my episodes when the venom gets really bad. I also whisper to myself to process my thoughts better. I don’t have any friends, so I’m my best and only companion. I essentially give myself lectures about life and try to understand why things are the way they are or why I agree or don’t disagree with something. I’ve been interrupted quite a few times during these tangents and both of my parents look at me like there is something wrong. They used to lecture me about it, but have seen that it’s done nothing, so they now pretend that it doesn’t happen.
Sometimes, I think that me being so content in my own mind is a sign that I will never be able to actualize anything. I get so obsessed with developing ideas in my own mind, that by the time I try to make these thoughts real, I am exhausted and too lazy to do the work to follow through. My mind is a prison that I hold the key to open, but refuse to as it would require effort and consistency. Maybe I deserve to be here after all. No one would want a useless idle dreamer out in the world.

Chapter III

I suddenly hear a buzz coming out of my phone. I knew what it was before I looked at the screen. My father. He was the only person who could call and communicate with me. I didn’t want to leave my room, but it didn’t matter. I would have to go out there anyway or I would get in trouble. I stared at the phone for awhile before answering it. “Alo?” I say quietly. “Alo, salam alaykum.” I feel myself already getting drained. “Wa alaykumu salam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatu.” I greet back, hoping that maybe somehow, by some miracle, I don’t have to do what I have to do. “It’s time for dinner, habibti,” my father says joyfully. I roll my eyes at the term of endearment. “Okay, I’m coming right now.” I say before he hangs up on me. I take a deep breath. It’s been awhile since I’ve really felt anything in this place other than exhaustion or melancholy. I am living in constant brain fog and can hardly find the way through the forest. I don’t want to deal with this monster again. This thought repeats itself over and over again as I slowly get off the floor and walk towards the door. I have the strongest urge to slam it open, but I don’t. I turn the handle and slowly pull it towards me, revealing the dark, dilapidated walls that have haunted me these past two years. I look down at the staircase and wish I could throw myself down upon them. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. I wish Allah could decide that my life should end right here and now and I can finally be free of this prison. I close my eyes tightly, ruminating over this, only to open them and to see that nothing has changed…
I look to my left and see my brother’s room. I see him sitting on his bed and looking my way, smiling. Unlike the rest of us, my brother doesn’t have to come to dinner. My father’s sermons and spells don’t work on him and as a result, my father does not see him as a real man. Instead, he sees him as a failed attempt at an heir. I smile back at him. “You’re so lucky,” I whisper to myself before finally heading down the stairs to seal my fate.
As I arrive to the dining room I am immediately welcomed by my father’s gaze. His eyes glow an unrelenting neon green and his teeth, especially his canines, shine a pearly white. It hurts to look at him. He knows that I hate it, but I can’t break. I have to pretend that I don’t see what I see. “Salam alaykum,” I mumble as I take my seat next to my sister. I’m surprised that she even made it to the table, honestly. I turn to her and give her a tight-lipped smile. She glances at me meekly before her eyes return to look at her plate. A plate that she will take hours to finish due to her illness.
“_____, give me your plate so I can give you your food.” I snap up to see my mother, pale as a sheet, giving me a weak smile as her shaky hand stretches to take my plate. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her under eyes are dark. My mom always looks awful, to be frank, but today, she looks worse than usual. Between me and my sister, only one of us knows why. I only have to glance on the left side of her neck to see the marks. My father has fed on her again. I feel his nauseating gaze rest on my cheek and decide to not meet it. He knows that I know. I absentmindedly give my mother my plate, but cannot take my eyes off of the bite. The holes are small, but I see the redness surrounding them. My mother seems to have noticed me staring as she tries to cover it up. “What’s wrong with you, _____? Stop staring like that,” she says, and I turn away to look at my sister. I try to see if she sees what I see, but she doesn’t dare look at me. I stare down at the table in thought. I wonder what my father will try to poison us with today.
My mother gives me my plate and sits down. She doesn’t get a plate and just watches us. She doesn’t usually eat at the table anyway. My father then begins to speak. “How’s everyone’s day been going?” Me and my sister both mumble that everything is fine and there’s nothing new to report. As always. He gives us a slight nod and speaks again. “_____, I saw that you were staring at your mother. What was that about?” I look at him confused. Why would he even bring it up and what does he expect me to say? What is he getting at? “Umm….” I look around frantically like I will find the answer written on the walls or something. I don’t know whether to be honest or act dumb.“My answer comes out as a cross-over between a mumble and a whisper. A wumble, if you will. “I just zoned out, sorry.” My father then starts laughing. “You’ll understand when you finally get married,” he says as he starts to gobble up his food. I fight the urge to strangle him and shoot a murderous look at my mother, hoping that maybe the veiled threat would wake her up. Her expression remains blank. As it always does. Her eyes used to be the color of a pond in spring, but that abhorrent neon green has taken over. The only reason I even know what they used to look like is because of pictures. I hate her. She’s better off dead and she’s so damn useless. Why couldn’t I have had a real mother? Why must I be content by this zombie who just cooks, cleans, and hardly utters a word that doesn’t belong to my father? It’s pathetic.
I hardly touch my food as the dinner goes on. My father continues to chatter about how great his marriage with my mother is and how this is the healthiest marriage we will ever see. It takes everything within me to not throw my plate in his face when it’s finally over. It is only that I noticed that my sister had trouble getting up from her seat, that I didn’t go through with it. I carry her upstairs to her room and make sure she is comfortable. I am about to leave before she calls for me. I huff and turn. “What, Marwa?” She beckons me to come closer with all her strength and holds my hand. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.” I can’t decide how to feel, disgusted or sympathetic. I guess it’s something in between. I slowly nod and turn to go, shutting the door. Why must it be like this?

Chapter IV

I lay on the blanket that I also call my bed, staring at the ceiling. It is time to go to bed apparently, but my mind cannot stop running. This is a regular occurrence. My brain is the mechanism in which my soul expresses itself and since my soul is troubled, it uses my brain to express its unhappiness. I sometimes wish I could slam my head into the wall and pass out. That way, my soul would be able to escape its fleshy prison for awhile and perhaps develop some patience when it must ultimately return. But alas, I do not have the energy nor the courage to do this.
The thoughts that keep me up at night vary. Sometimes, it’s my father’s vicious nature and the fear that he may kill me that keeps me awake. Sometimes, it’s the fear that I will not be able to escape and that I am doomed to survive this island forever. Sometimes, it’s the fear that I will wake up to find all my family dead and my father choosing to “spare” me to teach me a lesson. All terrible things, really. However, there is a category of thought that my soul expresses that I do not know how to form an opinion on. This is actually the category of thought that my soul tends to linger on the most. I have a difficult time describing it because it is embarrassing and I would not like to admit that I think in this way. So, bear with me.
My soul tends to indulge in the lustful and decadent. For many years now, I have been holding back these animalistic and carnal ideas, but they never ever go away. My soul’s favorite fantasy is to have a servant, much like my father has one in my mother. I would love to own a nice, attractive man who is willing to surrender his dignity simply for my pleasure. I want to take advantage of him all the time. Especially in bed. I want to push him so far that he is on the verge of a mental break and yet, he remains completely enamored by and loyal to me. I want to feel the chemicals of pleasure run through my veins and not have to think of the cost. I wish to hurt him deeply, whether it’s physically or mentally.
I acknowledge that these are not benevolent thoughts and that there is a very real possibility that I may become as irredeemable and heartless as my father. I have had these thoughts since I was only twelve and remember the exact moment they were activated, but I’d rather not write about it. I am utterly ashamed and find myself despicable. Sometimes, these thoughts give me such pleasure that it hurts and I have to force myself to stop.
This beast that my father has gifted to me has been a nightmare to control. Honestly, I am surprised that I have yet to terrorize my family and show them that my father succeeded in creating a monster even more immoral than he. Even he would be terrified.
I think about what holds me back from becoming this…thing and the answer is that I have already become it. There is nothing that could have stopped me from becoming my father’s daughter. But, there is one thing that redeems me. Being my father’s daughter. I am a daughter that was taught that she had to make herself small and simply follow orders. Being raised as a daughter taught my indulgent spirit what abuse was and what it feels like to not be seen for who you are. To not be permitted to build a life outside of being a vessel. It is being a daughter that saves me from complete damnation.
It is because I know that I am simply a monster held by the chains of oppression that I also know that I do not deserve love. No one should love someone that is so demented and must constantly hold back a part of herself that she cannot come to terms with. My soul would love to be reunited with the one whose name was written next to hers all those eons ago, but even if he were to show up, she would run away, unable to handle the shame that chokes her heart. In fact, part of me hates him. Why would anyone with a sane mind gift me, an abomination, patience and devotion that I am utterly undeserving of? I do not want to be proven wrong and shown that there is a reality where someone could love me as I am. That would be terrifying, to say the least.
I sit up slowly and rub my eyes, barely able to hold back the urge to slap myself. Why can’t I just go to sleep and stop thinking for once? My head falls into my hands and that’s when I notice it. The neon green venom showing itself all over my body. Every vein is filled with it. I sigh loudly. It is the least I can do unless I want to wake up the whole castle with my screams. What was once my dark room is now lit by the venom’s potent glow and the lethargy quickly follows this observation. I lay back down and try to take deep breaths, attempting to push myself through this attack, but I am interrupted by loud laughing. I recognize the laughs as my father’s and cover my ears, only for the laughs to somehow get louder. “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone,” I whisper aggressively to myself, trying to ignore the grating sounds of his laughter. A headache ensues and I feel like the only thing I can do to relieve this pain is to scream. So, I grab my pillow and show my face in it to do just that. A long time passes before the glow dims and my father goes silent. I can feel that my pillow is soaked in tears and my throat hurts beyond belief.

I must die. I must die. I must die.