<p>So, we have to write a piece of Gothic literature, and it's worth quite a bit of my English grade...so please give me some constructive criticism. Keep in mind, I'm in eighth grade, and I am also wondering what level I am at, in terms of creative writing. Thanks. Please do not plagiarize! This is definitely not by best piece of work, and if it seems a bit cumbersome, what with the excessive adjectives, she said to make it very descriptive! </p>
<p>A Tempest of Lunacy</p>
<p>It was pouring outside; a terrible monsoon, the kind of rain that soaks through the most resilient jackets, and chills one to their very core. The roads had become veritable canals, and the sidewalk was so slick with water that it was analogous to a pond in the winter. There were no taxicabs on the road today, so I was obliged to head out to the train station on foot, with only my dodgy umbrella to shelter me from the ruthless onslaught of water.
Several steps into my journey, I realized that my umbrella had a rather capacious hole, which permitted a steady flow of rain to trickle onto my scalp, and saturate my hair with water. I shifted the umbrella to and fro, attempting to relocate the mini-waterfall, but my endeavors yielded little. As I neared the boarding station, I was subjected to a spray of muddy water, after a car sped through a puddle adjacent to me. I was thoroughly soaked, and figured that I couldn’t possibly get any wetter, so, with a huff, I folded up my umbrella, and headed to the ticket booth. </p>
<pre><code>Upon boarding the train, I realized with a start, that I was the lone commuter. Rows of seats yawned with sheer emptiness, and I felt rather odd, and isolated, as on most afternoons, the train was congested; positively teeming with Londoners heading out from work. I made my way down the aisle, and settled on the furthermost seat on the left. After placing my briefcase on the luggage rack, I settled into the fabric recess of the chair, and promptly fell asleep.
***
I awoke to the vociferous roar of thunder, and the dull sound of the pounding rain. Sporadically, forked lightning erupted from the gray heavens, striking down unseen entities. The tempest was mighty, and terrifying, but I knew it that it had reached its peak, and would soon abate.
And as the train wound through the rolling, monotonous terrain of the countryside, and neared my stop, the angry storm clouds dispersed, and revealed the golden dusk sky. Further down the road, I could spot the tiny, derelict train station, so I collected my sodden belongings, and headed to the front of the train. It came to a juddering halt, and the rusted doors swung open.
I had scarcely stepped out onto the mushy earth, when the doors clanged shut, and the train sped off; black plumes of smoke wafting from the chimney. Having only been exposed to the side of the train, I had not seen the words “Rutledge Hell” scrawled on the back of the train in crimson paint. Evidently, the National Rail doesn’t value appearance, or they already would have painted over such gaudy scribblings.
I left the train station, and set off along the path that led to my country manor. I was making slow progress, as walking along the muddy path in dress shoes was akin to slogging through a swamp of molasses. By the time I arrived at the outskirts of my garden, the sky had faded to a deep azure color, and the last vestiges of sunlight were fading.
In attempts to scrape off the mud, I abraded my shoes against the concrete edge of the porch, but my efforts were in vain. I conceded defeat, and swung open the door, and stepped into the cramped mudroom, where I hung my soaked overcoat next to two positively diminutive, mud-spattered rain jackets. Apparently, the children had had a little romp in the garden!
I headed into the kitchen, where a cloying, sickly odor permeated the air; my rack of prize wines was in splinters, the bottles were shattered; jagged glass remnants of them were strewn across the kitchen floor! The alcohol had spilled over the hardwood, and seeped into the cracks, leaving the floor sticky to the touch. The pantry doors were askew, one of them had been completely wrenched from the hinges, and a sack of rice had been torn open, littering the floor with its contents.
What the devil? A shrill wail of naked agony sounded from the parlor, and I blanched. Beatrice. I dashed across the kitchen, and winced as the broken glass cut into my exposed feet. In the hall, nail marks were gouged into the floor, carving a trail of ten jagged lines, which led into the parlor.
Upon entering the room, I was seized by a surge of nausea, and vertigo. A hooded figure, face concealed by shadow, had Beatrice’s throat in a searing, white knuckle grip, and was driving a blood-stained knife into her ribcage, spattering her housecoat with blood. Her eyes were white with pain; her jaw slack, blood dribbling from her gaping mouth. My darling Beatrice. What is he doing to you? My children lay dead at the assailant’s feet. The fronts of their pajamas were caked with blood; scarlet smiles were carved into the pallid flesh of their throats. My beautiful children. What has he done to you?
The man dropped Beatrice; she fell to the floor, and slumped forward, dead. It was then that the gruesome spell was broken, and I screamed; my voice raw with pain. The man did not react; he merely clambered over the fresh corpses of my beloveds, flung open the back door, and ran out into the indigo night. I was still reeling from shock, and grief, but I did not falter. I chased after the man; rage flowing through my veins, and grief pounding in my heart.
I tore through the dew-heavy grass; my bare feet leaving deep imprints in the muddy field. The man was fifty or so paces ahead of me, but I was rapidly gaining, for the night air was crisp, and invigorating; it gave me newfound strength, and speed.
The man neared the outskirts of the forest, and he soon disappeared into the dark, brambly thicket. I followed the trail that he had left; the downtrodden earth, the broken twigs. The dense foliage of the woods attempted to ensnare me, branches and thorns tore at my skin, attempting to hinder me, but not succeeding.
Gradually, the vegetation became sparser, and I could perceive the sound of running water. I burst into a clearing, where a snakelike stream cut a swathe through the forest floor. The stranger was hauling himself out of the rivulet, his clothes saturated with water. I stood on the bank, opposite him, struggling to stand on the slick, moss-covered rocks. And then he turned to face me, and my heart leaped in throat.
It was me. He had my dark, glittering eyes; twin orbs of black tanzanite. He had my prominent cheekbones, my wan skin, and my unruly, bushy eyebrows. But no, it couldn’t be! This cruel monster, the man who butchered my family, he could not be me! He was merely wearing my face, it was a mask; it did not belong to him!
And then he began to laugh; a raspy, wicked cackle, one that reverberated in my skull. My vision blurred, and I felt lightheaded. I lost my footing on the rocks, and I fell into the cool refuge of the stream, where the impious laughter ceased to exist.
Sinking into the watery abyss of the stream was incredibly surreal; almost dreamlike. Moments before, the creek had seemed shallow, merely a few feet deep, and yet, I was sinking like a stone, plummeting further into its inky depths.
At first, it was pleasant, and calm; but the temperature of the water steadily declined, and it became so bitterly cold that it burned my flesh, and froze my muscles. I desperately needed to breathe, but an unseen force was keeping me submerged in the glacial water. Black spots danced in front of my eyes, and my lungs were ready to burst. I struggled feverishly, but could not move. And then, when it seemed that all was lost, I emerged from the water, propelled by an unknown power.
I gasped for air; floundering, like a fish out of water. My cold, wet flesh was coated with tiny mountains; goose bumps formed in the freezing water. I was numb, paralyzed by the cold, but I attempted to restore feeling to my extremities, by moving around. I found that I could only squirm, as I was tied down by restraints of sorts.
I could not see, for my eyes had not yet adjusted to the change in light. When they did, I bit my lip in shock, and the coppery taste of blood seeped into my mouth. I was in a dank, sparsely furnished room. I was lying on a rigid board, and was strapped in by leather belts. The board was connected to a mechanism, that when triggered, would lower it into a pool of ice water. I shuddered. Where the bloody hell was I?
And then, I spotted it; a small, faded sign, tacked to the steel door: Rutledge Asylum-Water Treatment Unit
“Asylum?” I pondered aloud. I struggled to break free of my bonds. “I’m not crazy!”
“Of course you’re not dear.” A soft-spoken, female voice sounded from behind me. I tried to swivel my head, but my restraints held firm.
“You’re just…mentally unstable.”
“Mentally unstable! Bloody hell! The bloke slaughtered his family! Butchered ‘em like pigs!” Another voice, rough, and masculine.
“No, no! You’re wrong! It wasn’t me! It was…” I trailed off.
</code></pre>
<p>“Of course, it wasn’t dearie!” The man’s voice was seething with contempt.</p>
<p>“I loved my family! I LOVED THEM!” I roared, and tears clouded my vision. I could feel them, streaking down my cheeks, and pooling on my heaving chest. </p>
<p>“I know,” whispered the woman. And then, the sound of a lever being pulled, of gears grinding, and the board on which I lay, descending. Sinking into the pool of frozen hell. </p>
<p>“No!” I fought frantically against the fetters. “NO!” But my repudiation was swallowed by the icy sting of the water, and I succumbed to the agony. Succumbed to the madness.</p>
Also, if you want another piece of my creative writing for reference, I can pm you it…it won a national prize? But WITHOUT re-writing the whole story, how can I make it better? And I know it’s pretty cliche, but I was tight for time. My other ideas were a little muddled-a surgeon who’s son perishes in a car accident, extracts his brain, cryopreserves it, and then kills his patients to harvest their body parts, so he can recreate a body for his son, and reanimate him. The other was very simple, but harder to execute, something along the lines of suicide, and loneliness, and NECROPHILIA! [<em>shudders</em>] Thanks!</p>