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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: INK LAKE
- Sprache: Englisch
'The silence pressed onto every inch of her body, squeezed her head, wrapped itself around her heart, pushed on her chest. She could no longer breathe, nor speak, nor anything else. Like in trance, her eyes wandered down to her hands and she saw a torrent of black fluid streaming from her vessel soundlessly. Across her fingers, down her dress, and down her legs, the black flooded the floor she was standing on.' * 'What strange place was this? Far and wide, nothing. Nothing at all. Only grey mist in this peculiar dimension, which seemed to be completely empty otherwise. For days on end, you would not encounter the slightest thing, no human, no animal, not even land or sea, not even a grain of sand. And absolute silence prevailed here. It was eerie, as if you had got lost in a vacuum.'
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Seitenzahl: 71
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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CONTENT WARNING
This book deals with trauma,
emotional abuse, child abuse,
neglect, self harm.
Volume 1 of the Series Ink Lake
© 2023 Anna Nave
Text, Layout and Cover Design
by Anna Nave
www.annanave.com
Print and Distribution on behalf of the author:
tredition GmbH, An der Strusbek 10, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany
This book, including all its parts, is protected by Copyright. The author holds resposibility for its contents. Any use without their consent is prohibited.
1st Edition 2023
ISBN: 978-3-347-90083-7
THE GREY FLAT
Thank You, B. H.-W.
☼
Inhalt
Cover
CONTENT WARNING
Copyright
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter I
INK LAKE
Chapter II
ABANDONED
Chapter III
IN THE GREY FLAT
Chapter IV
THE GARDEN
Chapter V
MAMA‘S WAY OUT
Chapter VI
THE FORGOTTEN CHILD
Chapter VII
VOICE
Chapter VIII
VISITOR
Chapter IX
A NEW PLACE
Chapter X
FRIENDSHIP
Chapter XI
IN THE LAKE
Chapter XII
WOLCKE
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
INK LAKE
Cover
Copyright
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter I
Chapter XII
INK LAKE
Cover
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I
INK LAKE
She was holding the round, copper coloured vessel tightly in her small hands. She was barefoot, walking slowly, cautiously. Do not spill it. Just don’t. As if in slow motion, she lifted her foot and moved it slightly forwards in the darkness. With the ball of her foot, she hit something cold, small, and sharp. She looked down. The floor was dusty, and in the gloomy, sparse light, it was difficult to see: There were dozens of shiny metal pieces lying around. Scattered everywhere, one really had to be careful not to step on them. She was, however, used to them. They were gears, and they had always been there. They belonged to this world. This narrow, sinister, dusty flat. Another thing that belonged here were the vines. Well, they actually weren’t real vines, but she didn’t know what else to call them. They seemed like black bramble climbing up the walls. At a closer look, though, it became apparent that they were not solid or tangible. Uncertain if it was liquid or gas, maybe some sort of smoke? Impenetrable, shadowy, thick, jagged tendrils, winding up all vertical surfaces, accumulating in the corners like spider webs and obscuring the dirty windows, which let very little light pass through to begin with – the outside world seemed to linger in constant twilight. Everything in here was cloaked in this tangle of black lines, which continually emitted a quiet, ominous whisper. Most often, she could not understand any of the jumbled words hissed from all corners. Sometimes, however, sometimes it got loud. Whenever that happened, she was forced to hold completely still and cling to her vessel even more tightly, so it would not overflow. And the whispering would grow into a storm of cries, of incessant jabbering, of blared words, buzzing around her head and thundering in her ears, telling her she wasn’t welcome here. Telling her she was destroying everything in here. Telling her she was supposed to leave. But she couldn‘t have left. She did not know how. The world inside these walls was everything she knew. And even if she had been able to, she wasn’t allowed to go. She had to stay. She had to help here. And anyway, if doors were closed in here, they usually remained so. She herself had never managed to open a door.
But today – today, the door leading into the living room was open. The door from where, as it appeared, the smoke tendrils grew. The door she always stared at, day by day, hoping. Pleading. Still it had always remained sealed. But now it was in fact standing open, if only a crack.
She pushed the small, silver wheel aside with the tip of her toe and set down her foot warily on the grimy floor. One step done. One step, without spilling any of the black, ink-like fluid with which the cup in her hands was filled up to the rim. So slowly that nary a movement was visible, she dared taking another step towards the door linking the hallway to the living room. Quietly, she crept closer, always eager to keep the vessel still. Inside, the television was blasting loudly. Voices, music, laughter. Bluish light fell through the open crack of the door and cast a glimmering stripe on the floor, making the gears twinkle. Soundlessly, she slid closer to the gap. Being only inches away from the door, she paused. Her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure the black liquid in her vessel would be disturbed. The surface was trembling slightly. What would happen if she shed even one drop of it – she couldn’t bare to imagine. She had to be really, really careful. Tensely, she peered through the gap. From here, only the television could be made out, the single source of light in the otherwise dark room, overgrown with smoke tendrils. Squinting, she glanced over to the screen, but all she could see were blurry shapes moving and flickering, and even though she listened intensely, she did not understand any of the words echoing from the speakers. She held her breath and tapped the door gently with her foot. With a slight creak, it opened a little further so that the light emanating from the television was thrown on her naked legs and the hem of her dress. Cautiously, she stepped over the threshold and looked around. She could see the silhouette of a figure sitting on the sofa, feet up and under a blanket, and gazing silently and inertly at the screen.
‘Mama?’ she dared to whisper. The figure did not move.
‘Mama?’ she repeated, a bit louder.
No reaction. Should she take the risk? For several minutes she was standing there, her hands clenched around her vessel, looking at the seemingly frozen figure.
‘MAMA!’ she shouted at once.
Nothing happened. The television kept rumbling, colourful lights danced on the screen and fell on her mother’s face, glinting in her staring eyes.
‘Ma-… Mama?’ she breathed once more, desperate.
She felt a big, black clump knotting in her throat.
‘Mama… please. Do you hear me? Please…’
Her voice became more and more croaky. She swallowed. The clump remained, grew even bigger. So big that it was not just sitting in her throat anymore.
‘Mama…’
It sprouted, flowed into her heart, her stomach.
‘Please…’
Her voice was getting quieter and quieter. The black clump stifled everything. And then it began to rise into her head. Her sight blurred, the noise of the television was growing louder, now the hissing from the smoke tendrils mingled with the rumbling, was no longer a whisper, was screaming now, screaming in her ears. All of a sudden, everything was raging around her like a storm. Her legs petrified, she could not move. Nor make a sound. Her voice had jumped out of her throat. Had fallen somewhere on the dark floor, rolled away, into nothingness. Mute, she glanced at the figure on the sofa, but her mother was as motionless as before. A small, shiny, black tear ran out of her eye, down her cheek, and fell quietly into the cup in her hands.
