《Viola》
PART I - The Equilibrium
Viola
Viola. Vi-o-la. That is my name. Or at least part of it. I am Viola on a dotted line, but others exist. Try saying my name and the tip of your tongue will reach the roof of your mouth on the final syllable and then take a trip to your pallet as you pronounce la. I have always liked that about my name. La means no (??) in Arabic, an irony I have become accustomed to as it is a word that refrains its semantic vowels from my lexicon. I can¡¯t say no to Winston. Ophelia is nice however, she cares for me.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
As a child I was always pleased with the sound of my own name. Despite its Italianate origins, there is also something suspiciously Illyrian about my name. Perhaps that is what intrigued my fantasies about the ambiguities of history, and in particular, the Greco-world of classics. Despite the Eastern flair of Twelfth Night, the Shakespearean play which my name is derived from, Illyria is said to represent nothing more than Shakespeare¡¯s England. Thus, Viola can hardly be perceived as an Arabic name.
Viola- February 2020
I wiped the sweat off my brow as I hurried to the University¡¯s auditorium. The spring term had begun. As a classics student I have always marvelled at the complexity of history. I colour my syntax frequently with stories of Homer and Pliny the Elder. They were the stories of hope and prosperity, a quality so needed and so undeservedly missing in my vapid life.
As I entered the shadowy corridor a beam of sunlight from an exterior window began to obscure my vision. The juxtaposition of shadows of the hall and the ray of light caught me off guard and I began to wither in my senses. The sensual confusion had clouded my judgement, and I began to forget where my seminar was. In an exasperating semblance of logic I took to my phone to try and discern a route. It was then I noticed a notification pop up on my screen.
One missed call from Mum.
I always worried about my mother. Since my diagnosis of multiple personality disorder began to bloom and cloud my senses and judgement, my mother¡¯s worrying frets grew larger and more tiresome as the days, weeks and months proceeded. Particularly when I would have a blank spell. Particularly when the others would awake.
I entered the University¡¯s auditorium, which awoke my now ruined senses. A gruff, greyish man loomed large at the centre of the university¡¯s auditorium hall. He was short in figure, stoutish in demeanour. As I took a seat in the far corner of the room I began to examine my professor.
Classics are renowned for their archaic position within modern society, and the lecturer that stood before me was no exception. He wore an oddly coloured mauve blazer that resembled a relic; an artifact from times gone by. His entire bodily presence matched the aura of his demeanour; old and scruffy.
As he spoke, the received pronunciation of his well-to-do accent reverberated through the auditorium.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
¡°Welcome students to your opening lecture, we will begin by closely examining Athenian comedies and tragedies¡±.
He paused for breath before recollecting his words.
¡°As you know, it was the fourth century comic poet Antiphanes who remarked that there is a relative difficulty of writing comedies over tragedies. We will be spending the entirety of this semester examining whether Antiphanes was correct and what we can glean from such a statement.
I made a silent groan, digesting the professor¡¯s words. His prose and dialectic way of speaking was a far cry from the wonders of literature I had been previously accustomed to as a child. I always marvelled in the wonders of Ancient Greek texts from the tales of Medusa and the Amazons. I thrived mentally in the veracity of the tales of Greek women and how their endeavours conjured hope into the public imagination. I spent the rest of the seminar day-dreaming about the Amazons, in a futile bid to hope that I could leave the world of academia, even just for a day, and become transported into the world of Ancient Athens.
After leaving the auditorium, I took to looking at the prescribed readings for my core curriculum. Oedipus Rex. I scoffed at the pretentious namesake of the text. Oedipus the King or Oedipus Tyrannos was a Greek text, yet it had been assigned a Latin name - rex meaning King in Latin. At no point was the novel written or set in Rome. A common misgiving with classical literature that I was surprised had entered the vicinity of such a prestigious university as mine.
As my day drew to a close, I wearily set myself aside to my bedroom, rubbing at my bleary and diaphanous eyes. At the anatomical left of my peripheral vision sat an old television gifted to me by my mother many birthdays ago. A garagntitune piece of technology, its old facade had been the source of much embarrassment whenever I invited guests over, if any came. I was not focused on the exterior presence of the television but more what was on it. A weather forecast, predicting bright spells of sunshine for the following day. I tried to summon a semblance of glee at the forecast prediction, yet I knew my labours for the day would awaken one of the voices.
Ophelia - February 2020
Attuning my senses to the prediction of the weather forecast I laid out my plans for the following morning; a day of lethargy and sunbathing. Viola had become quite distressed by the events following her inauguration to university, so I awoke, to comfort Viola, and give her some rest. The unlimited delights of the morning sky unfolded before me. Gazing into the horizon, I took solace in the blossoming sun beaming down onto the canvas of earth, and decided to bathe my body in the glow of the sun. As I lay on the ground, the blades of grass tickled my skin. I began to drink an effervescent beer, as the carbonated bubbles danced on the taste buds of my tongue. Before long I began to hear distant noises arise from my neighbour''s garden. I adjusted my peripheral vision to the sight of a woman. She glowed in the bloom of the hot sun kissed sky. I examined the woman with rash curiosity. The sun masqueraded and obscured her intense beauty, but I could see through that.
The sunlit glow of the sky shone with majesty, illuminating the figure before me. She was a tall, yet slender woman, with glistening honey-hued brown skin. I gazed at her, admiring her beauty and the majesty in which she composed herself. She seemed elegant and spoke in an eloquent tone, in soft, hushed whispers. A man seemed to pair her, yet the same level of grandeur had not been afforded to this gentleman. He was stout and impish in demeanour; similar to my classics professor. I pondered for a second about the likeness of the two, before considering my neighbour¡¯s stature and demeanour. My classics professor was a calm and quaint figure, whereas my neighbour, despite his impish demeanour, seemed to command an aura of grandeur. He was not my soft-spoken professor, but rather a brash and arrogant figure. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
¡°Thanks one and all¡±, spoke the impish man, ¡°to me and Virginia¡¯s one year wedding anniversary¡±.
The honey-hued woman began to laugh, looking at her husband in an adoring fashion before placing a hand, caringly, across his waist. In the crowd of onlookers I began to distinguish many people within the blur of the frenzy. An ancient, slavic-looking woman beamed a cunning smile whilst looking adoringly at the impish man. I began to ponder her relationship to the man, assuming her to be his mother, as they both bore a familial resemblance.
¡°My dear Vladimir¡±, cried the ancient woman, caressing the cheek of the impish man, ¡°I would not miss my son¡¯s first wedding anniversary for the world.¡±
I chuckled at the realisation that I was correct in assuming their familial relationship.
Within the vicinity of my peripheral vision I could make out a buffet of food laid across an ornate table. The smoke from a barbeque began to billow into my garden, as the intoxicating smoke began to fill my nostrils. It was a delightful indulgence for my senses. As the party progressed music began to filter through the noise of scattered laughter from the party¡¯s guests. I danced ceremoniously to the hum of the acoustics of the music. I was not a guest, but was privy to such orchestral music within the vicinity of my garden. I now knew of my neighbours; but Viola did not.
Viola - March 2021
The sterile office of the doctor¡¯s surgery filled my nostrils with a chemical pollution, as the chalk white paint glistened in the hue of a dimly lit lamp. Occasionally, the light would flicker and dance with the twinkle of the bulb.
I scoffed. This may have been the National Health Service but attention to detail in the chaos of the reception would have been uplifting.
The dimly lit lamp seemed cheap. Everything in the derelict surgery seemed cheap. Maybe such a facade was akin to the tenants of modern-day medicine.
As my name was called I walked hurriedly into a small and confined room
The doctor showed me in, before re-entering the room with an electric charge. He began to wash his hands meticulously in the sink¡¯s basin. In between his hand washing he would inject lines of conversation; small talk.
¡°Lovely day isn¡¯t it¡±, the doctor would sing. I could never quite tell if he was being sarcastic or not. The day was in fact not lovely. It was dreary, as were most British Springs. After rinsing his hands, he rubbed them dry on a paper towel and took a seat behind his desk. I sat opposite him staring vacantly into his cold eyes. The doctor was an elderly figure and his office seemed to resemble his posterior; archaic and impersonal.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The table where he sat was decorated with many artefacts; old patient notes, a potted plant and an abundance of psychiatric journals appeared to litter his worktop. He seemed to care little about order in the vicinity of space.
¡°So, Viola, what can we do for you today?¡±
I paused momentarily, considering the semantics of his question. Everything about my encounter with my physician seemed clinical and impersonal, constrained by the limitations of ritualistic behaviour. Small talk, impersonal chat and clinical dialogue within an unstimulating environment. I sighed, inhaling a deep breath. I would just have to bide my time and play the game of impersonal formalities if it meant any opportunity to shun Winston.
I began to speak to the doctor regarding my issues with Winston and how it was beginning to affect my depression. The blank spells and continual invalidation from the imaginary personas within my head, who for me, seemed very real. As I spoke, a century seemed to pass.
The doctor appeared unsatisfied with many of my requests for newer medications and suitable therapies, as if I was demanding an unreasonable amount of treatment.
Nevertheless, with great reluctance, the doctor lifted his eyes from his notepad. Now meeting my gaze, he tore off a sheet of paper and with his gruff hands offered me a prescription script. I made a mental note of the pills I had been prescribed.
Citalopram.
Aripiprazole
Lithium
Returning home from the surgery I began to take in the night sky.
I shifted myself into the corridor of my narrow hallway, throwing my keys. They clunked and jangled as they fell onto the floor.
As I turned on the tap a small tinkle of water spurted out. The plumbing system was once again defect. I had tried lodging a complaint to my absent-minded and absent-spirited landlord, but to no avail. I beseeched my best inclinations and proceeded to dry swallow the pills.
It stuck in my throat and I groaned. It appeared the dry-swallowing of the pills would foreshadow a long and difficult journey I was to have with this medication.
Viola :April 2021-One Week Missing
The uniformly attired sergeant took to the podium. A loquacious figure, he was attuned to the art of speech.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen¡°, said the sergeant.
¡°As you are all aware, last Wednesday, Virginia Volkova disappeared from her house during the midnight hours.¡± The sergeant looked to his notepad, reading the script he had so clearly well-rehearsed.
¡°We are taking this investigation very seriously as an urgent matter.¡±
He began to list the events that unfolded that night. Virginia had been in the forest with an unknown woman. The stream of conversation had become an inaudible blur. Though I did not know my neighbour I had become transfixed about the events surrounding her disappearance. Before I knew it, very soon after the sergeant¡¯s speech was finished.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
A thunderous applause reverberated through the concert hall as the Sergeant relaxed his notepad onto the podium, after lamenting the litany of offences present.
I tried with tremendous zeal to not convey the impression I was dissatisfied with what had been said. The audience were my jury, and I stood like Judas. I believed the audience and the sergeant to be my conspirators, judging with their eyes and tongues.
Curiosity appeared to prevail within the enigmatic events which had unfolded.
I could not sleep the following evening. The medication was taking effect in an adverse manner. The citalopram was making me irritated and agitated, disturbing my sleeping patterns.
I looked at the box. High doses of citalopram can increase mania and suicidal thoughts. I was on 40mg, the highest dose.
It was the lithium I had issues with. I believed I was intoxicated on the substance. Incoherent on the intoxicating substance I looked to the book; my diary.
During my series of blank spells, I had requested that the others, the voices in my head, kept a journal detailing my whereabouts, and what had been done to this body. With great reluctance I turned timidly to the page I feared the most. Winston