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Literature Text
The Oven
TWENTY SECONDS UNTIL death. Eternal loving death. Forever in a blind blanket of perpetual numbness. Protection. Nervous? Oh yes. It was still a hard job. But the outcome? Perhaps, relaxing.
February 11, 1963. Dick Norton had heard about her. He had dated a woman named Jody whose sister lived in London. So naturally, Jody would visit her and bring him along. Norton had heard about her.
"Oh, Dick, have you read this?" Jody shoved a book into his face.
The cover: The Bell Jar by Victoria Lucas.
"No." He put it on the table and stared out the window of Jody's sister's apartment.
"Oh, it's strange. It's about an insane woman," she flipped casually through the pages and read a passage aloud, as if to prove something, "'That morning I had tried to hang myself' see how crazy she is? Terrible…"
He shuddered. He had dated too many insane women. One of them ended up killing herself. The other…
He hadn't spoken to her since she left the Belsize asylum. And ever since then, he had a sort of curiosity towards mentally disturbed people. He wondered how they came to be. He wondered.
"Hey, lemme see it." He reached out for the book.
Oh. Oh, it all seemed too horrifyingly familiar. The tension. The nervousness. She left Mr. Thomas, her neighbor, a message. It read: Call Dr. Horder. She knew he was out and would be back way too late. It was kind of a joke, on her part. A sad little joke.
It was nice to have a sense of humor, even when you're about to die.
Before she had thought up her plan, she had waddled around the living room of her apartment. Counting her steps. 1, 2, 3….1….2….3…
Frieda yelped in the other room. She paused. She turned to face the direction of her child's room. Frieda made no more noise. 1, 2, 3….
She spun on her heal and started again. All the times she tried to do it, she was never close. Except that one time that changed her life. For the better, she thought. But perhaps, not.
With a tender look, she glanced back at her children's rooms. Asleep, she thinks. She walked out the front door to sit on the steps. The moon reflected off her pale skin.
Sylvia, swallowing the night with one look of her dark brown eyes. She batted her eyes at the sky, waiting for a gesture from the stars. But they are all dead, and didn't do anything back.
Norton had left Jody shortly after he engaged himself in the book. It was all too horrifyingly familiar. And he knew just who she was. It hadn't really sunk into his abnormally thick skull until he was about finished with the novel, but he had it all figured out. And that's when he heard about her.
It was February 9, 1963. He was in a small coffee shop, finishing the last pages of the Bell Jar. Someone sat down in front of him.
"You actually reading that rubbish?" The man took a sip from his coffee, staring at Norton.
Norton looked at him, blankly. He says "Rubbish?"
"It means-"
"I know what it means. You don't like this?"
The man scoffs. "It's about a crazy lady. That lady should be locked up for good."
Dick looked back at the book. His heart sank. He knew how personal it must be to her. Even if she changed all the names of the people, the events were the same. He was a bit offended by what she wrote about him in there, though. In the book, she had changed his name to "Buddy Willard" and had said some bad things about his mother. He shrugged at the man.
"I guess."
When he finished the book, he decided it was time to look for her. Everyone knew who Victoria Lucas was.
"Oh yeah, Victoria…Hah." A woman with shaggy red hair rolled her eyes and tapped her exceedingly pointy black heels. He waited.
"She lives on 23 Fitzroy Road. Who are you, anyway?"
"Thanks, ma'am." He rushed into the street across the walk. Taxi! Taxi! And got in.
The blackness was hers and she hugged it like it was her love. Sitting there, alone, she hugged herself and hugged herself. She didn't know it, but she was waiting for someone. It seemed to her that she was always waiting for someone. When she stood up, it was well around 2am. Stiffly, she sauntered back into her miserable apartment and wandered into her depressing little room.
There were ghostly white drapes that shielded the night away. She drew them back and let the bleakness overcome her. She thought, this is what death must feel like. She could smell the stale air of the bell jar, no longer hovering above her but surrounding her. Suffocating her, like old times. The Bell Jar. She chuckled. She climbed into her unmade bed. She pulled her sharply cold sheets over her head. Then, painfully and slowly, she succumbed to slumber.
February 11, 1963. The 10th, where had that day gone? A whole day wasted trying to get directions to the blasted house. It seemed as if everyone knew her, but not really. Only he really knew her. At least, that's what he thought.
When he finally stood in front of her house, he didn't know what to think or do. Should I go in? Should I just wait until she comes out? She must come out eventually….
Aha! She had come to an idea that she was ready to stick with. After she left Mr. Thomas the message, she knew it was a good plan. She locked the kids out of the kitchen. She took some wet towels and pushed them under the doors to seal the gap. She was going to then open the oven and place her head inside, gas turned on, pilot light unlit. So perfect, she thought. Forty seconds until death.
Just go inside, he thought to himself. But God, it had been years since he had last spoken, or even written, to Sylvia Plath. That was her real name. Her real, genuine name. It was beautiful, just like her. So unique. Okay, I'll go.
He hesitated.
She could hear Frieda and Nicholas screaming and pounding on the door with their baby fists. Oh, they'd say, what a heartless wretched woman! But why would it matter? She would be dead and all her worries would be gone. Eternal loving death.
I am, I am, I am. She told herself.
35 seconds.
He walked forward. Wait! What makes you think she wants to see you? Hadn't she married that poet, Ted Hughes? Yes, she had. But he'd left her. And now it's your chance.
No, he couldn't do it. He turned around and walked across the street, head down.
"Mommmmyyyy!" Frieda cried. She could hear Nick squealing. She placed her head far into the oven. Silence.
Twenty seconds until death.
A door opens. Footsteps. Kids? They're crying. He opens the door they're banging on.
"Sylvia?" He walks into the kitchen.
"Sylvia?" He walks around a corner, and sees someone bending inside an oven.
He runs to her.
"Sylvia!" He pulls her out and shakes her. She's limp, pale.
Mr. Thomas happened to come home earlier than expected. Mr. Thomas called an ambulance as soon as he heard the screaming and crying upstairs.
Sylvia Plath was rushed to the hospital.
Sylvia Plath died, February 11, 1963.
Suicide.
Forever in a blind blanket of perpetual numbness.
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had to write a historical fiction for creative writing. but some how, it ended like this anyway.
this is the same person I wrote that poem about. woo.
i really like her.
this is the same person I wrote that poem about. woo.
i really like her.
© 2010 - 2024 ThimbleBostitch
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this is so incredible.