The Medea Complex Read Free

that
will lead them to me.
    I rub my eyes in an attempt to clear them. I am glad that I
am without a mirror; combined with the awful night-gown I am forced to wear, I
imagine I resemble a lower-class prostitute. I can’t remember the last time my
hair was brushed, my face washed, or my finger-nails filed. I haven’t had a
warm bath in days. I could shed tears just thinking about it.
    The darkness of my cell begins to fade. I get out of bed and
move over to the window, standing on tip-toes, listening closely for any sounds
the day may bring. I stay here for a long time, and it occurs to me that no
church bells toll the hour. I must therefore be somewhere in the countryside as
opposed to a city. I keep listening, my suspicions eventually confirmed with
the rewarding crow of a singular cock somewhere in the distance. I have no way
of telling the time in here; no clocks adorn the walls, and I wonder idly
whether my captors might be kind enough to supply me with a stick. As I
consider my plight and troubles with keeping time, the sound of my cell door
opening disturbs the quiet. The same fat woman that appears every morning is hovering
in the doorway, holding my breakfast tray.
    Watching me.
    Well, at least my captors don’t wish me to starve to death.
    “What unsolicited advice do you have for me this morning?” I
say, as she moves wordlessly into the room and bends to put the tray onto the
floor.  She normally comes armed with a prepared speech regarding my behaviour:
stop banging, stop shouting, stop crying. My breakfast unsurprisingly consists
of a single bowl of thick, tasteless, glutinous porridge: a vast and sad
difference to the perfectly golden, buttery toast to which I am accustomed.
    "To be quieter at night?" It is a rhetorical
question, and she doesn’t bother turning to look at me, busying herself with my
breakfast.
    I peer at her large behind. The fabric is stretched tight across
her buttocks. If she bends forward any farther, she is liable to rip open the
seams.
    "Were you trying to kill someone last night?" I
imagine all sorts of wonderful foods that she must eat in the mornings. Bacon,
eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages. All piled high on beautifully polished silver
plates.
     "No, Anne, I wasn't."
    “I'm sorry, you 'wasn't' what?”
    “That’s the answer to your question.”
    “What question?”
    What is she talking about?
    “You asked me if I was killing someone last night. I
wasn't.”
    Oh, that.
    "You were,” I say, picking at my nails.
    "I wasn't."
    She's such a dirty liar! I resist the childish urge to stamp
my foot.
    "You most certainly were.” 
    She stares at me.
    “Look,” I say, pretending to be nice. Polite. "Can I
have something other than this slop for breakfast?"
    "No."
    "Who do you think I am, Oliver Twist?"
    She mutters under her breath and stands, turning as if to
leave.
    "May I have a stick to tell the time?" I ask
quickly, not wishing to be thwarted so soon. She spins and looks at me as if I
am mad.
    "No, Anne. I dread to think what might occur if we gave
our inmates sticks. Full out war, I expect. And how do you suppose a stick will
help you tell the time?”
    Inmates?
    “Well, you place a stick in the ground, upright – normally
easier if you have a bit of soil, which I don’t, but I’m fairly sure I can make
it stand up somehow. In that porridge, most probably: for it is thick enough.
Anyway, then, when the sun hits the stick, you look at the shadow as you would
imagine a clock-face, and-“
    “Anne, stop. The only times you need to know are that of
mealtimes. In fact,” she says, sneering, “You don’t even need to know the times
of those. You are to remain inside this room.” She pauses and looks about her,
before bringing her face close to mine. Foul breath invades my nose as I stifle
a heave. “Do you need to be somewhere?”
    “Well, yes, I need to be at home.” I stutter, the stench of
sewage blocking my voice.
    “I will bring you your food for now. When, and