Scene One & Two
Daisy was bitterly cold when she woke up the next morning. She’d had a very strange night. Flashes of the brightest blue searing the lids of her closed eyes and an almighty headache that kept her tossing and turning all night without relief – her bed feeling alternately soft and then as hard as a rock.
Her eyelids seemed to be stuck to her eyeballs. No matter how many times she told her eyelids to open, they would not – they seemed to be stuck. Finally, she raised her hand and pried them open with a ripping sensation. “Ow,” she said, her voice deeper and raspier than she was used to. ‘Damn, not another cold,’ she thought. It was dark and she could see nothing much. She gagged as the smell of the hand hit. It stank as though someone had shit in it sometime in the night.
When she moved the hand away the smell abated a little and so she rolled onto her back. Strange, it felt as if she was sleeping on the hard bathroom floor. Has she been sick in the night and fell asleep there? And why was it so blooming cold? She reasoned to herself that she must be sick because she ached all over.
As her eyes got used to the dark, she began to make out shapes around her – odd shapes. She realised that some of them were moving! A shadowy figure loomed over her – face like a monster – and she screamed and tried to scramble back, but found that her limbs were slow to obey her like she was wrapped like a mummy. She quickly realised two things – she was inside a foul-smelling sleeping bag, and there was more than one figure here. Her mind whirled. Who were these people? Had she been kidnapped?
She lay back and rolled away from the figures as fast as she could and then found that she was falling hard down what seemed to be stairs, each one harder and more bruising than the last. Incredibly, she heard coarse laughter start up from the watching forms and she screamed in frustration. What was happening!? Finally, she came to rest and she squeezed her eyes shut as tight as she could, willing this to be a nightmare. Willing herself to wake.
She heard rough voices and felt her body grasped and pulled upright. The word ‘Boner’ was repeated and there was more laughter as she refused to open her eyes.
“Old Bone Dog’s been having his bad dreams again,” a voice guffawed.
“Leave him be,” said another, not unkindly, “he’ll be okay in a bit.”
Her mind refused to register it at first. Unbidden, her English teacher’s voice came into her mind – ‘the subject pronouns are I, you, he, she.’ Wrong pronoun, wrong pronoun, wrong pronoun, she chanted in her mind, trying to block out the voices around her with the repetition.
A hand fell on her shoulder and she wrenched her eyes open and screamed “leave me alone! What are you doing here?” her voice full of rage. With a surge of energy, she dragged herself out of the sleeping back and levered herself unsteadily to her feet, holding onto the wall to stop herself from swaying.
Bleary-eyed she looked around her. She was stood in the middle of a pavement, the half-light of the morning revealing a group stood around her – some looking concerned but other grinning as if this were the entertainment highlight of the day. The resembled nothing more than a scene from hell – a cold hell populated by demons and goblins, old, sickly faces lined with dirt, clothes so greasy and old that they seemed to be painted on them with tar.
“No, no, no – no way is this happening!” she said out loud and was again struck by how harsh sounding her voice was. Some instinct made her look down towards her body and she was horrified to see that she was dressed in the same greasy clothes as the people around her. She became aware of how she felt within this body, the deep itchiness she felt, the horrible unclean feel of these clothes, and of her own flesh.
A wave of sorrow rolled over her and she sank down to the step and placed her face into her arms as the sadness bit deep into her mind and blotted out everything around her. She retreated into her own mind. Deep within. It was warmer here. She curled deeper into herself and was suddenly glad of the muffler wrapped around her lower face and neck. She wriggled her head inside the soft, warm depths of it.
A memory stirred in her, rose like a beast, then burst to the surface like a stench filled bubble. She was twelve, safe and warm in bed and had just dozed off. Her mother had gone to visit her sister and had taken Daisy’s two small sisters with her. Daisy herself couldn’t get out of school and so her father had to stay with here, to look after her, to protect her. Except that when she’d woke up, her father had been in bed with her, his heavy beard against her face, suffocating her. She’d struggled, but his arms had been grasping her too tightly. And that’s when she’d realised that something else was pressing against her. Something hard.
Daisy rose to her feet again, her hands coming up to her face, to wrench the muffler away. She grabbed the fluffy material in both her hands and yanked with the strength of panic, then screamed as fiery needles were plunged into her chin. The muffler seemed to be glued to her face!
A horror rose in her mind as the corpulent body of the sun made its first foray into the word, staining the clouds a beautiful shade of deep pink. Daisy half registered the beauty in the back of her mind as she looked desperately around. There – a bus shelter. She gathered her strength and dragged this aching body towards it, one painful step after another until she stopped before the reflective surface.
She stood, speechless, trying to take in the monstrous apparition staring back at her. She raised her arm and the twisted imp raised his. She moved her head and the bearded satyr, face begrimed and shrivelled, moved his in perfect harmony. Rage overtook her then and she heaved herself forward to meet him and began to pound against his body, feeling his blows against her arms as she roared her anger and felt his anger match hers in kind.
As suddenly as the rage came, it left. Stood, arms outstretched against the shelter, breath ragged, eyes staring feverishly at the hated form. Gritting teeth and yet accepting that this is what was. Loathing it, but alive. Face twisted in anguish, but ready.
Harry (the tramp) wakes up as a girl. He is more accepting.
This to be fleshed out.
Deep in a shadowy bunker, Doctor Strangle and his assistant Zolt monitor the effects of the experiment. They have the power to end the experiment, but do they?
This to be fleshed out.