The assignment is to rewrite part of a story or portray a different point of view of part of the story. I chose to write about Esther Greenwood's mother from the novel The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Feedback is much appreciated :]
Her discerning eyes saw it all. Something inside of her daughter had been demolished. Esther had been in those same wretched clothes and in that same wretched state ever since she stepped off that train from malignant New York with her cheek marked with foreign streaks of dried blood. Esther had lost all motivation to do anything, even bathe. Her mannerisms and logic were nonsensical. Only a crazy person could exhibit Esther's behavior and crazy happened to be exactly what frightened Emmalynn Greenwood the most.
She had a fragile and broken mind. Emmalynn would never dream voicing it, but she knew that her mind was volatile. She herself had warred with the formidable opponent named insanity and she herself had lost. Sure, she had won battles here and there-that's how she learned of the therapeutic qualities of shorthand-, but never did Emmalynn truly rid the depths of her mind of the horrific fog that dwelled there. So, she ran. She ran away from the madness with all her might. If she hadn't, Esther would not have had a mother. Whenever that haze threatened to seep from the innermost sanctum of her thoughts, Emmalynn Greenwood frantically scratched unintelligible symbols in blotted black ink on her paper until the world began to make sense again.
She had always wondered if Esther would end up crazy, too. The possibility haunted her. When she recognized the familiar behavior in her daughter, it was like a bomb had been dropped on her carefully structured world. Esther seemed to be even more insane than her mother. There was no escape. Everything was blurred. It was another lost battle. Why continue fighting? She was exhausted. She could just let go of her tiring hold on reality and slip into nothingness with Esther.
No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. For Esther's sake, she must desperately cling to her sanity. She needed to be strong. No one else was left to nurture her Esther. Emmalynn would find help for her daughter, if it was the last thing she did. She scoured the area for someone, anyone to take Esther to. It was her fault, really. If she hadn't nudged Esther to be successful and, well, "normal", Esther wouldn't have gone mad. She found a perspicacious doctor who was supposed to be able to fix her daughter.
She heard mumblings from Esther. Mumblings of executions. Mumblings of stupid doctors. Mumblings of... suicide? The doctor had failed. She saw Esther laying in the dark, staring at the clock with stark white eyes in the black night. Emmalynn sang a song of mourning. She cried. She shouted. She thought. She thought. She thought. She pretended. Pretended for Esther. Esther couldn't see her crumbling to pieces. No, she held her façade together well.
She grew angry. The anger whirred through her mind like stinging bees. The anger boiled in her veins. Why? She despised her own existence. Frustration. Failure. A delicate glass jar glared at her from the table. Why? It had no right. The offending object was thrown. Shining shards of glass jutted into the floor. She gazed at the beautiful, dangerous debris. They called to her. She ached to end it all. Did she dare? No, she did not. She sighed. Hopeless. The glittering mess was swept up. She had to think of Esther, after all.
Her discerning eyes saw it all. Something inside of her daughter had been demolished. Esther had been in those same wretched clothes and in that same wretched state ever since she stepped off that train from malignant New York with her cheek marked with foreign streaks of dried blood. Esther had lost all motivation to do anything, even bathe. Her mannerisms and logic were nonsensical. Only a crazy person could exhibit Esther's behavior and crazy happened to be exactly what frightened Emmalynn Greenwood the most.
She had a fragile and broken mind. Emmalynn would never dream voicing it, but she knew that her mind was volatile. She herself had warred with the formidable opponent named insanity and she herself had lost. Sure, she had won battles here and there-that's how she learned of the therapeutic qualities of shorthand-, but never did Emmalynn truly rid the depths of her mind of the horrific fog that dwelled there. So, she ran. She ran away from the madness with all her might. If she hadn't, Esther would not have had a mother. Whenever that haze threatened to seep from the innermost sanctum of her thoughts, Emmalynn Greenwood frantically scratched unintelligible symbols in blotted black ink on her paper until the world began to make sense again.
She had always wondered if Esther would end up crazy, too. The possibility haunted her. When she recognized the familiar behavior in her daughter, it was like a bomb had been dropped on her carefully structured world. Esther seemed to be even more insane than her mother. There was no escape. Everything was blurred. It was another lost battle. Why continue fighting? She was exhausted. She could just let go of her tiring hold on reality and slip into nothingness with Esther.
No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. For Esther's sake, she must desperately cling to her sanity. She needed to be strong. No one else was left to nurture her Esther. Emmalynn would find help for her daughter, if it was the last thing she did. She scoured the area for someone, anyone to take Esther to. It was her fault, really. If she hadn't nudged Esther to be successful and, well, "normal", Esther wouldn't have gone mad. She found a perspicacious doctor who was supposed to be able to fix her daughter.
She heard mumblings from Esther. Mumblings of executions. Mumblings of stupid doctors. Mumblings of... suicide? The doctor had failed. She saw Esther laying in the dark, staring at the clock with stark white eyes in the black night. Emmalynn sang a song of mourning. She cried. She shouted. She thought. She thought. She thought. She pretended. Pretended for Esther. Esther couldn't see her crumbling to pieces. No, she held her façade together well.
She grew angry. The anger whirred through her mind like stinging bees. The anger boiled in her veins. Why? She despised her own existence. Frustration. Failure. A delicate glass jar glared at her from the table. Why? It had no right. The offending object was thrown. Shining shards of glass jutted into the floor. She gazed at the beautiful, dangerous debris. They called to her. She ached to end it all. Did she dare? No, she did not. She sighed. Hopeless. The glittering mess was swept up. She had to think of Esther, after all.