Glitch (The Write Awards 2013 Winner)

Glitch - Chapter 5

Ivy ensnared the walls of the Anomaly Convent that loomed into sight causing Freya’s eyes to fix on the sight she had been waiting for since the last checkpoint had faded from view. The wall appeared to have stood for quite some time. Entwining vines lodged into the faded red bricks and crumbled away at its towering height. A row of trees obscured the light of the sun which now sat central in the unbroken blue of the sky. But the heat was getting lost somewhere in the abyss as a pinch of cold permeated her fingertips when she laid them against the window. The driveway crunched under the ambling wheels of the van as they pulled into the destination. A sign beside the wrought iron gate declared her location to be:

‘Satis Anomaly Convent’.

The building was a juxtaposition of old and new. A stately home provided the skeleton foundation for the Convent. It possessed a foreign familiarity as she recalled imaginings provoked by the narrative of her hidden book. Uniform rows of windows that were large enough to welcome an abundance of light, imperial columns guarding over the front steps and surrounded by a long stretch of neatly trimmed lawns. Freya could not help feel that the building, that had found its home here presumably for centuries, was somewhat marred by the added wings of sheer glass to the sides. It gave the building the odd impression of a large bird waiting to take flight. Freya supposed that was the irony. Every inhabitant of the Convent had their wings clipped. They were not to leave this place. Not ever.

Seeing all that she needed to see, Freya sank back down against the cold walls of the van and waited with a huff of anticipation. She absent-mindedly patted the faint lump under her jumper where her book lay. If she could win this one trick, then perhaps her time here would be more bearable. A secret to carry around and draw upon to silence her temper. A matchstick gleam of light in absolute darkness.

The doors swung open with a faint squeak. She did not wait for the invitation of the Patrollers’ rough hands. Freya left the van of her own accord. The air seemed no different from home as she caught her first breath of it. Perhaps a little fresher as a trace of the nearby rose garden permeated through the breeze, but not astonishingly different. She had expected another world; an experience entirely removed from her own. Immediately she was struck by the ordinary nature of her surroundings. Off in the distance she could make out two figures peacefully strolling amongst the gardens with the same lack of urgency as swans gliding among a crystalline surface of water. Idyllic, serene and almost silent. Nothing about the Convent felt like a prison.

“Go to her. She’ll sort you out,” the younger Patroller said with a nod of his head towards a woman waiting on the steps. Freya hadn’t noticed her before. The figure stood with such patience that she had previously melted into the walls when Freya’s eyes had scattered over the view. She didn't move when pointed out. Instead she remained perfectly stationary as her eyes skimmed over every feature of Freya's face as if searching for something specific. In return Freya regarded her. It was a struggle to guess an approximate age for the woman. There was a strange juxtaposition amongst her features. The way the woman stood suggested she had existed longer than the house itself. Authoritative, commanding and proud as if she had been carved from the same stone as the marble pillars behind. But her face possessed a youthful glow. Whether it was the unblemished complexion of her skin or the doll-like combination of blue eyes and blonde hair; there was something vulnerable in her strength.

Freya took a step forward to meet the strange figure awaiting her arrival. But she was promptly paused by the Patroller.

“Take this.” The pocket watch was thrust into her grasp. Once more the metal stung cold into her touch.

 “I don’t want this. Why would I possibly want to keep this?” Freya could feel more angry words bubbling up her throat like a black storm cloud swelling inside. She could feel her hands itching to drag nails across his face and scratch away that smirk. They had forced her to leave behind every comfort of home and now she was to accept this badge of oppression in its place. She would have burst open her reserves of thunderous anger had she not been interrupted by a chuckle of amusement.