We’re pleased to announce the winner of the July WWWC: Shreya Nidumolu! Responding to the prompt ‘temperance’, Shreya’s story, ‘The Anger Lives Within Me’, follows an unnamed narrator held captive in a small room, with only a cruel governess for company.

Read her winning entry in full below.

The Anger lives Within Me

‘Read it again.’

Silence.

A pin dropped, maybe 2000 kilometres away. I heard it.

‘You’re not doing enough!’

With each scream, the voice became quieter. It deafened me, slowly.

‘… but her yearning for it all remained.’

I leaned over, closer to the page. A perfect copper curl covered the next word, but another’s hand tucked it behind my ear.

‘Just being in this room with you, I am destroyed. I will never know how you survive for the other twenty-two hours of the day.’

I am often scared to look up at her, in case I catch her eye. I’ve only ever seen it once, two weeks ago.

#

I am allowed a window, the size of my hand, to breathe fresh air. They can’t afford for me to catch a cold. They don’t think it would leave me again. I saw dark grey clouds rolling towards our house. The attic receives houseguests last, but nature always comes to call. I like to stick a finger out to feel water they haven’t tampered with. Water that doesn’t make me sick. They think I’m stupid, but I know they want to keep me up here, away from monsters and bad guys. I could fight back, but they tell me I’m too weak.

The roof has a hole. I only learned that after I woke up and found my hand-written pages wet. They don’t tell me to write, but I have to, lest I actually go crazy. A puddle grew. When my governess entered the room, I lowered my head to avoid her gaze, instead catching it in the reflection. I hadn’t seen my own face for at least ten years, since I was maybe four years old. Faces held emotion, and emotions were something I already felt in my body. To keep calm, my face needed to stay in the dark.

Her eyes were a shade of green I hadn’t ever seen before. I could look out from my half-pane of glass to see the endless plains of grass that spanned the countryside, with a dewy, vibrant finish that her eyes lacked. They had a dullness, like the mould that grew on the books I had read three years ago, stacked in a darkened corner of the room. The only other green I had as a tool of comparison.

#

I don’t think any of the other women in this house are crazy. I know they think I am. I wish they would read the pages I write. I push them under my door each night. I stuff them between empty dishes, returning them to the kitchen. I sew them into the lining of torn-up dresses. Sometimes, I throw them out of my tiny window (if it even counts as one). I am calm. I don’t think any of the women in this house are crazy.

#

A finger snaps in front me.

‘I think I should take your quill. You need to learn to behave if you ever want to escape this prison.’

Her voice echoes around the room and her hand slams on my desk.

‘Keep reading.’

I turn the page and another strand of hair floats down. I go to tuck it behind my ear but––

‘I suppose you can keep it,’ my governess chuckles. In her palm is a lock of my hair.

I shake my head. I don’t want it, but it ends up in my hand nonetheless.

‘God, you are a disobedient child.’ She laughs again.

The sound floats around the room. It flies higher, then lower. When it reaches the ground, it turns into a man’s voice.

‘God, you are an awful child.’ A tear falls from my eye and his grimy hand wipes it away. ‘Can’t look after your emotions for one minute, can you?’

I see the voice flit upwards and dance right in front of my eyes. I reach out to grab it, but it jumps higher.

A woman. My mother.

‘Don’t blame her for crying, darling.’ An affected tone fills the room. ‘She knows she won’t be seeing us again.’ Cruel laughter escapes from the pair, a disjointed harmony. I cry harder.

She leaves me on the bottom step of a red-brick house. When they walk away, the house reveals itself, a truth that I will discover over the next ten years.

#

My governess comes back two sunrises later.

‘Hopefully you will be better tod––’ her voice cuts off as she catches her first glimpse of me. I don’t see her face, but I feel the shock vibrating along the walls of the room.

‘Whatever happened to your hair?’ She rushes to my bed, and I see her winding fingers grasp at auburn locks dispersed along my white bedcovers. Some drifted toward my desk as the door was opened. I stand by the window to hide the hair that I attempted to stuff through the hole, but didn’t quite fit.

I can’t see my hair, but based on her reaction, I trust that I look a fright. A slight breeze ruffles the uneven tufts poking out of my scalp. My governess had unknowingly left behind the blade that had cut off one curl of hair last week, or perhaps someone had slipped it out of her coat. Either way, how clumsy of her.

I can feel her mildew green eyes pierce into my soul. I don’t look up so that I can imagine that her stare conveys anger, rather than the more painful alternatives of shame, or even confusion. Gripping a clump of hair, she scurries out of the door. I don’t think I’ve seen her since, which is a shame. She was the only person that ever came to visit me anyway.

#

It’s been thirteen days since I’ve seen my governess. I’ve tried to be calm. I don’t send letters anymore. I’ve been quiet. I eat all my food and I drink all my water, even though I know that it makes me sicker. Nobody has taken my quill or my blade. I dislike that woman but I pray each night that I will see her again.

#

I use the quill to etch another mark into the corner of my bedpost. Nineteen scratches mean nineteen days since I’ve seen another person. I would use the blade, if I could risk its dullness. Aside from this, my internal monologue and unadulterated rage are the only other weapons I hold. As I finish the scratch, the hinge on the door creaks softly. So softly, I can pretend I didn’t hear it at all. A step approaches, and then another. I sneak a hand into the gap between my stocking and shoe, and on the third step, I spin around. My face is but an inch from hers. I stare into her eyes and quickly trail the rest of her face to retain it in my memory. She is not nearly as old as I imagined this whole time, with a tanned, freckled nose, flushed cheeks, healthy teeth and lips that curve into a smile.

I do it before she notices.

Once, and then once more for good measure. Her smile remains, but no blood pours out. Her grasp on me strengthens and she lifts a finger in front of my eyes, drenched in bright red. I fall, life rushing out of me. The sensation is like a warmth I haven’t felt in years, maybe never. I feel peace.

#

They let me out. The door is finally unlocked. I step down each stair, slowly, and it’s a feeling I’ve never felt before. I’ve only ever walked up these stairs. Rounding a corner to the front door, the living room catches my eye. Well, really, the smoke from the fireplace catches my nose. I step inside hesitantly, but it looks like all other signs of life have vanished. The only remains are hundreds of letters, burnt to ash, sitting patiently in the hearth.

I don’t know where to go or what to do. The last time I was outside, I was crying. I leave today with an enduring peace, the kind that only those impacted by violence can experience. I will show temperance to the world, but my anger will always live within me.