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Carina-Antonia Grameni, 15 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Constanța, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

         The Melancholy of a Young Woman

	  The sheets were rough. Always the same, starchy linen that rasped against her skin as she bolted upright in her narrow bed. Her breath came sharp and fast, a whisper of a scream caught in her throat, dissolved by silence. Her loose curls, pale yet an eye-catching shade of blonde, clung damp to her forehead. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the cheap nightgown beneath her palm. Her heartbeat was accelerating. It was the same dream, over and over again.
	The man at the end of the corridor. The velvet black coat with golden fastenings, the layered material which sat on his shoulders like wings of a bird about to take flight. The lantern always flickering in one hand, never enough for her to see his face through the shadows while his other hand forever extended, beckoning her to take it. She never took it, her hands remaining by her side, forever trembling. Elenore swallowed hard. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor. Her gaze landed on the wooden cross which sat on the wall, hanging from a silver nail. It all felt so odd. Ever since she was sent to this institution she felt like she was being watched from every corner of the building. She was certain that she was slowly going mad.
	By five, they were all roused by the clang of a bell and the bark of Molly’s voice.
	“Ladies! Rise and make yourselves presentable!”
	She was heard throughout the entire hall, where all the sleeping quarters were and where the nurses were always watching.
	Dressed in dull uniforms and with their hands scrubbed with soap to rawness, they were led to their tasks by the head nurse, the large keys which hung from the waistband of her uniform making loud sounds with each step she took. Each day was a lesson in domesticity and compliance, disguised as therapy. Elenore was assigned to the east kitchen wing that morning. Her knuckles were still red from scrubbing the floors yesterday and her fingertips were pricked from stitching lace onto pillows none of them would ever sleep on. Now, she was simply kneading a handful of dough, the same dough that would be used to make bread later in the evening. Suddenly, she felt a presence near her. It was the cook, Wren, a stone-faced women who’s hands were like hard shovels when it came to cooking and who’s voice would scratch your ears if she were to yell at you.
	“Push it down with your palms, girl. Stop treating it like it’s a child.”
	Elenore nodded mutely and pressed her weight into the dough, her knuckles whitening even more, despite the ridiculous amount of flour they told her to use which already made her hands pale as a ghost.
	Now that it was evening, the embroidery class began. It was their last task of the day before they’d head towards the showers and back inside their bedrooms in order to get ready for the day that would come tomorrow. She sat with the others, stitching roses into fabric while the supervisor watched for any mistakes. Her needle danced over the cloth, but in her mind, she was walking that hall again. The chill of it. The scent she felt hitting her nose everytime she dreamt of it, something metallic perhaps, like the walls were physically rusting. The man was always out of reach as well.
	“Miss Cunningham.”
	A sharp voice rang out, making her thoughts come to an end.
	Elenore looked up. The supervisor was frowning, pointing to the smear of blood blooming on her thumb which slightly stained the white fabric sat in her lap.
	“I apologise...”
	“Apologising won’t clean up the mess you made, now get back to work.”	
	 She bowed her head, her hands ever so slightly trembling as she stared at the bit of blood staining her finger, and then, she stood up, rushing outside of the room filled with other troubled women like her, staring. She could feel their eyes on the back of her head as she exited, it made her feel like she was suffocating. Elenore found herself inside her private bedroom, her fingers slightly tugging at the tight waistband of her dress, her breaths slightly irregular. What was wrong with her? It was just a drop of blood, she shouldn’t be reacting like this, yet here she was.
	The room was stone-cold. The kind of cold that settled beneath the skin and wrapped around the bones. Elenore moved towards the mirror opposite of her bed, her feet dragging across the floor almost as if she was reluctant to approach it. Her skin was pale, paler than usual, and she looked like she hasn’t had a good night’s rest in weeks. A single candle burned low on a small writing desk, its flame flickering with every breeze which came from the halfway opened window. The shadows crept along the walls, coiling like smoke, stretching long fingers towards the ceiling. The air was quiet, save for the occasional groan of old wood and the distant whistle of wind against the glass. The mirror was oval-shaped, framed in tarnished brass and slightly fogged with age. It rflected the room behind her, in dim, distorted tones, the bed, the desk. It all felt to grim. Her hands stopped trembling, but her mind was adrift. The dream had not come tonight, for the first time in weeks, it hadn’t found her asleep. And that terrified her more than its presence ever had. A soft rustling was heard, Elenore’s head snapped up, looking around towards every corner of the bedroom, her eyes catching nothing out of the ordinary. Then she heard it. She heard him.
	“...Elenore...”
	The voice curled around her name like silk over a blade. It was low, yet, suprisingly gentle. And it hadn’t come from within her head.
	Her eyes found the mirror once more, a shiver going up her spine, making her breaths turn to mist. He stood behind her reflection. A tall, imposing figure, swathed in black. His coat was just as it had been in the dreams, high-collared, with golden buttons that gleamed like coins in murky water. Mist, dark as pitch and laced with violet undertones, coiled around his boots and drifted in soft waves as he moved closer, close enough to feel the cold shadows brushing against her ankles. His face was obscured by a plague doctor’s mask, long-beaked and glinting with polished obsidian, its eyes twin voids that held her gaze like a vice. The kind of emptiness that made you feel seen. Her voice finally found its power, her lips parting ever so slightly.
	“...Who...?”
	The figure inclined his head to the side, then he extended his hand forward, his hands obscured by the black leather gloves he wore. He said nothing. He was waiting for her to take his hand. Elenore slowly turned, her back facing the mirror, and there he stood, only mere inches from her. For a moment she hesitated. It was the same game, over and over again. He’d offer his hand and she’d decline, but this wasn’t a dream anymore, was it? Her hand moved forward, hovering over his, then she slowly took it, feeling the cold leather press against her palm, his fingers closing around her hand. Then, her eyes opened. She sat upright in her bed, heavy breaths leaving her mouth as she awoke once more from yet another dream.
	“Morpheus...” She softly whispered to herself. His name was Morpheus.