The Family Flame
Sophie Bearpark
TW: Gore
Sophie Bearpark
TW: Gore
[YOU START HERE.]Letters given to the museum by urban explorers, first discovered in Christwick Hospital Office. The hospital was partially destroyed on March 3rd just twenty years ago -spooky right? All patients and staff were accounted for. In the continuing months, no attempts were made to rebuild. The hospital was promptly forgotten. These letters from “K” are presumed to be from either Kaleb Miller, addressed to his only child River Miller or Klara Nowak, addressed to the eldest of two Albin Nowak, chronicle from January to February of the fateful year. Join us throughout this exhibit to see their story.]
My darling child, January 20th
The apple of my eye has rotted away and I am missing you dearly. The funeral was lovely; your absence was felt by all. I was rather shocked to hear the news from my nurse, this tall and obsessive man, has been attached to me at the hip, ever since the "accident". They wince when I speak of it. Most especially, [The letter was torn in two (though some presume three) the following few lines have not been found.] I hope you never find yourself in a situation akin to mine. I say fight! You owe them nothing! You were right to show your strength to that brute and hopefully I will hear the details in your letter? But, know that you’ll never need to justify yourself to me.
Please do write.
It’s occurred to me now, after my near brush with death that, with me would die many stories. I think it your birth right to hear at least some of them. And, selfishly, hope that they live long after my mortal death. I will be preserved through these letters in the same way the ashes preserve the grounds of our house.
I tell you now of your Great-grandfather. An honourable man with a warrior’s heart, all through his life, even at my primary-school age I could hear it beat through the house. He set me down once, on the old sofa, at that time it smelt of old cologne, perfume and new fabric (you cousin did well to remove those scents when she spilt that juice at your party) to tell me of his “greatest feat.”
That’s all parents are good for: telling stories. I thought that at the time and I’m sure you share the sentiment. That’s beside the point, when he was a wide-eyed boy; his parents informed him with little remorse
“We are moving across the ocean!” Away from all he knew. He told me of his sadness. I found it unimportant. He then told me that after many-a-battle for the prevention of this move he relented, on one condition…He requested they take a piece of the house with them. He searched for the “piece” everywhere. Inspecting size, weight, feel, smell, look and scrutinising every detail of every object in the house. So, no “heirloom”, brick or cobweb was safe. For hours and hours, he drove his parents insane. He went on and on until the day of the move. What will I take? He asked himself as he sprinted around the house. He dressed, put on his boots but all the while wondered. “Something from the kitchen?”
His parents packed and he sat pondering. His mother beeped the horn, he didn’t move. Until, they marched towards him, looming over. Finally, they said enough was enough his mother picked him up and threw him like a sack of flour into the backseat and when he began to cry his father handed him a soot-covered brick from the fireplace.
In other news, Emily (the one from Bradford, poor thing) achieved the highest award one can receive in this place: freedom! I shall hope to be cured in the continuing months. She is moving close to you, I do believe. More accurately, I do hope.
The staff has taken to reading my letters in the same way a young boy reads his sister’s diary. Giggles and incompetence echo through the halls at night.
Burning with curiosity for your tale, K
[Late, multiple allegations were made against two of the staff for breaching patient confidentiality , however the hospital had an outstanding reputation for patient care.]
Dear, January 25th
I have rushed from my tranquil position in bed to one of rigid urgency, contained only by my desk chair. A few of the more lenient staff said that you may be facing some repercussions for that fight. The consequences they speak of seem woefully undeserved. A court case, what child should ever enter that hell-scape? If you ask for my help in any of it, know I will lovingly oblige. I do mention the situation here, to plead for you to disprove it. One word and all will be forgotten.
Glad to hear that you are doing well, however. Mother Earth and the spirits above know you deserve it. You have certainly earnt your peace, if peace is what you have.
If you are asking for news of me, that nurse has moved on to greater things. I hear, only in his absence, that he was training on a six month contract. The new nurse is even younger than him! Will they be sending in babies next? Sucking on dummies and crawling after me on all fours, will I be expected to wash nappies? She is very smart. So smart that when I tried my usual trick to earn myself some freedom I was so promptly halted.
“Where do you plan on going?” She said, “The meeting is this way.”
It was then, I thought of asking for her number to give to you. Far from your equal but impressive nonetheless. I will write the number below and hire the church out for you both.
That brick found a home in Great-grandfathers new house, soon to be yours. It sits in the new fireplace and has for over a century now. I remember your Aunt being fascinated with that one small brick at the base. She would sit there for hours. Staring. It seems fire has always fascinated this family. Once, we were home on our own, as they always are in those urban tragedies.
She wouldn’t stop begging me to light a fire, to the point of tears! Bear in mind we were fourteen at the time. Droplets poured down her cheek, she had made a puddle in the living room. Of course, I gave in. It was a small request. I set about lighting it.
I’m afraid my letter writing time has run short. Continue later…
[The number has been blacked out for privacy]
Your dearly beloved, K
Darling, January 10th
I have sent four letters in the last two months; I have received none in return. This letter I entrust with Emily. I can only hope it is not intervened with, on its travels. In terms of my health, I am doing swimmingly. However, should you ask of my general state, I would reply: [The following has been burnt away.]
I talked to Dr Goode this morning. He informed me that I should be set to leave in the following two months. Ready to look after you, this has strengthened my bones better that the long-life milk they force down us.
Please reply immediately when you get this. In and with said reply please do the following:
1. Write only the weekday of reception.
2. Proceed with only a brief formal letter. Please do outline what happened that day at the factory.
3. Write solely your initials
Living vicariously through your words, K
My lovely, January 30th
This is the third letter send, still awaiting a reply. You have had close to three weeks. I do not live far away.
Your aunt sat by the fireplace all the while I lit it. Staring, wide eyed at my every move. It was uncanny and so odd, even without the hindsight.
Once, I had completed my task, there I sat alongside her. The fire blazed and my body grew ever warmer. The carpeting began to itch and my face grew red from the heat. My sister didn’t even know I was there. And, she didn’t turn to look when I went outside. I had enough (twenty minutes later or so) I left her dumbstruck to her own devices. Off I went…
The garden hadn’t changed for thirty years and never changed after that. Until it was reduced to cinders of course, but that was later.
It was then that I heard a scream. AAAaah! Blistering, loud, it rang through the house, battered against the glass and the walls and my ears. I sprinted into the living room to find she had thrust her hand into the fire, screaming all the while. She didn’t move it. She just screamed.
The skin of her hand dripped like wax into the fire. It consumed her arm. Her poor clothes were covered in an instant as though time was relative to the distance from the fire. It settled to chewing on her shoulder. Flesh of it bubbled and popped like some blood laden soup.
Many years later I asked what had possessed her.
“It just felt right.” She answered. Felt right! She screamed the whole time, her hand was forever useless and I was traumatised! Course it’s almost a funny tale now. Time does that. I wonder if maybe the same beast possessed your father.
Two weeks until valentines and still my nurse is free. You waste a good one. I will be out of here in three weeks.
Ever waiting, K
[The Christwick hospital worked with patients to recover from physical trauma. Most notably: Patricia Bryan, George Kramer, Anita Davila and Mark York. Both theorised authors were admitted with serious burns. At the time, it was common to treat these with skin grafts and physical therapy. This is still a followed practice although if you were to be admitted to hospital now, things might be a little different. How gruesome!]
My silent child, February 13th
I’m disheartened when I think of your childhood home. The house that almost took my sister, the house that took your father, and still I think of you running through the garden, catching fireflies, shouting for my attention as you do a handstand. All of that is burned to ashes.
One more week of this and then I’m free. Whether that’s a good thing or bad, who knows?
I’m tired now. I want to hear your voice. The nurses carry no news of you. Have you left? Did you leave me? Did you see no point in staying after the house burnt down? You always talked about its beautiful design. Was that all that kept you?
K
You, February 20th
I’m aware that my anger has been misplaced. I apologise for that dearly. The reader of this paper will no doubt not be my child. This is addressed equally to you.
My nurse is less capable now. I thought, on a whim, to riffle though the papers in the office, for news of my recovery etc. My child has not received these letters. You have. As much as I’d like to grovel, that’ll do no good to anyone, will it? You don’t know the address.
I only wished that I’d figured it out sooner. I didn’t think my child to be such a coward as to run away from the law itself. That fight was over a trivial sum. I could have paid it! But now I’m left, burned in the hospital and all alone. Yet another tragedy to add to the family scrapbook:
As for what I will do, there’s little left. I will finally drown out the fire that burnt in our family.
k
[These letters, along with others that you can find in the left wing of our exhibit, offer a much needed look into individuals during this time period. Happy Halloween! We hope you have enjoyed your scary readings! PLEASE CONTINUE TO YOUR LEFT]
My darling child, January 20th
The apple of my eye has rotted away and I am missing you dearly. The funeral was lovely; your absence was felt by all. I was rather shocked to hear the news from my nurse, this tall and obsessive man, has been attached to me at the hip, ever since the "accident". They wince when I speak of it. Most especially, [The letter was torn in two (though some presume three) the following few lines have not been found.] I hope you never find yourself in a situation akin to mine. I say fight! You owe them nothing! You were right to show your strength to that brute and hopefully I will hear the details in your letter? But, know that you’ll never need to justify yourself to me.
Please do write.
It’s occurred to me now, after my near brush with death that, with me would die many stories. I think it your birth right to hear at least some of them. And, selfishly, hope that they live long after my mortal death. I will be preserved through these letters in the same way the ashes preserve the grounds of our house.
I tell you now of your Great-grandfather. An honourable man with a warrior’s heart, all through his life, even at my primary-school age I could hear it beat through the house. He set me down once, on the old sofa, at that time it smelt of old cologne, perfume and new fabric (you cousin did well to remove those scents when she spilt that juice at your party) to tell me of his “greatest feat.”
That’s all parents are good for: telling stories. I thought that at the time and I’m sure you share the sentiment. That’s beside the point, when he was a wide-eyed boy; his parents informed him with little remorse
“We are moving across the ocean!” Away from all he knew. He told me of his sadness. I found it unimportant. He then told me that after many-a-battle for the prevention of this move he relented, on one condition…He requested they take a piece of the house with them. He searched for the “piece” everywhere. Inspecting size, weight, feel, smell, look and scrutinising every detail of every object in the house. So, no “heirloom”, brick or cobweb was safe. For hours and hours, he drove his parents insane. He went on and on until the day of the move. What will I take? He asked himself as he sprinted around the house. He dressed, put on his boots but all the while wondered. “Something from the kitchen?”
His parents packed and he sat pondering. His mother beeped the horn, he didn’t move. Until, they marched towards him, looming over. Finally, they said enough was enough his mother picked him up and threw him like a sack of flour into the backseat and when he began to cry his father handed him a soot-covered brick from the fireplace.
In other news, Emily (the one from Bradford, poor thing) achieved the highest award one can receive in this place: freedom! I shall hope to be cured in the continuing months. She is moving close to you, I do believe. More accurately, I do hope.
The staff has taken to reading my letters in the same way a young boy reads his sister’s diary. Giggles and incompetence echo through the halls at night.
Burning with curiosity for your tale, K
[Late, multiple allegations were made against two of the staff for breaching patient confidentiality , however the hospital had an outstanding reputation for patient care.]
Dear, January 25th
I have rushed from my tranquil position in bed to one of rigid urgency, contained only by my desk chair. A few of the more lenient staff said that you may be facing some repercussions for that fight. The consequences they speak of seem woefully undeserved. A court case, what child should ever enter that hell-scape? If you ask for my help in any of it, know I will lovingly oblige. I do mention the situation here, to plead for you to disprove it. One word and all will be forgotten.
Glad to hear that you are doing well, however. Mother Earth and the spirits above know you deserve it. You have certainly earnt your peace, if peace is what you have.
If you are asking for news of me, that nurse has moved on to greater things. I hear, only in his absence, that he was training on a six month contract. The new nurse is even younger than him! Will they be sending in babies next? Sucking on dummies and crawling after me on all fours, will I be expected to wash nappies? She is very smart. So smart that when I tried my usual trick to earn myself some freedom I was so promptly halted.
“Where do you plan on going?” She said, “The meeting is this way.”
It was then, I thought of asking for her number to give to you. Far from your equal but impressive nonetheless. I will write the number below and hire the church out for you both.
That brick found a home in Great-grandfathers new house, soon to be yours. It sits in the new fireplace and has for over a century now. I remember your Aunt being fascinated with that one small brick at the base. She would sit there for hours. Staring. It seems fire has always fascinated this family. Once, we were home on our own, as they always are in those urban tragedies.
She wouldn’t stop begging me to light a fire, to the point of tears! Bear in mind we were fourteen at the time. Droplets poured down her cheek, she had made a puddle in the living room. Of course, I gave in. It was a small request. I set about lighting it.
I’m afraid my letter writing time has run short. Continue later…
[The number has been blacked out for privacy]
Your dearly beloved, K
Darling, January 10th
I have sent four letters in the last two months; I have received none in return. This letter I entrust with Emily. I can only hope it is not intervened with, on its travels. In terms of my health, I am doing swimmingly. However, should you ask of my general state, I would reply: [The following has been burnt away.]
I talked to Dr Goode this morning. He informed me that I should be set to leave in the following two months. Ready to look after you, this has strengthened my bones better that the long-life milk they force down us.
Please reply immediately when you get this. In and with said reply please do the following:
1. Write only the weekday of reception.
2. Proceed with only a brief formal letter. Please do outline what happened that day at the factory.
3. Write solely your initials
Living vicariously through your words, K
My lovely, January 30th
This is the third letter send, still awaiting a reply. You have had close to three weeks. I do not live far away.
Your aunt sat by the fireplace all the while I lit it. Staring, wide eyed at my every move. It was uncanny and so odd, even without the hindsight.
Once, I had completed my task, there I sat alongside her. The fire blazed and my body grew ever warmer. The carpeting began to itch and my face grew red from the heat. My sister didn’t even know I was there. And, she didn’t turn to look when I went outside. I had enough (twenty minutes later or so) I left her dumbstruck to her own devices. Off I went…
The garden hadn’t changed for thirty years and never changed after that. Until it was reduced to cinders of course, but that was later.
It was then that I heard a scream. AAAaah! Blistering, loud, it rang through the house, battered against the glass and the walls and my ears. I sprinted into the living room to find she had thrust her hand into the fire, screaming all the while. She didn’t move it. She just screamed.
The skin of her hand dripped like wax into the fire. It consumed her arm. Her poor clothes were covered in an instant as though time was relative to the distance from the fire. It settled to chewing on her shoulder. Flesh of it bubbled and popped like some blood laden soup.
Many years later I asked what had possessed her.
“It just felt right.” She answered. Felt right! She screamed the whole time, her hand was forever useless and I was traumatised! Course it’s almost a funny tale now. Time does that. I wonder if maybe the same beast possessed your father.
Two weeks until valentines and still my nurse is free. You waste a good one. I will be out of here in three weeks.
Ever waiting, K
[The Christwick hospital worked with patients to recover from physical trauma. Most notably: Patricia Bryan, George Kramer, Anita Davila and Mark York. Both theorised authors were admitted with serious burns. At the time, it was common to treat these with skin grafts and physical therapy. This is still a followed practice although if you were to be admitted to hospital now, things might be a little different. How gruesome!]
My silent child, February 13th
I’m disheartened when I think of your childhood home. The house that almost took my sister, the house that took your father, and still I think of you running through the garden, catching fireflies, shouting for my attention as you do a handstand. All of that is burned to ashes.
One more week of this and then I’m free. Whether that’s a good thing or bad, who knows?
I’m tired now. I want to hear your voice. The nurses carry no news of you. Have you left? Did you leave me? Did you see no point in staying after the house burnt down? You always talked about its beautiful design. Was that all that kept you?
K
You, February 20th
I’m aware that my anger has been misplaced. I apologise for that dearly. The reader of this paper will no doubt not be my child. This is addressed equally to you.
My nurse is less capable now. I thought, on a whim, to riffle though the papers in the office, for news of my recovery etc. My child has not received these letters. You have. As much as I’d like to grovel, that’ll do no good to anyone, will it? You don’t know the address.
I only wished that I’d figured it out sooner. I didn’t think my child to be such a coward as to run away from the law itself. That fight was over a trivial sum. I could have paid it! But now I’m left, burned in the hospital and all alone. Yet another tragedy to add to the family scrapbook:
As for what I will do, there’s little left. I will finally drown out the fire that burnt in our family.
k
[These letters, along with others that you can find in the left wing of our exhibit, offer a much needed look into individuals during this time period. Happy Halloween! We hope you have enjoyed your scary readings! PLEASE CONTINUE TO YOUR LEFT]
//
Sophie Bearpark is a fourteen years old and currently waiting to start her GCSE’s. She probably spends more time thinking about writing than actually doing it, but the passion is definitely somewhat there.
Sophie Bearpark is a fourteen years old and currently waiting to start her GCSE’s. She probably spends more time thinking about writing than actually doing it, but the passion is definitely somewhat there.