The Medea Complex
Authors: Rachel Florence Roberts
Tags: #Fiction, #Medical, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller
What Others Are Saying About The Medea
Complex -
"This is one the best sellers list
best watch out for!"
Fabulosity Reads
"The story is strong, captivating and
moving and deserves the success it’s had so far"
Sian Jones, Wales
"
To
take on the subject of mental healthcare in the nineteenth century and wrap
this up into a thriller that keeps us entertained as we learn about how
different things were back then wins my respect before I’ve even read the first
word. Happily, after reading into this story I’m pleased to report that my
level of respect only grows if anything. I can see why this book is doing so
well"
Alistair Miles,Bristol
"It’s obvious you did extensive
research on the time period. It shows through every aspect of your writing: The
setting, the dialogue, the character’s thoughts and behavior. – It all fits the
time the story takes place and creates an authentic feel to the story"
S T Grace, USA
"I was finally able to start The
Medea Complex. Wow! A very unique story and perspective, extremely
well-written, great attention to detail and wonderfully descriptive"
Backwoods, USA
The
Medea
Complex
By
Rachel
Florence Roberts
*****
Copyright 2013 by Rachel Florence Roberts
About
the Book
1885. Anne Stanbury - Committed to a lunatic
asylum, having been deemed insane and therefore unfit to stand trial for the
crime of which she is indicted. But is all as it seems?
Edgar Stanbury - the grieving husband and father who is torn between helping
his confined wife recover her sanity, and seeking revenge on the woman who
ruined his life.
Dr George Savage - the well respected psychiatrist, and chief medical officer
of Bethlem Royal Hospital. Ultimately, he holds Anne's future wholly in his
hands.
The Medea Complex tells the story of a misunderstood woman suffering from
insanity in an era when mental illnesses' were all too often misdiagnosed and
mistreated. A deep and riveting psychological thriller set within an historical
context, packed full of twists and turns, The Medea Complex explores the nature
of the human psyche: what possesses us, drives us, and how love, passion, and
hope for the future can drive us to insanity.
About
the Author
British born and raised, Rachel Florence
Roberts is a registered nurse, fiancée and mother of one based in Malta, EU.
The Medea Complex was written shortly after the birth of her son, and took
almost two years to complete. She suffered with postnatal depression in a
country that did not understand her, and was henceforth the inspiration behind
the novel. The Medea Complex will make anyone who has ever thought, lived,
laughed, and loved, question the importance of those and everything around
them.
Dedication
For Pete, who told me I was only crazy half
the time.
For Sebastian, who gave me just the right
amount of sleep deprivation to delve into the mind of a mad woman.
For my mother, and all other mothers out
there that have a blind, unending faith in their children.
For myself, you finally did it. Go you.
Acknowledgements
This work would not have been possible
without a few resources that proved invaluable. The Gutenberg Project, for
providing a whole wealth of 19th century novels on your website. Google, for
providing me with the world wide web. The British Newspaper Archive, a
brilliant source of old articles. The Old Bailey, Victorian Web,
Bethlemheritage.org, are just a few more of the sources that made the
characters and places in my novel really come to life.
Copyright
Except for use in any review, the
reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage
or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. This
book is sold subject to the condition that shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior
consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All rights reserved including the
right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Reference/Book Publishing
20121204.03.eab
copyright Rachel Roberts 2013
Anne
October 11th 1885
Unknown Location
What I really want to know is how the bastards did it.
It's the blackest part of the night, and I've woken up to
find myself lying upon a bed made of straw. Although this in itself may sound
rather conventional, it most certainly is not when a person went to sleep on a
mattress stuffed with horsehair and layered with cotton.
How does one accomplish such a feat?
This is possibly the rudest thing to which I have ever borne
witness. Or not, considering I was asleep. The sheer, bloody audacity of
thieves these days!
I roll over and sit myself up, the utterly repellent
material crunching underneath me. Something tickles my foot and I shriek,
pushing the blanket away, gasping as I do so. Not only did they bring an
insect breeding-ground into my house, they've stolen my quilt, too.
Of all the nerve...
Right.
I'm contacting the police. The audacious fiends shan't get
away with it.
I shuffle to the end of the bed, and stand. After all, if
I'm quick enough to report, they won't be too hard to find. A seven foot wide
mattress is not an easy nor sensible thing to walk along a road with, even
under the cover of night. I reach for my slippers, but, wait. Why am I standing
on a cold floor? Where is...
They've done away with my Ambusson rug!
This is utterly outrageous.
“Beatrix!” I shout, walking towards the door. “Beatrix! Wake
up, we've been robbed!” Wait, it's too dark, and I'm cold. “Beatrix! Come on in
here and light a light, will you?” I raise my arms out in front of me,
swinging my hands back and forth as I blindly search for my dressing gown.
After walking a few steps, I bump into a wall that shouldn't be there.
I run my fingers across it.
It is cracked and in a dire state of disrepair.
This is not my wall.
Something flakes off underneath my palms, and inside my
mind.
This isn't my bedroom.
I've been kidnapped.
No, no...it can't possibly be. There must be a logical
explanation for this strangeness.
Did I fall from my horse again?
Is it possible I hit my head?
Could I still be asleep?
The pain that shoots through my arm as I pinch myself is
suddenly overtaken by a horrible ache inside my breasts; a hot, tender, bruised
sensation. I ignore it, listening for a sound.
Any sound.
Where am I?
I turn in a circle, lost.
What does one do in such a predicament?
Am I in the servant’s quarters?
My anger is swiftly replaced by fear.
“Beatrix!” I hiss, keeping my voice low this time. I am
rewarded with the dreadful sound of nothingness.
What time is it?
I start to walk in a straight line, searching for something,
anything, that might inform me as to my location. A lamp. A door. A
dressing-table. My hands brush nothing but air until they hit what feels like
another stone wall. I place my back against it, and follow it with my palms
until I hit a corner.
I continue onwards, until I realize I have counted four
corners and effectively walked in a square.
I'm in a room.
A small room.
A small room without a door.
As horrendous a prospect this may be, I follow my journey again.
Slowly, carefully, I search for any grooves or handles that I in my haste, I
undoubtedly missed the first time. Other than the bed, nothing of sufficient
prominence nor irregularity informs me of my whereabouts. If I can't identify
my location, then I should at least try to escape.
But I don't find anything.
I sit on the floor.
How is this possible?
Every room has a door. If someone brought me here then there
is a way inside, and therefore, a way out.
I don't know how long I stay like this, thinking of
everything and nothing. Frozen in place, scared to call out, too frightened to
move, yet now terrified not to do both. I close my eyes for just a moment, and
when I open them a small pool of light rests upon my arm.
I lift my head, searching for its source.
A small, square window hangs roughly twelve feet above the
ground. It has unusual, horizontal lines across it. I squint. What could they
be? Cautiously, I rise, intending to investigate, when a loud knock
reverberates from somewhere nearby.
I shriek, and run towards the bed that I can now see; albeit
faintly, grabbing the blanket off the floor and leaping into it. Pulling the
cover over my head, I pray they won't notice me.
My heart is beating too fast. I can't breathe under this
blanket and it smells.
“Lady Stanbury?”
Who?
“Anne?”
Me?
Oh, it's Beatrix, dear-hearted Beatrix. I push the cover
away from my face, readying myself to leap into her arms.
“Quick, Beatrix, come inside! Light a light, quickly now!
What has happened to my bed, where are we-”
A familiar scratching sound; the lighting of an oil lamp.
Held up to a woman's face.
A face that is not Beatrix's.
I scream.
She is wearing a white uniform complete with a starched
collar; a strange wrap-around contraption, slightly reminiscent of a maids, yet,
bewilderingly, subtly and grossly different. Her vast body fills the doorway,
illuminated by an unknown source of light from behind her. She stands still for
a moment, assessing me.
Doorway?
"Now, now, Lady Stanbury," she says, her bosom
heaving as if she is gasping for breath. "I don't expect any trouble from
you now, especially not at this hour of the morning. Here is your
breakfast."
I push myself as far up the bed as I can, away from her.
What has she done with Beatrix?
“Where is Beatrix?” I shout, as she puts a stinking tray on
the floor next to my bed. Who in hell is this damned fiend, and does she
honestly imagine I will eat my breakfast...off the floor?
"Beatrix will be along momentarily, my Lady," she
says, stepping away from me and smirking. She places her masculine hands on fat
hips and with a small incline of her fat head, performs a wobbly, insubordinate
imitation of a badly-executed curtsey. “For now, I am your maid.”
I could kill her.
"Leave at once, intruder!" I scream. “I certainly
did not employ you, you liar!” Leaping out of bed, I back away from her. Where
on earth is Beatrix? “Father! There is a thief in our house!" Where is my
riding crop? I shall beat her senseless. I whirl around to find it, but wait,
this room is not mine. I have been kidnapped!
What is this accursed place?
"Calm yourself," says the fat thief, approaching
me with outstretched hands.
"Father! Beatrix!" My head feels strange: spots of
black are floating in front of my eyes. Lord, if I faint in this monster's
clutches I'm doomed. She might try to eat me.
Until my father or Beatrix arrives, I must find something
with which to hit her if she attacks me. An object to defend myself; though if
need be I shall get her with my bare hands and teeth. Goddamn her! Yet sadly,
there is only the thin mattress on which I awoke, atop which lie a couple of
brown blankets. Bloody useless. The bed frame itself looks affixed to the
floor. The room is roughly eight feet squared, and unfortunately, sparse. No
wardrobe.
Heavens.
And the window! It has bars across it! I have been thrown in
a cell! Lord, have mercy on my soul! This is an exercise in utter futility.
There is nothing to make a weapon with here. My safety is a thing of the past.
"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy
name...." I mutter, as I search the room. God will help cast out this
devil.
In my haste to find a dangerous object, I fail to notice a
lone flagstone in the floor which has risen above its neighbours. The one inch
jut is adequate enough to trip me.
Landing on my head, pain shoots through my brain.
"Doctor!" The fat kidnapper shouts from behind me.
Doctor? Does she imagine she can pretend I am in a hospital? This cell does
not resemble a place of rest! I consider the wall opposite me as I lie on my
face. It is a sickening yellow in dire need of paint, flaking off in places
and somebody needs to fix this floor. And what is that smell? Sitting up, I
look back at the offending slab. It mocks me, and threads of green grace its
edges. For the first time, I detect I am not wearing my own lacy white
nightgown. This drab excuse is no Parisian beauty; rather a thin and awful
green linen thing which trails below my feet.
The reason I tripped! The hem must have become stuck on the
slab. This gives me a sense of self satisfaction in that it was my clothes
conspiring against me as opposed to my own unwieldy awkwardness. Score one to
Anne, zero to my obese jailer: you supplied me with the wrong size gown! A
manic laugh resounds inside my head. This is evidence no doubt of her
stupidity. If she cannot judge the size of my frame then she will make a
further mistake, which will enable me to escape.
I am happy. Tomorrow she might give me the jailer's keys
for breakfast, and put the bowl of porridge in her pocket. That would serve
her right. I roll onto my stomach, the dizziness is overwhelming. She can have
a view of my behind. She doesn't deserve my face.
"Why is she laughing?" a man's voice says.
“How am I to know? But she has fallen, and she has urinated
upon herself!”
There are two of them? If this situation weren't so
dreadful, it would be almost comical. And who has urinated upon themselves?
That is disgusting. Splayed in a most undignified manner on the floor, dressed
in an appalling green gown, with blood trickling out of my head, I contemplate
which is more worrisome. The state of my cell, no fit state for a Lady, or the
fact that a man has an uncontested view of my unmentionables.
My head does not overly concern me; the warmth of the blood
is rather soothing.
"Pervert!" I shout.
The floor is comfortable too.
I don’t want to get up.
Rustling and hushing from behind me.
Before I realize what is happening, I am manhandled into a
sitting position. I squirm in a pathetic attempt to stay where I am, to no
avail. What impolite, rude behaviour.
"My father will not give you a solitary farthing!"
I say, into the face of the 'doctor' holding me. "Unhand me at once and
let me go home, you, you," I struggle to find an insult strong enough.
"You utter, foul sod of a rotter!" My voice breaks and I am ashamed
and astounded that I start to sob.
"Lady Stanbury, look at me," he says. I refuse,
and moan into my gown. "I am a doctor. My name is George, Dr George
Savage. I am the chief medical officer here at Bethlem Royal Hospital. You are
safe, and let me assure you, we have not kidnapped you. The courts' requested
that you be sent here at Her Majesty's pleasure, until we can make you well
again. You are not a prisoner, but a patient." He attempts to rub my arms
and is rewarded by a smack in the face.
This is outrageous. They have the wrong person! My name is
not Lady Stanbury, nor do I know of any person by that name. I don't believe a
word he says. Blood runs into my right eye, making it difficult to assess him
in any detail. I make out a long brown beard and a well-fitting suit. How dare
this degenerate masquerade as an eminent doctor? I am disgusted.
"My name, if you please, is Lady Anne. You have
kidnapped the wrong woman, I never saw you in my life! Incompetents!" This
is too hilarious. I start to laugh.
"Chloral?" asks the enormous specimen of a human
by his side.
"No, no," he replies, “We only dose them as a last
resort. It is better to let her rest awhile, see if she comes to her senses
somewhat by noon. Get the new attendant to come and clean her up." They
start to move away from me.
"Don't you dare leave me alone in this place!" I
shout, jumping to my feet, but I am too slow: they are at the door. With a
somewhat evil glance behind her, the 'nurse' winks at me and slams the door
shut; a yellow door which matches and blends perfectly with the walls.
I sit back on the bed and start sobbing once again.
