These two (very) short stories were meant to give a background for Incubo, my first project (you can read about it here).
The first one was used to create the cutscene that functions as an introduction to the game. The second one gives some insight into Helen’s character.
Helen raises her hand and wipes her nose with the back. Her nostrils are so dry and irritated there really is nothing to wipe, but the gesture is automatic at this point. She adjusts her shawl, caressing its fringes. It’s a gift from her mother: she gave it to her the only time she came to visit in her hospital room, ten years ago, before running out crying upon seeing her daughter in that catatonic state.
“I was a real mess ten years ago” Helen thinks. She keeps on caressing the red fringes of the shawl, its bright yellow clashing with the dull white of her pajamas. Some fringes nearly fell off after so much touching.
Helen scratches her head. The yellow-nailed, bony fingers frantically dig around her skull, skin flakes falling on her shoulders. The ash-blond hair looks like they haven’t seen a comb in months, maybe years: they twist, they scatter on the shawl, small locks fall around the chair Helen is sitting on. She never leaves that chair. When she’s not sleeping in her room, she spends hours sitting there, staring out the window and caressing her shawl. No one knows what she sees from there. Sometimes you can see her nod, sometimes she chuckles, and some other times she weeps silently. She almost looks as if talking to someone, but no one ever knew who.
In the outside world, beyond the four walls of the psychiatric hospital, it’s pouring. Helen stands in front of the window, as always. From the TV in the background, a speaker’s voice is reading the daily news. Helen doesn’t care anymore about anything going on outside. But today, the TV’s reflection in the windowpane attracts her attention.
She’d recognize that silhouette, that stance, that all-blinding white anywhere: it’s Christ The Redeemer. Her nemesis, her passion, her ruin.
It’s been a long time since it last happened, a long time since she saw any of the seven cursed objects that brought her into that hellhole.
Something beats the walls of her brain in search of freedom. Helen’s sight fills with red strands, getting thicker with her rising madness. She feels her eyes dilating, her throat snarling, her mouth drooling, but she’s no more in control of herself. Never was, never will. The small part of her still holding a scrap of humanity clings hard trying not to fall in that eruption of madness.
The nurses show up, screaming to turn off the TV. Two of them catch her, while a third one grabs a syringe. The needle glimmers eerily in the neon lights before sinking into Helen’s neck. Her body thrashes violently then goes limp in the nurse’s arms.
Inside her brain, her small human part still hangs tight, but it lifts itself up and sits, now that things got quieter. It decides it’s time to do something. It’s time to face the Nightmare.
Ever heard of the seven wonders of the modern world?
The first time I heard about them I was seven, back in school. The teacher showed us pictures of these enormous buildings and told us that those were the Seven Wonders of the World. They were called “wonders” because nothing could compare to their splendor, to the sense of smallness felt standing at their feet. I think I made the decision to become an architect that very day at school. I was in ecstasy.
My psychiatrist says I suffer from a craving for greatness, among others, and that’s why I’m drawn towards anything that’s gigantic and immense, like monuments. I can’t help myself, they attract me like magnets. They talk to me and I answer them. I’ve had endless conversations with my town’s church. When I told her about the vastness of Milan’s Duomo and Notre Dame’s Cathedral I had to comfort her and tell her that she’s worthy of standing next to the greats. I chose to become an architect to be in touch with monuments. Nothing pleases me more than the idea of contributing to the building of something bigger than me, maybe to bring out the smallness inside me. That feeling of being small and insignificant next to the vastness of the world. Being an integral part of something big like a building makes this oppressive feeling more tolerable.
I was a really high-profile, sought-after architect. The passion that drove me went beyond the simple passion for my work. Mine was a vocation, a call from above. My buildings were my children, my love, my soul. I would have chained myself to them if they had tried to demolish them. That’s how much I loved them. The Seven Wonders were the peak of my passion. To me, there was nothing more perfect. The idea that humanity could breed something so perfect left tears in my eyes. I’ve traveled around the world many times to see them. To call what I’ve felt in their presence Stendahl’s syndrome would be reductive. Stendhal’s syndrome doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling of physical ache of standing in front of absolute perfection. It happened in front of Christ The Redeemer. The fire was lit and never went out.
I began to ask myself: What if I built the Eighth Wonder?
MARTINA RAICO 