(In my previous post I talked a little about the role of the storytelling and its effect upon identity. The Keats’ poem Lamia was mentioned too as the inspiration for a tale of a shape shifting, ‘swashbuckling’ female detective inspired by the creature called Lamia. The voice of the narrator in the following short prologue is thus Lamia’s voice, a voice who begins talking on the brink of a change! Change of course is essential to storytelling! )
Prologue.
I am writing this diary because I want to blow your mind. Brace yourself reader for an incendiary tale of passion, murder, the odd joke and plenty of magical mystery: a roller coaster ride through your most trusted inhibitions. Viva curiosity.
My name is Lamia Burton by the way, and close friends tell me I am enchanting. There are a few of course, who would tell you that I am perplexing, even monstrous, but they are behind me now, left to make up their own adventures. Trust me, this adventure beats the lot.
‘You have changed’ said my husband Peter, three months ago. Why do people turn something you are thrilled about into a peevish accusation? Maybe because he imagined that I had just walked towards the ocean without a word of warning and left my belongings on the sand. Was he threatened? I suppose so, because what I had changed into didn’t include all the old skin left at my feet. One keeps on at something, on and on, and then bang, it’s knackered, a string of silent drives and no one likes your cooking anymore. You know what I am talking about.
The fact I can talk about this is a miracle in itself. But I will deal with miracles later. They come in all shapes and sizes, but a miracle is still a miracle inside; they have that secret glow when you scratch them. And they smell too. Miracles smell of chocolate, everyone knows that. And Chocolate disguises a taste of blood. Not many know that. With time, Blood turns into amber; a resinous, time capsule. Don’t you believe me? Just wait and see.
So let’s make a start. Always been my virtue and my vice: a feigned movement this way and that. Like boxing with a shadow sometimes. Only the shadow is me.
I had lived for many years with very little to disturb me. My colours were all there in designated spaces, with work, play and co-habitation all going in the same direction as everyone else. I could attend anything in the guise of my modest, slightly silky self; just as likely to let you have my parking space as the next creature. Did I have hobbies? Did I smoke? Yes and yes again.
But I inside I was hungry. Not just occasionally, not for a day or a week, at table, or in bed. Always.
All ways. And hunger demands to be fed.
