Rainy Books: The Lost Melody
PRAISE FOR THE BOOK:
"Haunting. Riveting. Filled with hope. The Lost Melody is all these things and more. Author Joanna Davidson Politano delves into the dark world of Victorian mental health, and it's the reader who comes out the winner after being enchanted by this tale of identity lost. After you read the last page, the characters will live on in your mind. Truly a fantastic read!" -- Michelle Griep, author of Lost in Darkness
"Joanna Davidson Politano's stories go on my bookshelf as a favorite! The stories she pens entice my Gothic-loving senses, thrill my literary soul, and inspire the dark romantic inside my spirit. I cannot emphasize enough how strongly I adore each story from this vivid and insightful author, and how badly I wish for all readers to experience her tales!" -- Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Souls of Lost Lake, and Christy Award-winning The House on Foster Hill
And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by
those who did not hear the music.
~Friedrich Nietzsche
One day in late May of the year 1886, I found myself
imprisoned in the Hurstwell Pauper Lunatic Asylum. This was unconscionable—I
had never been a pauper.
I
woke in a damp little room, and the music of the place was entirely wrong. I’d
fallen asleep in a Beethoven sonata, white and airy, wrapped up with silky
delight, and woken in the dark heart of Berlioz’s eerie Symphonie Fantastique, my head thudding with deep bassoon, the
echoing rhythm of rain hitting stone. As my mind surfaced, I scrambled to
collect the memories of the place, the bassoon solidified into a voice—one
quite near the foot of my bed. I did not open my eyes to check.
“Don’t
go too near. She’s moving.”
“Waking?”
“Not
for several hours. Involuntary muscle spasms, most likely.”
Indeed.
They’d overestimated whatever drug they’d injected into me. Or they had, as
people often did, underestimated me.
An odd thing happened when one carried a giant weight of troubles all her
life—she built up a great deal of strength.
“Will
we keep her?” A light timpani voice contrasted with the first.
“I’m
not certain yet. It’s a rather odd case, and she’s already proved volatile. We
cannot let her go free.”
I
had fought, hadn’t I? My mind swirled with memories—an urgent need to escape.
The failure to do so. Yes, I remembered. This is what came of trusting one’s
best friend. I may not even marry him now.
“Has
she a name?”
“Cora
. . . Cora something.”
No.
No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t Cora.
“I’ve
forgotten. Her last name is of no consequence. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Ouch.
A pin into a live pincushion.
Scribbles
on paper. “What is her condition?”
“Delusions,”
came the deeper voice. The bassoon. “She hears music.”
“Rather
a nice malady to have, isn’t it? Hearing music?”
“Not
when there isn’t any.”
“Right,
of course. Any other details?”
“We’ve
only to decide if she’s acute or chronic—and that depends on her.”
“Well,
her committal was . . . oh.”
“Yes.
Oh.”
What? “Oh” what? my mind cried
out. I recalled my childhood, my father, my home. Pianofortes. Performances. But
the recent events, the details of this place, eluded me. Shrouded in the thick
mist of the moors.
“Well,
well. Look at this,” said the lighter voice.
Papers
rustled. I wanted to snatch them and see for myself.
A
frantic rapping just outside interrupted the meeting, and the door squeaked
open. A breathy female voice inserted itself. “Pardon, Doctor. It’s the man in
the male long-stay ward—he’s suffered another attack.”
“Very
well.” After a blustery exhale, footsteps shuffled, then the door slammed shut.
But
it did not lock.
Did not lock.
My
heart pounded, three beats for every second that swept on silently, drawing
those men and their footfalls farther from my cell and its unlocked door. My
skin grew clammy, a line of moisture gathering along my legs where they lay
cemented together. No one came.
I
slowly activated my stiff muscles and pushed up on the bed, swinging my heavy
limbs down and feeling about the cold floor for shoes as I fought the oddest
sense of imbalance and heaviness. I could feel the blood recirculating, as if
I’d lain comatose for a week.
Maybe
I had.
Whiteness
closed in around the edges of my vision as I lifted my head a bit too quickly.
I saw two of everything, then four, then two, then back to one again, and the
air felt thick. I forced myself to stand, holding out my arms for balance.
I
could do this. I could. The woman who played an entire piano concerto without a
scrap of music, who drew more listeners than her male counterparts, who
survived a man like my father, could certainly stand up and walk
out the front door of this rotten place. Especially since no one had a valid
reason to keep me here.
They
didn’t.
Stretching
my neck, my legs, I eased myself up, preparing for whatever would come.
“You’re
getting on quite well.” A voice to my right slid under my skin and chilled my
bones.
I
turned on wooden legs to see the bassoon-voiced doctor, who had apparently sent
his partner on, remaining to observe me from against the door.
Thornhill.
This was Thornhill, the superintendent, and a shadowy fear began to overtake
me. Why, though? I couldn’t remember the details. The gears of my mind groaned
into movement. Such fog, clouding what I needed to remember. “Where
. . . Who . . . ?” I worked my mouth, but there wasn’t enough
voice to come out. My throat was dry. A cotton-lined tube.
“Hurstwell
Asylum, and your father.”
“My
. . . father?” I clutched
the back of a wooden chair. I began to shake. Impossible. Impossible.
Now
I knew for certain this was all a catastrophic mistake. He couldn’t do this to
me—not anymore.
(Click here for Excerpt Part 2
after October 9, 2022.)
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10/4/22 |
Playlist |
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10/4/22 |
BONUS Promo |
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10/5/22 |
Author Interview |
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10/5/22 |
BONUS Promo |
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10/6/22 |
Review |
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10/7/22 |
Review |
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10/8/22 |
Excerpt |
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10/9/22 |
Excerpt |
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10/10/22 |
Review |
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10/11/22 |
Deleted Scene |
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10/12/22 |
Review |
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10/13/22 |
Review |
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