BOOK DESCRIPTION
‘Now if I carry out this oath, and break it not, may I gain for ever reputation among all men for my life and for my art; but if I break it and forswear myself, may the opposite befall me.’ ~ from the Hippocratic Oath (translated by WHS Jones)
Psychiatrists, Drs Whittle and Grosvenor, have dedicated their lives to helping their patients, but their approach, and the complications it reveals, lead them into relationships that harm not only themselves.
As their lives entangle, both men find that doing no harm is not as cut-and-dried as they perceived.
Can the patients in their care really trust them? Or are more sinister motives at work?
Delve into the dark world of psychiatric institutions where doctors and residents play a dangerous game where no one is infallible!
In this extract, Lizzie, who is living in a psychiatric care home, sparks two kinds of fires...
I started a fire. It was supposed to be a small, controlled one, lasting just as long as it took me to burn a photo, a book, and a necklace – a symbolic gesture that I hoped was going to cure me. I got the idea from my child sexual abuse therapy group; we’d smashed a load of plates in a ‘safe and controlled environment’ but that hadn’t done a thing for me – probably because it had been safe and controlled – so I spoke to the group leader, who suggested a safe and controlled fire. The symbolism appealed to me – burning my hell – so I made my plans, and selected the three things that I wanted to throw into the flames. The photo was one taken when I was a child, at Christmas time, with my parents and grandparents in 1970s jumpers; the book was a fat Sherlock Holmes anthology that my grandfather had been obsessed with; he had suggested I read it, and virtually forced the thing into my hands; the necklace was the gold and opal one he’d bought for my grandmother on one of their wedding anniversaries. I didn’t want to part with it – after all, Grandma had passed it to on me, and she had been the most wonderful person I had ever met, and I missed her so much it actually hurt my chest sometimes – but the necklace had been contaminated by her husband, my grandfather, as I had. War hero or not, he should have been the one who got locked up, not me, but he died before I started getting the flashbacks. He must have carried that opal around wrapped in a bay leaf all my childhood – how else had he managed to stay invisible?
In all honesty, I didn’t really want to destroy anything, because then it would be gone and I’d have nothing tangible to remind me that it had all been real, but I was simultaneously desperate to be free from the torture that was going on in my head. I didn’t ever expect a fire started with some twigs, last week’s copy of the Gazette and a box of Swan Vestas to get hot enough to melt gold, or even to consume the hardback cover of the book – it was more of a cleansing-by-fire ritual, and I’d intended to throw the remains off the end of Tamehaven Pier and into the sea with the ashes. I had a litre bottle of Evian with me to extinguish the flames when I was finished; to my mind, measures were in place so that the ritual would be safe and controlled.
Fate, however, had other ideas. June, July and August had been unusually dry – here, down in dear old Devon, where it rains six days out of seven – and now we were enjoying an Indian summer. I made the fire on a patch of weedy grass up in the garden, but the grass was yellow and crispy, and something in the fire popped; a spark flew off and landed on the desiccated remains of a raspberry bush, and by the time I realised what was happening, my bottle of water was rendered obsolete. In panic, I looked around wildly for a watering can, a hose, something, anything, and I screamed down to the house on instinct, though I knew no one would hear me. Tears soon glued my hair to my cheeks as I looked helplessly on, frozen; but suddenly Dr Whittle was there, hauling me back down the slope to the safety of the house and depositing me there, heaving up the fire extinguisher that was somehow on the path. I watched, stunned, as he ran part of the way back up and blasted water on the flames.
Author Bio –
When Morwenna Blackwood was six years old, she got told off for filling a school exercise book with an endless story when she should have been listening to the teacher/eating her tea/colouring with her friends. The story was about a frog. It never did end; and Morwenna never looked back. Born and raised in Devon, Morwenna suffered from severe OCD and depression, and spent her childhood and teens in libraries. She travelled about for a decade before returning to Devon. She now has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Exeter, and lives with her husband, son and three cats in a cottage that Bilbo Baggins would be proud of. Her debut psychological thriller, The (D)Evolution of Us, is published by #darkstroke, and has become an Amazon best-seller. When she is not writing, Morwenna works for an animal rescue charity, or can be found down by the sea. She often thinks about that frog.
Social Media Links –
Twitter - @MorwennaBlackw1
Instagram – morwennablackwood_
Facebook – Morwenna Blackwood page
Website - www.morwennablackwoodauthor.com
PUBLICATION DATE: 26th March 2021
Purchase Link - http://mybook.to/glasshousenovel
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