Part 1

I

"What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless."
She picked up the pill box. She twisted the lid in the wrong direction as she attempted to open it. She turned it the correct way as soon as she realized. The pills landed directly into her hand after she flipped the carton over. She took the pills down her mouth without giving them any second consideration. Already she felt sick to her stomach. With a bang, she hit the floor.

II

"Why the attempt at self-harm?" the doctor probed.
"A compulsion. Futility. I find no purpose, no companionship. My muse is gone; words offer no solace. It was my only gift, I thought. I'm a shadow of who I was with him."
"Him?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Otto Plath, my sire."
"Your father? You call him 'Daddy'?"
"Yes, my father. I call him Daddy."
"Well, where is he now? Can you tell me?"
In a very weak and pale voice, she says, "Gone. He's dead."
"Dead? What has happened to him?"
"Diabetes, that's what they said. He had untreated diabetes."
The doctor leaves her and comes out. He sees the patient's mother outside. He approached her.
"Doctor... is my child all right? Please tell me she is."
"Listen, miss. Your daughter is suffering a lot. The loss of her father has left a deep scar on her mental health. She is suffering from immense pain."
"What should I do, doctor?"
"We need to treat her first. She had swallowed many pills. She has been in a coma for two days, let her give her own time. I will do my best to treat her."

[Flashback]

"I was eight at that time. I had many things in my life. Everything I wished I had for my whole life. I had perfection in my lines and rhymes and more importantly, I had a father with me. A father who always supported me. I even remember him reading my poem and appreciating it with his heart."

III

"You wrote this dear?"
"Yes, Daddy. I wrote this. How is the poem?"
"Its... [He was searching for words to praise her work] I don't know what to say. For a young girl to have a talent like this is great... Even if I had learned all the languages in the world, I would still lack the words to describe the beauty of your writings. Keep it up, dear."

He later helped me publish my poems in magazines too. What does an eight-year-old want when she has a loving family, very good grades at school, and also more importantly fame at school? Life back then was worth to be called life. Then things had to take a turn. We had to move away from Boston.

IV

[Present]

"I feel fresh. I feel like a new seedling that had just sprouted. I think those shock treatments and talking sessions in the hospital were worth it after all. Now after all of this, I am here at the Smith College. It was a bright sunny day, the day when the sun was at its brightest but still I saw something brighter. His eyes. His name was Ted Hughes. What made me connect to him the most? His poems."

She took some juice and started to drink it. The party was very good. It had a decent number of guests and good food too. Out of all the guests, only one seemed to catch her eye. Ted Hughes. She approached her, and said, "Hello, you are Ted Hughes, right? Well, I have heard a lot about your poems. It is very nice to meet you."

"That day we talked for hours and hours. I still remember us talking about books and poems."

"You read Shakespeare?"
"Of course I do. Anyone who loves poetry reads him."
"But Ted, I am talking about being obsessed with him."
"I won't say obsessed, but he is a good writer though."
"Have you read his sonnets? Aren't they amazing?"
"Yes, they are amazing."

"We had a great life and great bond. The bond resulted in a marriage just after four months. And after the marriage, I went to another place leaving my country."

V

"The happiest moments of my life, I would say. I was working as a teacher and so was my love. He was also having a great with each other standing out every time."

Ted was cooking in the kitchen while she was in the bedroom editing manuscripts of his book. In a loud voice from the bedroom, she said:
"Be careful, don't play with fire, Ted."
"You better write and stop worrying about me. I'll be fine here."
"Well, actually I can't write your manuscripts nor edit them, Ted. Look how dirty your handwriting is. Who in the world would understand it? Only a doctor would be proud of your handwriting."
"Well remember the time you added salt instead of sugar in our beverage? Want to speak about your cooking skills?"
"Fine, this is better than my handwriting."
"Yeah." Said Ted in a low voice and giggled a bit at their humorous conversation.

"Days passed and the happiest day of my life arrived. The arrival of the third in our family."

"How is she, doctor? Tell me how is she?" Ted was intense. His hands were shivering and he was sweating too.
"Congratulations Ted, you are a father. It is a girl."
Ted had a huge smile on his face. His eyes had a sudden change of mood. They sparkled with grace.
"Can I see her now?"
"Yes, you may, Ted."
Ted went into the operation theatre. He saw his wife lying on a bed. She looked pale. After all, it was expected to look so after delivering a baby. She said in a low voice: "Frieda. That's what I want her to be named."
Ted chuckled and said, "Whatever you wish for."

VI

"I wrote my poems very well. Published them and they turned out to be great. Life was at its best or so I thought.

Part Two

I couldn't write anymore. They expect more from us. The people always expect more from us.
"If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed." She said to herself with a melancholic feeling. She went to her garage and took her car out. She was driving until she reached a bridge. A deep sadness clung to her, a weight she couldn't shake. She drove, aimlessly, until the bridge loomed, a gray scar against the fading light. With a sudden, sharp turn, the car crashed through the railing. It plunged into the river, a cold, dark embrace. Water rushed in, silencing the engine's last gasp. She sank, a silent, heavy stone, the world above fading away.

"I was alive. Again. I didn't die. Still, I couldn't stand my life until a hope had arrived in my life again. My second baby. I was very happy to hear that I was pregnant."

VII

Ted entered the house. He came into the hall. He was all red. She arrived at his call.
"Do you have some food?"
"Well, I have to prepare it for you. Wait, a minute."
Ted was disgusted. "You can't even do one thing properly. You don't even know how to write. The way you wrote my books. They look awful."
"You have succeeded because of me. You used my works, don't you ever try to blame my writings?"
"What did you say?" Ted was now very much serious. Take took his belt out and whipped it at the ground. Ted beat her on her back. She screamed in pain. Ted still beat her again and again. He wasn't satisfied with a few flogs. He kept going and going until his hand had given up. She was not able to move. She was lying on the ground helpless. Tears flowed from her eyes and her eyes had eventually shut.

"The next day I had terrible news again. Though my husband had been rude to me I had found something bigger to cry about. The little one inside me was no more. He died and the killer was his father. I had a miscarriage."

Part Three

VIII

Even with success, a shadow lingered. Nothing felt right. I chased happiness but found only emptiness. Isolation was a heavy cloak. Trust shattered, leaving raw wounds. Love vanished a cruel theft. "Maybe the next life," I thought, hoping for peace. I poured myself into writing, my children nearby. But words couldn't fill the void. It was all for nothing, I feared.

She sang a melodious song for her both children. The children had slept listening the harmonic voice of their mother. She locked the door of their children and came out. She sat near her oven. She opened the door of the oven. Sylvia Plath thought for a second and kept her head in the oven ending it all at once."

"Dying is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real"


Description: After her death, Sylvia Plath's works have become very popular. I have read many works which inspired me to write a story. A story where an underdog competes to become a great poet and author. An insomnia sufferer who tries to lead a good and happy life. The story of Sylvia Plath. Thanks for reading my story.