40. STORMS IN THE DARKNESS

The first thing I did, when I woke up the next morning, was to pick up the phone and dial the number +4781533300. I heard a woman's voice in the other line, saying:

"Suicide hotline. How can I help you?".

"Good morning", I said quietly. "My name is Ingrid....and last night I tried to stab myself to death".

"Please, talk to me with more details".

I talked to her about the whole situation, starting from my two suicide attempts, Alta's mental hospital, Lyrica pills prescription, the club, in which I was playing psychedelic music, my friend who was taking LSD drugs, the psychedelic songs, that I was composing, Eva's suicide and the fact that I wanted to throw my story into the fire, so I wouldn't have to kill myself.

"Which psychiatrist prescribed Lyrica pills to you?", the woman asked.

"Hanna Arendal", I answered.

"Then, I suggest you talk to Mrs Arendal at first or call Alta's clinic again. And if you need any more help, you can call back again here".

Oof! I couldn't take more hospitals. I wanted to be at home. I phoned Hanna and asked her to visit me in the afternoon at my own place in Kirkenes. She asked me a lot of stuff about what made me want to harm myself again. I told her I wanted to get rid of my story and that I tried to burn it, but in the end, I didn't have the nerve to do it. Finally, for the first time I was able to talk about the story itself, why I was writing it and for which reasons I was feeling it was killing me.

"You are this author, aren't you?", Hanna asked.

I shook my head. "I am only an author. An author can never be the hero as well. This is something we've been taught at University....".

"We are not having a Literature discussion", she said. "I'm talking to you in terms of psychotherapy. What's wrong with your books? Why do your heroines die in all of them?".

I sighed and didn't talk for a while. "Difficult question, isn't it?", Hanna asked.

"Not that....", I stuttered. "It's only...Yes, all of my heroines depict....not me, personally....but, in a way, what I've been doing. The fact that I'm an artist, for example. After a while, I feel that what I'm writing is really dull, really boring. All I mean to say is....", I stopped.

Hanna looked at me: "What? Don't you like what you're writing?"

I laughed nervously: "Not at all. I hate my books and that's why I hate my heroines. Maybe....I have to say that....my heroines in a way show my own self....which I hate", I said quietly.

"You do, Ingrid. Just say it. It's the truth".

"Alright", I said decisively. "I hate myself and I depict myself in my books through my heroines, whom I kill in the stories".

"Because you want to harm your own self. And you can't do this in reality".

"Exactly", I said.

"And now the book you're writing shows exactly what you've been doing all these years. An author who's killing her heroines. Why did you want to burn your book?".

"It would be a redemption to me. Salvation of my soul".

"In other words, a catharsis".

"Exactly", I exclaimed. "A catharsis".

"And how exactly was it going to be a catharsis for you?".

"I would kill the Poet....inside me".

Hanna looked at me in a frown: "The Poet?".

"Her real name is Thaleia, however, it is referred only once at the beginning of the book. For the rest of the book I only call her author or Poet. She's my own Poet".

"And how is this related to you?".

I laughed. "We've been talking about this all the time, Hanna. These were the reasons why I wanted to kill myself. I have no name, no self, no face. I'm nothing but a shadow of my own self. Nobody calls me Ingrid anymore. Everybody calls me composer, Poet, pianist....shall I go on? The list goes on, anyway".

Hanna didn't say anything.

"My own self doesn't even recognise me in the mirror".

"Ingrid, you don't need to burn your book. Publish it and you'll overcome the....syndrome of the Poet"

"Oh, really?", I said in a frozen tone. "I do the same thing with every book. And every time things get even worse".

Hanna sighed. "Then kill your heroine in the book. Kill the author herself".

"What?", I exclaimed.

"Make her kill herself. All you wanted to do. Your author will kill herself and you'll live. Then publish your book".

I looked at her and said: "Is that a catharsis?".

"You've got nothing to lose. Whatsoever....it's a quite subversive ending to a novel. People expect to read about the death of a person and in the end, it's another person the one who dies".

Then, we were sitting by the fireplace, drinking coffee and she said: "Shall I listen to your songs?"

"They're not completed, yet", I said.

"I don't care", she replied. "I would just like to listen to them".

I played a few demos to her and she replied: "How did you get such an inspiration?".

I was looking away and said: "I increased the dose of Lyrica pills".

"What?!", she exclaimed. "Ingrid! These are drugs and cause hallucinations. You're not allowed to take more than three every day. Why didn't you inform me? Do you want to see me behind bars or see yourself in a psychiatric hold again?".

"I'm sorry", I said.

"How many of them are you taking every day?", she asked.

I didn't answer.

"How many of them are you taking every day?", she yelled.

"Six, ok?", I said.

"For goodness sake! Anyway. Try to cut it gradually, ok? But not sharply. I'd like you to end up taking half of a Xanax pill every day. Alright?".

"Alright", I replied.

Weeks went by and I could gradually start cutting down pills. During mid-March, Hanna made me join a psychotherapy group along with six other girls. The group's name was Escape Room (the name was obviously inspired by the live puzzle-solving games), as, through it, we were trying to escape from everything that was torturing us, by talking our problems through. One of these girls gave birth to a dead baby, while her daughter killed herself at the age of 16. I felt really sorry about her and thought that these were much more serious problems than the ones that I had. Maybe then, I should have started considering other people's pain and suffering and not only caring about myself and my feelings.

My 15 psychedelic songs were now complete, however, I didn't know what to do with them. And I didn't either want to make a solo album. So, I called Vivian and as soon as she heard my voice, she said: "Ingrid! You sound better!".

"Yes", I replied. "I feel much better. I've joined a psychotherapy group along with some other girls".

"And does that help?", she asked.

"Of course, it does! For the first time ever I am able to talk about my feelings. I mean, talk....not just write countless pages".

"Are you joining.....the Celtic festival?", Vivian asked.

"No", I said in a chilling tone. "Ireland belongs to the past for me. Ireland caused such an imbalance to me. It's time I changed my lifestyle. And as far as Orchidea's Tales is concerned, I can keep it going in Norway".

"Yes, I understand", she said. "And how's music going?".

"That's the reason why I called you. I have composed fifteen short pieces of experimental music. I don't know what to do with them. I don't want to release a solo album, nor can we release them as a band".

"Can't this be our seventh album?".

"I have completed everything. You won't even be playing music at all".

"Is everything electronic music, played by synthesizers?".

"Yep", I said. "I find it to be completely unfair to you if you're just there doing nothing".

"Look. If the other members are ok with that, record it yourself and we can release the album under Alexandria's name".

When I talked to the other guys, they told me there was no issue with this at all. So, I sent the demos to them, in order to hear their opinion as well. They told me that truly what I had composed was very extraordinary and there was nothing to lose by releasing the album. For two long weeks, I was recording the songs on my synthesizer. I didn't go to the studio and I didn't work with the other members nor anybody else. I mixed and mastered the album myself at home, as long as I was mostly recording with Ableton. When I completed everything, I sent the album to the band along with the cover and the name. I called it Storms in the Darkness and the cover was Johanna's sketch, which depicted this huge crystal. I avoided answering any question related to the album's cover, only saying that I was too stoned to remember.

Storms in the Darkness was released on the 2nd of April, 2022....and it was a total failure. It didn't even enter the charts and most magazines, including Prog, described it as Alexandria's worst album. It was described as an album, without coherence, without sense, but just random sounds and nothing but noise. And this is what it was, indeed. I never believed it was something of quality. I just needed it that moment. And this result proves what I have always been saying about the way, in which I compose music. That is, I cannot write anything out of context. For example, I can't play a random melody and if it sounds good to my ears, then I record it. That's why, I'm not one of these musicians, who listen to a melody, while dreaming, and wake up in the middle of the night, rushing on the piano, in order not to forget the melody. I'm not creating a collage of sounds. I was an author first and then I became a musician. Thus, the way, in which I write music, is the same way in which I write books. If I work in a different way, the result will be a failure, just like in the case of Storms in the Darkness.

Furthermore, I don't know if this had to do with Escape Room and the fact that Hanna was slightly teaching me how to accept myself, as I was, but the failure of our seventh album didn't get me down at all. Under other conditions, I would feel completely useless and that I couldn't even write an album. But now I thought that it didn't really matter if I failed. Maybe we shouldn't be so strict with ourselves and do everything perfect. Maybe good enough is also ok. And of course, maybe we should be able to forgive ourselves and not blame ourselves for everything. Putting the blame on yourself doesn't help you move on and become a better person. On the contrary, it makes you have a completely bad picture of yourself and that's why you end up with very bad self-esteem. Maybe, in the end...if we accept our failures, we learn to recognise our mistakes and not make them again. This way, we learn through our mistakes.

Even though I was met with a failure, I soon started to become very successful. And now I hoped I could be looking at myself in the mirror every morning and say I am Ingrid Sorensen. I wouldn't be this shadow anymore, one of the faceless riders, who wander around at night lost, without a name, as I was saying in Riders of Night. I would have an identity.

I would, anyway, find my identity, when I wouldn't be called the Poet or the girl in the black 'n' whites anymore. The following days, I rushed on solving that issue. I started writing my book again, giving the following ending to it: [...]The author moves on writing the scene, in which her sister kills herself [...] However, she changes her mind [...] That night, she wakes up and with a knife in her hand, she pulls it horizontally in her throat [...] And the next morning, people in the street were carrying this dead whore, Thaleia [...}. And the interest here is that in the whole book her name was referred to only twice: once at the beginning, where I was presenting her and here in the end. I had a reason for that because this way I wanted to show that she was faceless and her name would be recognised only after her suicide.

After completing my book, I called Johanna and told her: 

"I broke my promise".

"What does that mean?", she asked.

"It means that I killed my heroine", I said enthusiastically. "But I don't give a damn".

"And is this something to be glad about?", Johanna asked worryingly.

"Johanna, I feel completely free now. I had to do it. It helps me move away from this situation".

"If it does", she said, "then I'll be the first to read your book".

"And the first I'll send the book to, as soon as it becomes published", I said.

"Wonderful", she replied. "And what is its name?".

"I'm thinking of calling it Black Notebook. It will be out in a few days".

Indeed Black Notebook was published on the 20th of April, 2022. It was categorised as a psychological horror novel (quite logical) and was even a best seller. I was also invited to its presentation and talked about it. I talked about mental diseases and suicide, referring people with suicidal tendencies to help hotlines. However, I didn't analyse the meaning of the book at all and didn't refer to any reason why I kill the heroine so suddenly. But I had a wide smile on my face when reading people's analysis in forums about what is meant behind the author's death. If only they knew that nothing was meant at all.

In May I had started feeling much better and I thought there was still something I hadn't done. I called Vivian and begged her to tell me what Ingmar's address in Lakselv was. So, I bought the first book from The Witcher series and got in the car. The distance was 400 kilometres from my place and I reached a large house at seven o'clock in the afternoon. While standing outside the door, I could hear children's voices. Damn it, relatives had probably visited him tonight. However, I didn't hesitate and knocked on the door. Ingmar appeared, in a blue checkered shirt, which fitted perfectly with his eyes.

"Hi", I said shyly. "I hope I'm not disturbing".

"No, not at all. We were just playing a game with Anna".

"Anna?".

"Yes, my little daughter", he said.

The smile on my face faded away instantly. Daughter? So, was he....married? Well, could I expect anything different from a 38-year-old man?

"Annaaaa", Ingmar shouted. "Come and say hello to Ingrid".

Then, a blonde girl appeared, who had her father's blue eyes.

Later, Ingmar and I went out in the backyard, because he insisted on offering a drink to me, as long as I didn't want to spend the night there. Anna was left alone in her room playing.

"I didn't know you are married", I said.

"I was", he said, looking away.

"I understand. Very often, marriages don't have a good ending".

"My wife died".

"Oh!", I exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Of what...if you will?".

"Suicide", he said sharply. That's why he would visit me at the hospital. Pure empathy. He knew what a suicide attempt meant.

"I'm so sorry", I said and touched his hand.

"It's ok. It happened four years ago. Anna is almost six and doesn't remember her mother at all. She has to get another mum and I should somehow build up my life again. If any woman accepts my daughter".

"Oooh, why shouldn't she? Anna is such a sweetie", I said.

"Do you believe this?", he told me.

"But of course! I adore children".

"Even though....she's a real devil".

"It's quite normal", I exclaimed. "She's six years old".

We remained silent for a while, drinking a glass of delicious wine. In the end, I pulled out the bag with the book. "I brought a present for you", I said.

"A book?", he asked.

"I hope you'll like it".

The suspense was drawn on his face, while he was struggling to open the bag. As soon as he saw what I had brought to him, his eyes flashed, as if he were a little child. "I've always wanted this book! I've been constantly playing these video games. Ingrid, I adore you!", he exclaimed.

I blushed. "Well...you know....I drove here from Kirkenes because I wanted to give this to you".

"Have you driven 400 kilometres from Kirkenes, only to come and give me this book?".

I felt the familiar pain in my stomach and my eyes got wet. "Actually...I'm here to thank you. For....everything. Because you were at the hospital, visiting an unfamiliar person to you. For your empathy. I have a moral obligation to you. What you did was so sweet",

"Ingrid...", he said and hugged me tightly. He didn't take his arms away from me. He was holding me tight long when at some point, we kissed.