The Silent Scream: Living with the Beast

By C.A. Warren-Howles

As he grappled to come to terms with the diagnosis of a physically crippling disease,
his body swiftly declined until he was finally completely paralysed with no voice.
But his mind remained untouched. He was trapped within his body.

Imagine being delivered a death sentence. You are told you have an incurable, fatal disease. Everything you understand about your life is turned upside-down. Your mind is forced to deal with the consequences. How would you view your time? It would all feel like a horrible dream. This, though, is no dream. This is just where the nightmare begins.

The Silent Scream: Living with the Beast is the story of a fit, healthy man who is suddenly struck down. A man dedicated and passionate about nature, forced to suffer at its hands in isolation as he journeys through the last months of his life. It is the dramatised true story of the silent and savage journey of the author’s father and their family, battling against Motor Neurone Disease.

Using the backdrop of nature in this book, written by the author but read through the eyes of her father, the vileness of this disease is magnified. Inspired by the work of Mervyn Peake, William Golding and Peter Ackroyd, The Silent Scream will appeal to anyone who enjoys short stories and true life events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781783068159

C.A. Warren-Howles

Born in July 1958, C. A. Warren-Howles always wrote for school magazines. She worked for holistic arts magazine Cadeuceus, and has launched and written for a number of publications including Oxfordshire Living. She has had first-hand experience watching her father suffer with Motor Neurone Disease, for which there is no cure, and hopes to raise awareness of the disease through her first novel.

Book preview

November

March

The day was young, the March morning fresh, the sun quite warm upon his skin. The village was mostly asleep. This was his time of day.

He looked from his vantage point at the snaking river below, the still sleeping houses, the sway of the trees and he absorbed. He breathed it in. ‘Life is too short and too unpredictable to let these images pass by unnoticed’ he thought.

He stood watching, as if witnessing a slowly unfolding play, the scenes carefully opening out below. A horse whinnied in a nearby field. The meadow was lush green with dew fresh grass.

Behind him the great earthwork with its impressive ramparts rose out of the chalk downs. Deep moats dug out of the limy soil were now covered in vegetation.

Its narrow paths amidst grassy slopes where elderly and majestic yew trees stood overlooking the sheep that grazed the banks. They had made little pathways amongst the grassland with their endless browsing. He stood contemplating the vista, the colours vivid in their intensity in the early morning air.

Across the chalk plains the ancient stone circle stood proudly in the lemon sunlight. His dog stirred him from his reverie, pulling at the lead enthusiastically for them to continue walking.

Looking up he considered the path, set between grassy humps and nettles, bordered by dog rose yet to flower and hawthorn. Many feet had walked this undulating path, the surface of which had become rutted and uneven by the seasons, the rain and the frost having modelled its current shape. He knew the path well having walked it many times, for a second split however it looked vaguely unfamiliar. It was an odd sensation but it was only fleeting and he brushed it away with his next thought.

With his knife sharp brain, he could live in a world of concepts, theories and abstractions, exactness and precision found root in his meticulous mind. He was a plant scientist and keen naturalist and with his interest in ecology he demonstrated the same accuracy and explicitness. He could Latin name plant species, be familiar with the solar system, converse easily with all walks in life. He was committed to the study of nature being an advocate that the world could be explained and understood in scientific terms.

He could however show you a long walk to a small jurassic beach, rich in ammonites, where it was best to visit in the summer when the tides were less rough.

He could then explain why varieties of flowers were in danger of dying out as they came under threat from climate change and foreign pests.

He could take you to a moss covered floor with the distant sounds of the falls of Nant Cadair before the much rewarding glimpse of one of the most beautiful glacial lakes in the Welsh landscape.

He would then throw a leg over the cross bar of his bicycle and cycle like a boy, much to the amusement of his grandsons. He was a colourful encyclopaedia of a man.

Whilst others would still be sleeping he had risen with the dawn.

The wind was soft, it skimmed the surface of the grass, he felt it upon his bare arms as he pushed through the nettles. The hawthorn already had new buds, earlier this year he thought. There were a few unpicked last year’s berries still clinging to the twigs, left by the birds, their red hue now a tarnished brown.

The causeway ran between the moats, grass covered but deep. Upon reaching the other side the path opened into a large expanse of grassland dotted with the remains of large flint constructions in the form of an early cathedral. The grey silver of the stone glinted in the fresh sunlight. In times past the animation and colour of mediaeval finery and flourish would have adorned this setting, now it was a haven for tourists and walkers who picnicked amongst the ruins.

He stretched and quickened his pace. The air felt good in his lungs, he breathed deeply, he had the physique of a much younger man. When he reached the top of the moat, the path fell away steeply to the left, winding in a zigzag until it disappeared behind the scrub and tall beeches.

Looking towards his right, the sheep grazed lazily accompanied by a large crow that pecked nonchalantly at the ground before taking to the air and alighting at the top of a nearby tree to join its fellow kind.

The church bell chimed below in the distance. From where he stood he could see the steeple amongst the yews. He counted the chimes. It was eight o’clock. He thought about returning home. He thought of his wife waiting for him, busying herself as always. There would be breakfast on the table, fresh juice, tea, toast and conversation.. He looked forward to it with a warm expectancy, they had been together for nearly fifty years. The dew still wet upon his boots he turned to descend the slopes.

Suddenly he lost his balance and before he knew it he had slipped. Instinct told him to make a sideways grab to correct his abrupt descent. The blackberry brambles caught nastily at the bare flesh of his arm as his hand clenched their barbs. Pain momentarily shot through his hand and a pearl of blood welled on his palm.

He landed with a soft thud, one arm behind his back, the other still clutching the torn thorns. He raised a bloodied palm to study the source of the discomfort, before wiping the blood upon the grass. He laughed aloud at the clumsiness of his actions. As he lay looking upwards, head cushioned by a pillow of mossy grass, the smell of soil and clover in the early morning air filled his nostrils. His dog touched his wet nose against his face. And as he looked up the clouds moved as though across a silver blue screen, seemingly close enough to touch. Liquid water droplets, condensed, a reflection of the myriad of colours, some so wispy, thin, feather light. Then from behind their whiteness he became aware of a sweet and familiar song high above him. A small dot was just visible.

The skylark rose higher and higher into the morning sky, as high it seemed as the distant cathedral spire, high into the crystal air. He watched enchanted, captivated as it remained positioned stationary on fluttering wings, white edged wings and tail as white as the clouds themselves. Its incessant song a multitude of sound, of singing notes to his ears, of melodic whistles and rolling chirrups, its liquid warbling was clear as air. ‘Like imagination, a spirit, a freedom, an escape from the routine of existence, the self imposed habits we think are so real’ he thought.

He was not sure how long he lay there but he gradually became aware of a voice, of the rustling of grasses, the movement of waving vegetation and his dog scratching a determined itch.

Good morning said a familiar voice and a smiling face peered through the mottled foliage and met his gaze through the hawthorn. What on earth are you doing down there? the smiling face asked. In quick witted response Resting he replied. The face laughed and said Now then whilst you’re resting, I have a question for you. He smiled brightly and jumped up to look at his new neighbourly companions.

The voice said again You’re a naturalist and you know my garden. We’ve noticed a really unusual visitor at the end by the stream. It is entirely white and looks a little like a heron. I’m concerned it may be rare and that this dog of mine will chase it and kill it if he sees it again. A long eared young, eager wet faced dog, tongue panting, looked up at them. Do you think it is rare?

He smiled "If it has a plume on its crest, back and chest and sports long black legs it will be