of lying beside his wrinkled body is unbearable; shivers of revulsion course through me, my heart races...ugh! Surely Father cannot think this a plausible choice. No – I must be dreaming the worst. Perhaps Father has my best interests in sight and simply feels that Jean-Bernard can be the Father he cannot. But then, you said never to trust Father.
Oh that you were here Mama. Oh that you were here to stroke away the tension and tell me everything will be all right.
One small hope remains: that Bethan will come. I cannot fathom how she might acquire the key to my room and free me, but she did manage to enter the house and deliver a letter undetected so perhaps there is a chance she will succeed. Last time we spoke she talked of trouble at home. She wished to show me so that I could understand, but now she wishes to travel north. This perplexes me. One moment she wishes to show me, the next she wishes to leave. Perhaps the situation at home has changed irrevocably and she feels now is the right time to flee.
I hope that you are safe and happy.
Yours always,
Lisbeth
C HAPTER 8
V ILLETTE
Jean-Bernard enters, softly places something upon my desk. The dull clunk of glass against wood.
I lie still as possible, slowing my breathing, relaxing my eyelids, focussing on pretending.
Fortunately Jean-Bernard falls for my trick and leaves as quietly as he came.
I wait until the floorboards lie silent then push off the blanket and swivel so that I can inspect his gift.
A transparent vase half-empty of water shaped like a sliced bud. Within the bud, erect and alert, a group of twigs stiffly rising out of the cropped carcass like arthritic fingers. At first glance, there seems no reason for water, but upon moving to view the other side there lives one delicate green bud, its lips pursing white. Its chance of survival is poor; amongst the lifeless limbs this bud alone lives and breathes and hopes that water and light will be enough. I decide to capture her before she diminishes and dies, as I am almost certain she shall.
Carefully, so as not to alert Father or Jean-Bernard to my wakened state, I slide into my chair and pick up a stick of charcoal.
An hour later there is a sudden thump on the door. My hand jumps, creasing the parchment.
Heart hammering, I listen.
Another thump; louder, angrier.
My throat tightens.
The key clangs, rattles, grinds in the lock. The door swings inward and a dark figure hulks in the doorway.
Dressed in mourning black, it is Father, his eyes dark, his face shadowed.
I jerk up, making sure to keep the chair between us.
“What is this?” he blurts.
His voice slaps me across the face.
He throws a ball of parchment at me and it hits my cheek.
I bend down, pick it up and slowly unravel the paper. It is my drawing of Bethan. Her queer, distorted face. Sad eyebrows. Twisted lips. I meet his eyes, but cannot bring forth words.
He steps into the room. Anger burns in his eyes and cheeks. With a shudder I notice the hard line of his jaw as his teeth grind together.
“Why Lisbeth? Why ?”
His voice is raw with rage; hateful, rising, crushing, oppressive rage aimed solely at me.
I step backwards and bump into the bed. Cornered, I stare up into his narrowed eyes and urge my body to stop shaking. He runs a hand aggressively through his hair then smashes his fist into his thigh. I grasp the bed frame and stare helplessly into his eyes.
He moves so suddenly that I scream.
Tossing the chair aside, he lunges forward and grabs hold of my upper arms. I cry out and struggle, but Father digs his nails into my skin and begins to shake me. Fervently I pull away, but he will not let go and tightens his grip. Beads of blood form on my skin beneath his nails. Tears of terror and pain roll down my cheeks.
“Please, let me go!” I scream.
But he continues, a strange glee lighting his eyes as he shakes he so fiercely that it feels as though my brain is slamming against my skull.
“Please!” I sob, but he
Oh that you were here Mama. Oh that you were here to stroke away the tension and tell me everything will be all right.
One small hope remains: that Bethan will come. I cannot fathom how she might acquire the key to my room and free me, but she did manage to enter the house and deliver a letter undetected so perhaps there is a chance she will succeed. Last time we spoke she talked of trouble at home. She wished to show me so that I could understand, but now she wishes to travel north. This perplexes me. One moment she wishes to show me, the next she wishes to leave. Perhaps the situation at home has changed irrevocably and she feels now is the right time to flee.
I hope that you are safe and happy.
Yours always,
Lisbeth
C HAPTER 8
V ILLETTE
Jean-Bernard enters, softly places something upon my desk. The dull clunk of glass against wood.
I lie still as possible, slowing my breathing, relaxing my eyelids, focussing on pretending.
Fortunately Jean-Bernard falls for my trick and leaves as quietly as he came.
I wait until the floorboards lie silent then push off the blanket and swivel so that I can inspect his gift.
A transparent vase half-empty of water shaped like a sliced bud. Within the bud, erect and alert, a group of twigs stiffly rising out of the cropped carcass like arthritic fingers. At first glance, there seems no reason for water, but upon moving to view the other side there lives one delicate green bud, its lips pursing white. Its chance of survival is poor; amongst the lifeless limbs this bud alone lives and breathes and hopes that water and light will be enough. I decide to capture her before she diminishes and dies, as I am almost certain she shall.
Carefully, so as not to alert Father or Jean-Bernard to my wakened state, I slide into my chair and pick up a stick of charcoal.
An hour later there is a sudden thump on the door. My hand jumps, creasing the parchment.
Heart hammering, I listen.
Another thump; louder, angrier.
My throat tightens.
The key clangs, rattles, grinds in the lock. The door swings inward and a dark figure hulks in the doorway.
Dressed in mourning black, it is Father, his eyes dark, his face shadowed.
I jerk up, making sure to keep the chair between us.
“What is this?” he blurts.
His voice slaps me across the face.
He throws a ball of parchment at me and it hits my cheek.
I bend down, pick it up and slowly unravel the paper. It is my drawing of Bethan. Her queer, distorted face. Sad eyebrows. Twisted lips. I meet his eyes, but cannot bring forth words.
He steps into the room. Anger burns in his eyes and cheeks. With a shudder I notice the hard line of his jaw as his teeth grind together.
“Why Lisbeth? Why ?”
His voice is raw with rage; hateful, rising, crushing, oppressive rage aimed solely at me.
I step backwards and bump into the bed. Cornered, I stare up into his narrowed eyes and urge my body to stop shaking. He runs a hand aggressively through his hair then smashes his fist into his thigh. I grasp the bed frame and stare helplessly into his eyes.
He moves so suddenly that I scream.
Tossing the chair aside, he lunges forward and grabs hold of my upper arms. I cry out and struggle, but Father digs his nails into my skin and begins to shake me. Fervently I pull away, but he will not let go and tightens his grip. Beads of blood form on my skin beneath his nails. Tears of terror and pain roll down my cheeks.
“Please, let me go!” I scream.
But he continues, a strange glee lighting his eyes as he shakes he so fiercely that it feels as though my brain is slamming against my skull.
“Please!” I sob, but he
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