will not desist.
“Why can you not be normal again?” he spits.
“I know not what you mean!”
Tears flood my cheeks yet he shakes me as if trying to exhume some hateful daemon.
My body grows weak, my mind black. I am about to fall.
“Please let go Father. Please,” I whisper.
Suddenly he stops. His breathing is a rabid dog's, his breath sour with whiskey. His fingers loosen on my arms. His chin drops to his chest in defeat.
Without a word he snatches the drawing off the floor, tears it in two, storms out of the room and slams the door. There is no sound of the key in the lock, only pounding and creaking as he marches across the landing and down the stairs.
My knees buckle and I collapse on the ground. For a long while I stare at the unlocked door. At first I am too scared to move and sit shivering, sobbing, hugging myself, wishing Mama was here.
Gradually my terror recedes and I get up, grasp the cold door knob. I hesitate a second, maybe two, then something drives me forward. Some unconscious impulse has me open the door and step out onto the dark landing. A slave to this impulse, I edge along the wall until I reach the top of the spiral staircase. My eyes dart left and right.
I lift my foot to step down, but voices make me freeze. Jean-Bernard and Father. Coming this way.
I dash back along the landing, hear their footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. As I open my door they reach the top step. Gently I close my door and throw myself beneath the blanket. Moments later, my door creaks open. I wait, hunched up and trembling.
The door creaks shut and the key utters its terrible magic.
I remain a fly in a web. Alone. Always alone.
*
“Good morning,” Jean-Bernard murmurs, placing my breakfast plate by my elbow.
Abandoning my sketch of Eddie, I turn.
In Jean-Bernard's large hand sits a tiny, white fluff ball with huge, sad eyes; a living, breathing cuddly toy.
“She is beautiful is she not?” he says gently placing her onto my lap.
I smile - I cannot help myself. Immediately am I won over by her tiny, squished-up face; her plaintive black eyes, peach pink nose, cotton whiskers. Her fur is soft as dandelion petals. It melts between my fingers. A magical, heavenly fabric.
“She is yours. A gift from Charles.”
“Pardon?”
Already I feel my balloon deflating.
“Charles desired that I bring her to you. An apology for his rash behaviour of last night.”
I glance down at the kitten. Gone is airy delight. In its place lies gloom.
“I cannot,” I say, placing her in Jean-Bernard's hands.
“But Charles only means to please you Lisbeth.”
I turn away and resume my work.
“If he means to please me then why does he keep me locked up like some kind of injured beast?”
Tears fall. I keep my face turned away; Jean-Bernard cannot know of my fragility.
“Trust me, Lisbeth. All he wants is for you to be happy.”
“And how does being confined to one's room equal happiness?”
Jean-Bernard sighs.
“We believe it is dangerous for you to go wandering out of the house. There have been reports of women going missing in the area.”
I say nothing. I want to scream at him, tell him I know he is lying, order him to get out, but I cannot predict his reaction.
He touches my shoulder. I tense. His hand is horribly hot. The moistness soaks through my dress. His thumb strokes the nape of my neck. He presses himself against the back of the chair. I begin to tremble.
Suddenly his voice is in my ear, “I sense you are not feeling well. I will return this evening. I hope to see you in better spirits tonight.”
He leaves. Tension drains away, energy its fellow.
A scratching sound draws my eyes to the bed.
The kitten lies upon the blanket playing a thread.
I cannot help a small smile.
“Maybe I shall keep you,” I whisper.
Moving to the bed I stroke her fur with my index finger.
“And I shall name you...Villette.”
*
Dear Mama,
Villette – my kitten - is
“Why can you not be normal again?” he spits.
“I know not what you mean!”
Tears flood my cheeks yet he shakes me as if trying to exhume some hateful daemon.
My body grows weak, my mind black. I am about to fall.
“Please let go Father. Please,” I whisper.
Suddenly he stops. His breathing is a rabid dog's, his breath sour with whiskey. His fingers loosen on my arms. His chin drops to his chest in defeat.
Without a word he snatches the drawing off the floor, tears it in two, storms out of the room and slams the door. There is no sound of the key in the lock, only pounding and creaking as he marches across the landing and down the stairs.
My knees buckle and I collapse on the ground. For a long while I stare at the unlocked door. At first I am too scared to move and sit shivering, sobbing, hugging myself, wishing Mama was here.
Gradually my terror recedes and I get up, grasp the cold door knob. I hesitate a second, maybe two, then something drives me forward. Some unconscious impulse has me open the door and step out onto the dark landing. A slave to this impulse, I edge along the wall until I reach the top of the spiral staircase. My eyes dart left and right.
I lift my foot to step down, but voices make me freeze. Jean-Bernard and Father. Coming this way.
I dash back along the landing, hear their footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. As I open my door they reach the top step. Gently I close my door and throw myself beneath the blanket. Moments later, my door creaks open. I wait, hunched up and trembling.
The door creaks shut and the key utters its terrible magic.
I remain a fly in a web. Alone. Always alone.
*
“Good morning,” Jean-Bernard murmurs, placing my breakfast plate by my elbow.
Abandoning my sketch of Eddie, I turn.
In Jean-Bernard's large hand sits a tiny, white fluff ball with huge, sad eyes; a living, breathing cuddly toy.
“She is beautiful is she not?” he says gently placing her onto my lap.
I smile - I cannot help myself. Immediately am I won over by her tiny, squished-up face; her plaintive black eyes, peach pink nose, cotton whiskers. Her fur is soft as dandelion petals. It melts between my fingers. A magical, heavenly fabric.
“She is yours. A gift from Charles.”
“Pardon?”
Already I feel my balloon deflating.
“Charles desired that I bring her to you. An apology for his rash behaviour of last night.”
I glance down at the kitten. Gone is airy delight. In its place lies gloom.
“I cannot,” I say, placing her in Jean-Bernard's hands.
“But Charles only means to please you Lisbeth.”
I turn away and resume my work.
“If he means to please me then why does he keep me locked up like some kind of injured beast?”
Tears fall. I keep my face turned away; Jean-Bernard cannot know of my fragility.
“Trust me, Lisbeth. All he wants is for you to be happy.”
“And how does being confined to one's room equal happiness?”
Jean-Bernard sighs.
“We believe it is dangerous for you to go wandering out of the house. There have been reports of women going missing in the area.”
I say nothing. I want to scream at him, tell him I know he is lying, order him to get out, but I cannot predict his reaction.
He touches my shoulder. I tense. His hand is horribly hot. The moistness soaks through my dress. His thumb strokes the nape of my neck. He presses himself against the back of the chair. I begin to tremble.
Suddenly his voice is in my ear, “I sense you are not feeling well. I will return this evening. I hope to see you in better spirits tonight.”
He leaves. Tension drains away, energy its fellow.
A scratching sound draws my eyes to the bed.
The kitten lies upon the blanket playing a thread.
I cannot help a small smile.
“Maybe I shall keep you,” I whisper.
Moving to the bed I stroke her fur with my index finger.
“And I shall name you...Villette.”
*
Dear Mama,
Villette – my kitten - is
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