such a dear little creature that I cannot help but be inspired by her whimsical ways. Father gave her to me and at first I was reluctant to take her, but Jean-Bernard persuaded me to accept his gift. Now I am ever so glad that I did, for Villette provides a white light against the harsh darkness of my day.
However, at times I feel my mind edging into black. The bread knife still lies on the sill. Increasingly, I find my eyes slipping to the serrated edge, the jagged teeth, the darkly glinting metal. It grins at me and this scares me. Images too terrible to describe flash before my eyes and I fear that madness is not far away. I can feel it uncoiling, pooling out like inky blood, draining sensibility from my mind for outwardly I remain a perfect picture of feminine restraint, but for how long I can muster this behaviour I know not.
Jean-Bernard's advances grow intense, and I grow warier and warier, plagued by the notion that he wants me – mind, soul and body. I am beginning to see through his kindnesses. Fight as I might, I must acknowledge that his motives are impure, driven by those of the cunning, concupiscent beast who will stop at nothing to ensure his desires are sated.
Mama, would that you were here to guide me - Eddie is gone and Bethan is becoming but a distant memory. It is almost as if she were a figment conjured up by the will of a lonely girl.
I try to smile, but fear that very soon even Villette's sweetness will not be enough.
It is perhaps just as well that you cannot read this letter.
Lisbeth
*
Dear Diary,
So it seems that I am left with no choice. Jean-Bernard has convinced me – as I suppose I knew he would.
Blackened Cottage is not the right place for her. Being near me is not right for her, not any more. Not now that my mind has begun its final descent into the rottenness of anger and despair.
I have failed not only as a husband but as a father, just as I suspected I would. My little boy, my daughter, my wife: all are lost to me. If only I could control these tortuous emotions as a man should be able, but I cannot.
As much as I will myself to pander to Lisbeth’s needs, I cannot help but feel increasingly hostile towards her. Jean-Bernard firmly believes that this hostility could lead to violence on my part. He assures me that I am taking the only possible course of action by sending her to live with him in Hertfordshire.
How I shall live now is a mystery. I loved them. I mistakenly thought we would be together forever and now I have lost them. My life means nothing now. Nothing.
I shall not bid her farewell when he takes her. I cannot bring myself to witness this final loss. Neither can I trust myself to contain the rage that rises upon seeing those haunted eyes. Goodness! How disturbed I must be to hate her and love her in the same breath; to desire her happy yet feel the need to punish her; to want her here but want rid of her instantaneously. This is why I cannot trust myself, for I can never tell which side she may provoke: the daemon or the man.
No longer can I bear the sound of my own words.
Farewell good Diary. This is the last time I shall write.
C.C
*
“Bonsoir Lisbeth.”
He approaches, rusty cigar twirling between long fingers, pale, watery eyes fixed upon mine. Nauseatingly sweet cinnamon whorls in the air. I become a mouth-breather, desperate to avoid inhaling him.
“My darling, there is something of the utmost importance for us to discuss.”
He sits down on the bed beside me, so close that his hot thigh pushes into mine. I move up a fraction, gently placing Villette between us. She mewls for me to pick her up, but I do not; I need my hands free in case Jean-Bernard crosses the invisible line that I have drawn between us.
“I am listening,” I murmur, attempting to edge further away from his warm, pulsing body.
He reaches out towards my face. I flinch but he does not notice. He smoothes a stray hair from my cheek and sighs
However, at times I feel my mind edging into black. The bread knife still lies on the sill. Increasingly, I find my eyes slipping to the serrated edge, the jagged teeth, the darkly glinting metal. It grins at me and this scares me. Images too terrible to describe flash before my eyes and I fear that madness is not far away. I can feel it uncoiling, pooling out like inky blood, draining sensibility from my mind for outwardly I remain a perfect picture of feminine restraint, but for how long I can muster this behaviour I know not.
Jean-Bernard's advances grow intense, and I grow warier and warier, plagued by the notion that he wants me – mind, soul and body. I am beginning to see through his kindnesses. Fight as I might, I must acknowledge that his motives are impure, driven by those of the cunning, concupiscent beast who will stop at nothing to ensure his desires are sated.
Mama, would that you were here to guide me - Eddie is gone and Bethan is becoming but a distant memory. It is almost as if she were a figment conjured up by the will of a lonely girl.
I try to smile, but fear that very soon even Villette's sweetness will not be enough.
It is perhaps just as well that you cannot read this letter.
Lisbeth
*
Dear Diary,
So it seems that I am left with no choice. Jean-Bernard has convinced me – as I suppose I knew he would.
Blackened Cottage is not the right place for her. Being near me is not right for her, not any more. Not now that my mind has begun its final descent into the rottenness of anger and despair.
I have failed not only as a husband but as a father, just as I suspected I would. My little boy, my daughter, my wife: all are lost to me. If only I could control these tortuous emotions as a man should be able, but I cannot.
As much as I will myself to pander to Lisbeth’s needs, I cannot help but feel increasingly hostile towards her. Jean-Bernard firmly believes that this hostility could lead to violence on my part. He assures me that I am taking the only possible course of action by sending her to live with him in Hertfordshire.
How I shall live now is a mystery. I loved them. I mistakenly thought we would be together forever and now I have lost them. My life means nothing now. Nothing.
I shall not bid her farewell when he takes her. I cannot bring myself to witness this final loss. Neither can I trust myself to contain the rage that rises upon seeing those haunted eyes. Goodness! How disturbed I must be to hate her and love her in the same breath; to desire her happy yet feel the need to punish her; to want her here but want rid of her instantaneously. This is why I cannot trust myself, for I can never tell which side she may provoke: the daemon or the man.
No longer can I bear the sound of my own words.
Farewell good Diary. This is the last time I shall write.
C.C
*
“Bonsoir Lisbeth.”
He approaches, rusty cigar twirling between long fingers, pale, watery eyes fixed upon mine. Nauseatingly sweet cinnamon whorls in the air. I become a mouth-breather, desperate to avoid inhaling him.
“My darling, there is something of the utmost importance for us to discuss.”
He sits down on the bed beside me, so close that his hot thigh pushes into mine. I move up a fraction, gently placing Villette between us. She mewls for me to pick her up, but I do not; I need my hands free in case Jean-Bernard crosses the invisible line that I have drawn between us.
“I am listening,” I murmur, attempting to edge further away from his warm, pulsing body.
He reaches out towards my face. I flinch but he does not notice. He smoothes a stray hair from my cheek and sighs
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