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[Aug. 13th, 2006|10:28 am] |
I am left entirely alone.
How could he---
I hate him There is only--
There is nothing.. I canot bear this pain that will not let me sleep, and I want nothing more than to be at rest
How could he!
I have wasted what was left of my strength where I never should have..
Betr-- Abandoned by every last one
How could he! How--
No, I cannot I have nothing left --Forgive me |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 27th, 2006|04:07 pm] |
I fell asleep in Heathcliff’s chambers last night thinking I should sit there with him only because I could not sleep at all. I do not like to allow myself to visit him there often, for when I do, there is always a fire burning for me that compels me to never wish to leave. But I was awakened by such a sharp pain beneath my ribs that I fled swiftly in the night so as not to wake him with my tears. He would have assisted me if I had asked, but I feared he would again pressure me to take some food. I would do it if I could! But I am so ill with vomiting, I think once more now would scar me. It will pass, I know it must, and I will be more than happy to subsist on tea until then. I know he only insists so because he worries—He has been so gentle and so patent with me lately and has held his tongue so well against every insult that would inflame my vexation. And he looks upon me with such concern and adoration in his strange dark eyes…I scarce know what to make of him and this peace between us which is alike to that of our youths, so long ago lost. It is such that it makes it really very easy to forget that he ever broke my heart. He kissed me the other night even though I had before begged him not to embrace me in such a way, and I—
Better to write on other matters. Heathcliff----
There is Miss Murray and the Count—He has won her over again with that charm of his that is so difficult to resist and both have since tried to convince me that I have been mistaken about my conclusions.
There is my anxiety over Isabella’s prolonged absence, but it cannot help but be mixed with my anger at her irresponsibility. I want to let her enjoy her freedom here, as she has gone on so about how much she has yearned for it, but she is too important to be left without care.
There is my concern for Mr. Gray, who had been attacked and is recovering from a wretched injury. I know only too well how he must be suffering, and the thought that he has been alone for so many days afterwards grows more and more alarming to me. It is not unlike his way, but I cannot help hoping every evening that he will appear for tea or dinner, and each day that he does not, my anxiety grows. He is the latest of us to have been attacked; every time I think such fears are in the past for us here, the terror strikes one of us again. Additionally, I don’t know how I shall ever enact what I intend concerning the dear man if I so little have the opportunity to see him.
There are the conversations I have been—
All of these, I ought to write more about, for each weighs in my heart more dearly than the last…and yet my pen keeps wandering its way over to the margins of the page to trace out—
I feel the pain returning. This is— |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 24th, 2006|11:00 pm] |
The cuts on my palms and fingers have much improved and so I will see if I can write a bit until my hand tires, for I have found there is little better way to settle my mind and strengthen my resolve. I have been behaving so foolishly lately, and responding to every slightest injury with such an outpour of emotion, I can scarce explain it. It is true, I have been weak, but at a time such as this, weakness cannot be abided. I did not marry Linton to become the greatest lady of the neighborhood in order to sulk about and weep like a lost and lonely brokenhearted child. Considering my increasing limitations, I would do far better to refocus upon the opportunities that are actually left.
I have been giving much thought to the poor situation of Miss Murray and then to what I would ultimately do were I the one in her position. I must understand that where the Count is concerned, although my heart and my pride have been wounded so, it ought not affect my original intentions. Nor, do I realize at base, ought it alter Miss Murray’s. She will do as she will see fit, but it would really rather be a vain and silly thing, would it not, to limit one’s self based on the way one’s heart may burn or ache? Especially for one such as Miss Murray and after such a tragic fate had befallen her betrothed. So often I think of that night she spoke to me of that wicked sense of freedom she felt after it had happened. Perhaps freedom was not the correct association for her to make, but whatever was her state then, and is now, it is not one to be taken for granted.
As for myself, night after night, it makes me nervous to find myself so longing for—
* * * * * * * * * * *
How funny of me. No—It is time to take control again. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 17th, 2006|08:02 pm] |
Oh, Edgar, I miss you so! How I wish I could write to you, but you have gone beyond where even mysterious letters transmitted by tea table can reach. Despite the fury that sill burns in me at the selfishness of your demise, I cannot help but pine away the hours dwelling upon the way things once were between us. I long for those simple, quiet days—the soft voices, the warm afternoons, the gentle tenderness in your lamb’s eyes as you stepped so carefully about me so that I should never be anything less than entirely content. You were firm with Isabella, but the three of us always had something to discuss, or better yet, words were not needed at all and your company was enough to keep away bitterness or fear or nightmares. I am so unconnected now and it all bears on me so tremulously—
I am becoming more and more aware of just how delicate a shapeless thing such as friendship can be. Of those here who I have grown to consider the most straightforward of friends, it seems the number is not so great as I would have believed. Such painful realizations do motivate me more to truly appreciate those friends who have never brought me pain, but I cannot help suffering in the light of them. I ought to revel in the society of those I can yet trust instead of remaining up here, shut up in my room where my tears are at least unseen. Before finally falling asleep, my heart was so heavy that I fully intended to never step foot in the presence of another again, but now that I am hollow from having expelled so much of that anger over the hours, I do long for company that will make me forget the meaning of the word betrayal.
I am beginning to understand that the Count, who I have all this time held in such reverent esteem, is quite an adept deceiver. In times past, he has spoken so entreatingly of being a friend to me and yet now and then his careless words continue to show to me that he has very little interest in sincere reciprocal friendship. Why he would feel motivated to lead me to believe something such as that when it is false, I cannot begin to imagine! If he likes me less than what he for the most part displays, why not just treat me brusquely as Mr. Holmes does? Or at the very least not encourage such a delusion? I can think of no answer that with honesty allows him to remain any kind of gentleman. I cannot trust in him. And to think of how often I have praised and admired him, pressed upon him my gratitude and genuine affection!.. I flip back through the pages in this book and am altogether overwhelmed by how caught up I was in such a false ideas. What a little fool he must think I am! But he cannot have expected me to remain forever blind, to not eventually pull together conclusions. I have tested him once or twice since my doubt first began to take shape and I have only established it to be well-founded. Well, there has been spun too much blackness inside of me these past weeks to indulge such a societal game as I perhaps would have done if I had been in this situation back home. I will put an end to it at once. I am his fool no longer.
I can only wonder if Miss Murray is aware of this aspect of his nature. If she is, then she is no better than he—Oh, I find that thought so difficult to accept that I know I never shall! She has given me no reason, not even mistakenly, to ever think her display of friendship is in any way false, and I shall not even allow myself to consider such a dark thing of her unless she ever does. I know she is too simple a girl for such cruel cunning. Nonetheless, because of her relationship with the Count, I will lamentably have to be guarded when in her presence from now on as well.
Isabella continues to disregard my advice and I grow quite fearful of being at a loss with what to do about her. My entire livelihood hinges on my ability to keep her obedient to me, and this wild nature that has awoken in her since her arrival here makes her continually more difficult to control. Of course there is still the chance that I may not need to rely upon her loyalty and devotion in the end; a few more months will answer that question. But I sorely miss the closeness we once shared. Since my marriage, she has not been the same as I have always known her. Could six years’ friendship really decay so quickly? I will never be ashamed to admit that I need her for more than her fortune, titles, and the prestige being her sister-in-law has granted me—I need her love, and I am so lonely now without it!
I am all afire with poisonous wishes where Heathcliff is concerned. How dare he insult Linton and his motives to me! And when I am in mourning! If he hoped my love for my husband and all he stood for died when he did, then he has never understood a thing! Well, I suppose he hasn’t. I should not find that to be any great surprise. He has either forgotten or abandoned his promise to me not to speak ill of Linton in my hearing in exchange for being spared my praises of him. Well, I shall simply have to retaliate in kind, shan’t I. He will learn better, or there will be no way for us to get on with each other at all. Oh, do I really sit here considering a life entirely without Heathcliff…Well, I had managed it for nearly four years, had I not? But I was not alone then, I was Linton’s. and henceforth, I must remain his in legitimate memory, even though I have him for myself no longer, or else I forfeit all that was his and is now hers—or perhaps in a few months’ time may yet become mine—If only nothing were to happen to change our situation until then! If we are to remain here long enough, then at least I shall know upon our acquittal of this place whether or not my miserable life is still worth living. I will write it down now in ink so that I will remember how I felt it with the fullest of sincerity: My pride would rather have me die than accept degradation or dismissal. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 9th, 2006|10:38 pm] |
How is it I feel the only person in the world who would care should I die now would be Heathcliff? Am I truly so wretched? Is everything else really so false? Edgar’s weakness has proved to me how little he loved me, but Heathcliff’s strength nearly frightens me in its selfishness. It is not my wellbeing that he cares to protect, but his own through his need of me. He has no sympathy for me now that Linton is dead. I only see pitilessness in his eyes when I cry for my loss as he flaunts at me the error of my past choices. He wanted this to happen, I know he has wanted nothing more than to drag me back down to his level, for he has fought every effort that I attempted in order to raise him up to that which I had attained. If he refuses to accept what I wish to offer him, then there is nothing more I can do where his wellbeing is concerned.
I know I still could live out my days at Thrushcross Grange with Isabella in dejected isolation, but then I should be completely dependant upon her and whatever man she should marry. Or should I go back to the bleak purgatory that was Wuthering Heights as he wishes me to and resign myself to live out the remainder of my days in that world of bitterness and cruelty with my brothers? I suppose it is where I belong, for I deserve no better, but how can I accept it after having tasted Heaven so completely for half a year? They would drive me mad, I know they would, and there is no cure for madness. I want to escape—I want to be free. Hindley escaped when he was young, but he came back again and now he has wrought his own destruction. Heathcliff did as well and now he has all he could have wanted. Much of me would rather die than return to that from whence I originated, but as much as I long to, I cannot deny that it is where I do belong—I do not deserve Heaven. I do not deserve to be free of the miserable and cold anger and bitterness. Why did you leave me, Edgar? Could you have really loved me so little? Was he right all along? Were you really so shallow, hollow after all? And yet I had known it was coming, how could I not? I felt it in my very soul like a demon waiting to escape for weeks now—the deepest of my fears that could not be denied any more than I can deny that I still live despite how desperately I have wished these past blurred days that I did not.
Isabella will never listen to me now—not once she knows! I cannot bear it. I would rather die. There is nothing— Perhaps there is still a chance for me to guide her to my benefit. If I can marry her to my favor before she learns of her inheritance, I may be able to go on in the light of the Grange and all that was Linton’s as ever I had. I must find someone for her and quickly who is either weak-willed or more my friend than hers. Someone who will not mind inheriting me along with the acquisition of his wife and her fortune. If I had never come here, I would have never had such an opportunity to solve such a problem. Although if I had never come here, I would have never had such need… And if I never leave this place before I die, then none of it shall even matter.
I do not have much longer, I fear, before I will have to confess to Liza that I lied to her. I have not been dressed in days, but already last week I could not make my frock fit me without Isabella’s help. I ought to ask Miss Murray for regular assistance, for I know she would be more than willing, but I do not know if I can entirely depend upon her availability—
After having finally rested so well last night and with writing this to still the confusion that filled my mind, I am feeling more myself. Although no matter how many blankets I pile about me, I cannot be rid of this shaking chill. My hand is already almost numb from its exposure to the air as I write, and yet if I close the window I am suffocated. I cannot sleep I’ve slept too much I am not well. Is there nothing to be done for this tiring nausea? As selfish as it is to wish such a dark fate upon her, every day now I hope and long for my Ellen’s arrival. She would know what to do—for both the present and the future. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 27th, 2006|07:31 pm] |
The doctor told me yesterday that he had seen a ray of shining sun in the sky; I find after so much time spent in gloom that I can almost scarce believe such a thing unless I were to see it for myself! Although to see the brightness of his spirit last night, such as I have never witnessed in him before, was testimony itself to the hope it gave him; however, I am afraid I must have dampened his good mood in a dreadful way when I let my emotions get the better of me... He spoke of the inconvenience of his fondness for me—something of which I have been aware for quite some time—and I attempted to justify such feelings between us with the fact that nothing in this strange place is right. I asked him what we should do, for I am certain I would have done at that moment whatever he had suggested, and he, good and upright man that he is, recommended to do nothing. Oh, I am wicked! I could never hope to be as good and strong a person as someone like he. If he were even the slightest bit worse-----
I will not consider it.
He said to me that he wished he could bring me happiness, but I begin to doubt if one such as myself is even capable of true happiness, much less deserving of it. He spoke of other men’s affections for me in attempt, I suppose, to prove a point or perhaps to flatter me – Oh, there is ever Heathcliff, who could deny it? For he will speak his mind and his heart with absolute disregard for who is listening or whom he might harm. He has always loved me, in his own way, since before we were old enough to even know what love was. It is much more to my confusion, though, how the doctor came to mention Mr. Gray as well. Quite certainly, no one had overheard the dear man’s confession to me that night weeks past, and since then, he has only spoken aloud of friendship. I wonder just how obvious what is unspoken might be to a man like the doctor—though he did only mention Mr. Gray in respects to those who would wish for my attentions, and perhaps he only meant this in a much more trivial way than I know it to actually be. Yes, that must be----
Oh, poor Jack! I entreated him so, didn’t I, the other evening to join us again even though he does not feel comfortable or welcome among the others, and yet he came down anyway and I spent no time with him last night at all! I shall surely have to make it up to him tonight or whenever I shall see him next—I do hope my neglect has not discouraged him into keeping away for days again as he is wont to do—as so many here are apt to do.
I have consoled Isabella after our emotional encounter the other night even though I would much prefer she find occupation for herself that did not involve me, for just being near her, especially when she so wrongly and cruelly accuses my suffering of derision, makes it impossible for me to think of else but Edgar back at home calling out my name in despair for the evil he thinks I have done! Well, they are two of a kind and I should expect no less.
I saw H last night in the parlor, though I do not know if he noticed me, for he was spoken to, just as I was leaving, by a woman I have never seen before. Could it be that new arrivals have begun since Isabella joined us the other week? Could it be----
It occurred to me that H must be keeping himself from me out of spite since we last saw each other for I rejected his offer to walk with me upstairs to retire in favor of remaining a few minutes longer in the doctor’s company as he had just returned that day. How could H hold such a thing against me? Must it always be the choice between his way or no way at all? I am not his thing but his friend, and if he wishes to keep me as that, he must do what it takes in order to ensure that his company is not likewise scorned by those whose I must, and what’s more wish, to keep! He has no reason to dislike those whom I favor and if he continues to act upon such black feelings, then there is no way we will be able to get along. If he will not accept the love I have to offer him (such that is left to a bound woman to offer), then he shall be at a loss for it, not I, for he insists upon driving everyone else away from him to sulk in his tortured solitude. It is a fate that I shall see to it will never befall myself.
It is strange thing, is it not, how one may lie herself awake all night filled with thoughts and exclamations and flinchings of heartache, and yet when I attempt to expel them all into this book, there remain so many I cannot bring myself to write… |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|04:19 pm] |
Heathcliff must know that I quite intend to scold him when I see him next, for he would not otherwise have kept himself so scarce from me these three days past. It is time he embraced the fact that one must behave the way one is required to, not the way one wishes, in order to accomplish what needs to be done for the larger purpose and the greater good—That greater good being entirely his own, for I should not expect or even think it possible for him to behave in any way whatsoever that pertained to good that had to do with any other than himself. By aiding him thus in his successes, I will also be doing my own heart well for I shall finally know that all I have attempted has been worth the suffering required to attain it. Our lives are so precariously balanced right now and a misjudgment on either of our parts, a move wrongly played could quite topple his chances of rising to placements I do think quite possible for him to achieve if not enjoy. Very little of it has anything to do with joy.
How can any of us find joy now and in this place where we must live in fear or else distract ourselves with foolish fancy? Every day, with trembling steps, I both fly to and force myself into the parlor to see if there is a letter waiting for me on the table where Miss Murray’s appeared. Ever since Isabella’s arrival and revelation of Linton’s condition, I can do nothing but think day and night that at any moment I shall receive a notice no different from that which set Miss Murray free… Only for myself, such a catastrophe would bring quite the opposite of freedom. Should a letter actually arrive, how will I ever have the strength to open it with the fear that it might possibly contain such a devastating message? –
Oh, but how easy it is to forget that there is still a chance that even if he were to be so weak, so selfish, so cruel as to waste entirely away—Yes, there is still a chance that I may not lose it all—Half a chance. Were but there was a way to know it sooner!
Yes, it is in distraction that I must set my mind at ease. Merely being in Isabella’s presence makes such an effort almost entirely impossible! I am all the more grateful these days for those here whose caring for me has enabled me to find reason not to drive myself entirely mad. The—No, there are some matters which I shall not allow myself to dwell upon.
I have not spoken with Miss Murray in several days and I do hope that she does not suspect my envy of her carefree happiness or think at all that I mean to avoid her. It seems no matter with whom I am conversing, public admiration of her person is impossible to be avoided—though I do not mean to write that I should wish to avoid it, I am merely impressed by the fact. I am all the more convinced that I chose well in confiding in her of all people, for I shall be in all the more need of her confidence as time passes.
She and the Count—for it seems where one goes now, ever so does the other… Whom else here other than they and Heathcliff ( for whom my heart has broken once in our lives and must therefore now be immune) is there to be trusted? Isabella adores me as I do her, but I could not trust in her weak nature further than to provide me with sweetened cups of tea. Now that the doctor has returned and put an end to the illness that had consumed his existence as long as I have known him, and certainly much longer than that, I wonder if he will soon find himself living his life entirely differently. He insists that he could not do else but help others, but when one has lived under a shadow for so long and then finally overcomes it, one is certainly entitled to enjoy the kind of life previously denied to him. I should like to trust in him and his constancy implicitly, for I feel I know him well, but how could I ever think less of him should he grow to change? Since his return, he already strikes me as—No, how could I judge him? And who am I to say it could ever be something less than to his credit?
Who else is there here? I feel I have made friends of so many I never would have known if I had not been brought here, and yet all these people remain so mysterious to me. My opinion of Liza continues to be uncertain. All she presents makes me feel as if I ought to trust in her, and yet I find I cannot bring myself yet to let go my suspicion. Isabella seems to have faultless faith in the character of the Frenchwoman, but I know she must be deluded in such a conviction. I have not seen Katrina in quite some time, but her coldness and quickness to judge have made the girl entirely useless to me anyway. I should like to believe a man such as the detective to be the epitome of fine characters, but it is impossible when he indulges so openly in such vices and is additionally so unsympathetic to Mr. Gray… Dear Mr. Gray! I cannot even begin to understand Heathcliff’s dark assessment of that man whose solitude he of all must surely understand. I would of course leave it to Heathcliff to be unable to see good in its very home, but for him to try to turn my views against a man who does nothing but flatter me with gentle kindness and pleasantly honest company when he can bring himself to be around those that dislike him to grant it, is only further reinforcement of the selfishness of my would-be-brother’s nature.
What shall I do with you, my friend? Where can we find the sunlight that will manage to shine into your self-imposed night? If you fight every effort I make on your behalf, how will you ever expect me to be at peace with myself when all I want is for both of us to live as best we can and as far from the torture of our past as possible? I always meant to do well for you—always! And do not you dare accuse me, because for me to sacrifice for you is not denial on my part, but the purest sort of devotion! Where will we end? That is the question you must keep in mind, for the answer to it is entirely in our hands to decide; and then once you have agreed to my decision, think quite deeply upon the next: How will we get there? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|11:31 pm] |
The stiffness in my arm has finally passed enough again to allow me to write, but I awoke with new concerns upon finding the tiny stains of blood droplets from where my throat had pressed against the white of my pillow as I slept the deepest and most dreamless of sleeps last night. After almost three weeks of time spent healing, the wound has opened again and I know just how and why it happened—
Last night, I was awoken by the most uncomfortably nauseating wave of heat and when the window refused to open, was forced to flee at once out of doors without even having the strength or time to seek out slippers nor shawl. Once I had caught my breath, I attempted to return inside before I was seen, but in opposition to its previous unnatural behavior, the house refused to admit me! But I was not the only one beset, it seemed, as I quite soon after found Miss Murray, the Count and Liza out in the yard and just as confused as I. The Count was good enough to drape his cloak about me, and in the stables, where we were followed by that unnerving masked man and the Frenchwoman who hangs on him like a handbag whenever something frightening occurs, Liza found a pair of worn-out boots for my bare feet. Though had it not been for the cold, I should have much preferred to remain barefoot, for they were quite ugly and dirty and itched with dust.
Being as bent upon unwise and tedious adventure as it seems she often is, Miss Murray led us out onto the grounds again. Liza had the good sense not to follow, but I feared to be alone lest the house continue to refuse to readmit me, so I stayed wherever Count went against my better judgment. We found Isabella lost in the graveyard; she told me she has been writing to Edgar every day. I will leave our letters tonight in hopes that they will find their mysterious way back to our dear, suffering Edgar.
Our small group soon found ourselves led into a strange, abandoned chapel after the exclamations of Miss Daaé called forth its sight in the mist. It was in that murky, cobweb-filled place that I knew I must have been attacked again. While the others explored its recesses, my weariness compelled me to find repose in one of the pews there where, while lulled to comfort by the warmth and gentle scent of the Count’s cloak and the soft murmurs of our friends’ voices in that once-holy space, I drifted off to sleep. I did not realize it had happened until I was awoken by the cacophony of rusted organ notes and the shrieking of frightened bats as they fled the rafters. No one had been playing attention to me, and it must have been one of those creatures then that bit me, perhaps even having caused me to fall asleep in the first place. What breed of poisonous blood-draining bats these are, I could not begin to know, but at last now I know where it is they roost, and their shadow of mystery seems a bit less unnatural. I shall have to tell the others. Well—Perhaps select others.
The Count escorted me back to the house through a hidden passage he had discovered with the detective. I don’t remember going to bed, but I am used to this clouded feeling and it no longer nauseates me as it once did.
It is cold in my room, but after yesternight, that is a blessing. All the same, I shall descend to the parlor with my letter. If Isabella’s is not ready, I will wait no longer. I must hear from Edgar before I drive myself completely mad with worry for his condition. If he were to die, I would be destitute! It is as simple as that. Edgar, my love, I am calling to you—Can’t you hear me? If you loved me enough to look up from your grief and listen, you would. Imagine, Edgar, when we have married Isabella and sent her far off and Thrushcross Grange is entirely our own and our descendants’! She won’t need to be your heir any longer when she has a wealthy husband of her own. Your will may yet change before you die—which I pray every day will never be anytime soon!
I think I shall wear something high-collared when I go down this evening so that none will notice the darkness of this unsightly mark. It will also prevent my unthinking fingers from brushing against the wound as they have a tendency to do to the point of soreness. The last thing I would want is for it to leave a permanent scar! |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 10th, 2006|09:06 pm] |
I cannot understand what is wrong with me... I was feeling so well for so many days, and when I inspect the wound at my throat, I find it more healed than it has ever been, and yet the weakness has returned. My memories are cloudy and it is all too familiar, but I find myself wondering at the quick recoveries of the Count and Isabella, and the concerns I felt that my poor health is unrelated to the attacks, or at least worse than would be expected for reasons none of the others could take into consideration, has returned. I stayed in bed yesterday but was only visited by Isabella. At least she has not forgotten me.
One of my arms is tenderly sore, but that must be from sleeping upon it too heavily. If only this room were not so cold and dark and vastly empty, I think I would be content to never leave it--there I am allowing the gloom to descend upon me again. This is just when I know it is time for me to dress and venture down to join the others. And if no one else is about, I know at least the Count will be.
I dreamt of him again, a vivid dream that seemed not quite entirely subconscious in those flitting moments before waking completely. When I hear his voice in my mind, it is as if he is in the room and when I look I am surprised to be unable to find him there. I can hear so clearly the echo of his strange accent call my name, but it cannot be anything more than memories from dreams of nights past.
Heathcliff spent quite a bit of time speaking to Miss Murray the other night, apparently about our home. That she opted to choose his company over ours that night, and then after excusing herself so queerly from our company the night following had the Count, as well as myself, I admit, rather uncertain of her opinion of us. However I did all I could to convince our dear friend that he could have not possibly offended her. I fear that fault is mine for so randomly throwing away the lovely roses she had left for me, though I cannot at all understand why I did such a thing—I am not well at all. But the Count appeared as concerned over the thought of having been the cause of her upset as he had been of mine the other night—If only he knew! But it is not my place to think thoughts such as those. It is much more Miss Murray’s, I should say…
Why does that conclusion leave me feeling so suddenly drained and hollow? A drop of water would echo quite loudly if it were to fall within me just now. Perhaps it would be better after all if I spent less time alone with him. I only pray my mood does not become too black without him by me to lighten it. Perhaps the Sociable Master Heathcliff will grace me with his presence tonight instead of spending his time lingering in the kitchen with the charming Miss Murray or otherwise lurking about with goodness knows who else where he knows I cannot find him, even though the idea of me seeking him out on such an occasion is preposterous. There is always someone else to be found to keep me company… |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 6th, 2006|05:10 pm] |
I am feeling better in a physical sense than I believe I have felt since before I came to this place. It has been over a week since last I was attacked and I dare to believe that perhaps the gruesome phenomenon has finally ended at least for my part. Isabella suffered from the blood-loss a few nights ago but she has been resting and it seems not to have affected her as badly as it ever did myself or many of the others. There is yet reason to hope.
However, despite how much my health has improved, I find my heart is heavier than ever before. I wish Isabella had never arrived here for more reasons than I could ever write! My troubles were lightened to hear from her that Edgar did not in fact send me here for any malicious reasoning only to then be informed that he thought I had left him and is now dying of anguish and despair! Now I must suffer knowing there is nothing I can do while he suffers and I almost more wish it had been the other way around! For now not only is he alone without me but without his sister as well! He is all alone and there is no way for us to reach him to alleviate his torment.
Oh, Edgar, be strong for me! If you waste away into death, I will be worse off than I would have been had you forsaken me! You are not allowed to leave me—not in this way nor any other! And were you but with me, I would see to it that you remained exactly where you ought to—where I needed you to be. What would I do without you? Your will is entirely in Isabella’s name and were you to leave us, I should be completely dependant upon her! I cringe to imagine such a life! Isabella as the Lady of Thrushcross Grange, and myself left to be nothing more than the miserable disinherited widow of a husband who had so little faith in my affection that when I am forced against my will to leave him, he concludes the worst of me! You foolish coward, come after me and see for yourself! Your pitiful sister managed it, now where are you?? At home in your study, shuffling around and mumbling? Calling my name like a pathetic old hermit? You are almost twenty-two years old, my husband, when will you ever become the man I need you to be?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I have written myself into a frenzy and realized it not until the ink on the page above was smeared by my tears, but now the window is open and the dark breeze cools my temper…
I find myself dwelling upon my list of woes so often and so deeply that if it were not for the distraction of conversation with those here whom I have gained as friends, I am certain I should waste away into permanent despair regardless of how well my health continues.
It is mostly upon diversion of the count’s persuasive and good-natured lecturing that I have come to rely. We have been left alone to each other’s company quite often lately and I have once or twice wondered if he lingered purely for my sake. The way he looks at me with those strange eyes of his makes me feel both like a child and a woman at the same time and I find myself tossed between laughter and blushing wherever our conversation tends to lead us. Though two nights ago after a rather off-putting response from him when I had perhaps spoken too coyly, I had an epiphany of my own inadequacy alongside his greatness. It occurs to me that his efforts in cheering me are not due at all to any affection for me on his part but merely the polite kindness of his flawless manners. I realized I have been growing far too forward with him and the comfortableness I feel with him must be entirely one-sided. He found me alone again last night and questioned my distance, but what could I tell him? He had done nothing to upset me…my own heart had done it to itself. It would be wise of me to reintroduce quiet formality between us, but his manner just will not let me… He entreated me so charmingly and called me his friend so apologetically that I could not long cling to my resolve.
Why is it that I am so drawn to him? Why can I never tear my eyes from his face when we are in the same room? I think perhaps it is a magnetic effect which he has upon more than just myself. I quite suspect Miss Murray feels something similar in his respect, and after accidentally witnessing their private exchange last night, the sense of guilt she feels for her secret wishes of freedom make quite a bit more sense to me now. It is most fortunate that Isabella did not witness it as well for she should weep with jealousy, I am certain. I must be more diligent about introducing her to the other gentlemen of this house before she develops a fixation with this man whom I am quite certain could only be bored with her despite her fair loveliness.
Thinking on her… it took me days to find this book after that night she spent here in my room and I wonder gravely if she was the one who might have moved it. If she read anything within, she did not give it thought enough to let it affect her display, but I shall be much more careful about where I keep it from now on.
I have not spoken with Heathcliff regarding Edgar since we learned of the fault of our conclusions upon Isabella's arrival… Perhaps it will be for the better to never again mention those fears I had confided in him and continue along as we ever should have. I know it must irk him that Isabella is here, for they had never gotten along and she often teased him when we were younger, but perhaps now that years have passed they may become friends after it all. They are both family to me and it will be better this way than to be caught between them in their bitterness as I always was in the past. Before I became so ill, I sought to convince him to do as I have done and work to create connections with those that reside with us here. He was very little interested in my suggestions, but I know I will be able to change his mind. None of us will ever be completely independent, here or ever elsewhere, and he will thank me for it in time.
The marks on my neck are fainter now than I have ever seen them, and I am tempted to wear my hair up again. I grow quite weary of going about with it down like a girl. Tonight I think I shall do it properly and wear a ribbon about my throat to hide the healing wound. I found one tucked in the pages of this book that I cannot quite remember why I put there. I think perhaps it might belong to Heathcliff, but I am certain he would not mind if I put it to use. It is the least he could do, afterall, he has never loaned me a handkerchief. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 27th, 2006|06:58 pm] |
I did not go out to the woods again today… nor yesterday, I believe, though whenever I am suffering after these attacks, time slips away from me, and in this land of perpetual darkness, I know not whether it is even day or night. I do not feel as weak now as I have on previous occasions... It sickens me to think that perhaps I am becoming accustomed to losing blood this way? I have drifted in and out of sleep for what feels like what must have been more than one day and night, but I am not sure exactly. If Liza does not answer later when I ring, I will dress and go down, but no more will I think of seeking him. He does not deserve such attention from me. I made up my mind the other day that if he insists upon staying out there on his own, there is nothing I can do to entice him to return. I had been by his room more than once and found it yet unlocked and untouched, but that does not much surprise me. Perhaps he has managed to turn himself from the farm hand he was into a man of means, but he will never be a gentleman, and he is not even worthy the chastisement I wished to pour upon him; the mysterious and unknown blood that runs in his veins will always be nothing more than that of some wild rogue. I will not let myself fear for him, for he is more than capable on his own, and a pack a wolves would sooner run from his cruel stare than dare to sniff after him—No, fear for him was not what had led me out to search for him since he tore off so foolishly last week.
Why should I allow myself to accept his violent harshness and lack of pity when there are those here willing to show me kindness? Several days ago, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Todd at entirely separate moments, both of whom might as well be yet strangers to me as little as I really know of them, offered their deepest sympathies and compassion when I spoke of only the least of my problems; but when I confide in Heathcliff the darkest of my secrets and sharpest of my fears, instead of friendship, he only mocks at my circumstances and dares to accuse me as if I were the cause of all that beset me. How dare he— And for him to react with such passionate anger when I found myself upset by his cold response— He is the worst of friends to me. He has only ever cared for what affects his own heart and not mine at all if it has not to do with him.
And yet, if I did not know escape from this place was impossible, I could almost bring myself to fear he had left me again as he did years ago, and I should no doubt be more ill in health and spirit than ever I had been before. He begged me for days to confide in him and when I finally have the strength to do so, instead of offering me the comfort of friendship I need— how dare he parade in my misfortune! And now, days later, to know that he cannot leave these grounds and yet still keeps himself out there only to be away from me— Well it does not inspire tears any longer, but rather a cold anger that did not let me sleep for several nights. I should have had no rest at all, I think, if I had not been weakened so by this attack. My memories of the other night when it occurred are so filled with vague shadows, but I think I recall the Count chasing away the bat and I can still see its vicious bloody eyes staring at me, and then I do remember the Count and I trying to explain it all to Mr. Todd, though his reaction I cannot bring back to mind.
Earlier that evening, before it happened, Mr. Gray, in a most touching gesture, had his handkerchief delivered to me with the dearest of messages accompanying it. I wished I could have questioned Liza more on how he came to do so, but we were quite rudely interrupted by the horrible cook as she came screaming into the kitchen, dragging with her a dead beast she seemed quite determined to cook for dinner. We left at once and Liza, who was not feeling well herself after being attacked (will none here be spared??) did not remain among our company long.
But how strange it was to find that Mr. Gray had been thinking of me on the very day when my own thoughts had so dwelled upon him once I had firmly decided to not step foot to the woods again. Could it be that my feelings of abandonment somehow touch him even when I have seen nothing of him since that evening we spent together out in the yard when the moon was full and dared to appear. I can still— Better not to write on that. I cannot think on it without blushing in memory and, with these words alone, already my cold cheeks grow hot. But it is quite easy to forgive him his distance, even when he was then and is now so on my mind, when I know I am on his with true affection. I can only imagine what ruthless and pitiless thoughts of me must occupy Heathcliff's mind. If he even thinks of me and all and not only of himself.
Finding comfort and pleasure in the company of most of the others here has never been at all difficult and I will not hesitate to seek the friendships of those whom I know can mean me very well. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 20th, 2006|08:04 pm] |
I thought I might steady my nerves by writing, though I do not know if I will have the strength to manage it for long. I feel weaker and more disoriented today after having slept for so many restful hours than I have after each of these nights prior when I have only cried myself into a sleep fitful exhaustion that never lasted long. Though I have spent most of my time in bed, rest had mostly eluded me as my mind and heart have been too heavy for peace; but then, with no reason for change at all, last night and all of this day (Is it day or night now? I am never sure and the clock does not work), I have slept so soundly that I feel as if I have been dead.
But now that my mind turns again, about what shall I write? Shall I write about how I retaliated to Liza's secrets and lies with deliberate falsehoods of my own for which I am sure to burn? Shall I write of my eternally growing fear that the reason we are in this place is because this is where people have sent us to be rid of us? If Miss Murray managed to receive a letter all the way from Buda-Petsh, as terrible as the news it bore was, why has not Edgar written to me? Why has he not come for me? I just awoke in this mansion one evening without warning and have been here ever since. He did not even wish me a good bye...
If it truly be so, I know it is better that I know it, but most of me still wishes Mr. Gray had never made the suggestion and I had been left in blissful ignorance. Dear Mr. Gray... I had refused to believe the doctor's assistant weeks ago when he mocked that men here were enamored of me, but no matter how I try deny it, it is so. I am all the more at ease with myself of when I insisted Heathcliff temper the passion of his actions toward me in the presence of others, and also still as much impressed with his ability to keep his end of the bargain. The fears that initially sparked the torturous request were in part allayed some time ago, but the other night when Mr. Hyde so rudely interrupted my conversation in the parlor with Mr. Gray and attempted to goad him with lies an insults, I was only finally convinced that I need have no fear of the diminution of my character in the eyes of anyone who actually deserves to exist in the same world as I. Mr. Hyde should quite surely have been thoroughly destroyed by now if I had not made the decision to give the doctor my compassion. And as soon as the doctor no longer needs it, I highly doubt his assistant will long thrive if he chooses to do less than keep himself absolutely scarce. Alas, I have been finding the doctor needed more of my compassion than I could ever realize... And now--
I cannot--
Is that a knock at my door--There is Heathcliff's voice.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
----I He is gone now. I sent him to bed, but I was wrong to think I could continue to write-- This pen feels as heavy as my heart, and I can no longer hold it |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 14th, 2006|05:49 pm] |
I am feeling much stronger today than I have after three nights ago when I do believe I must have been attacked again. It is a most frightening prospect to consider, because I was not without Heathcliff's presence for the entire evening. We had been so certain that the way to ward off this blood-draining was by never being alone, but now to know that it somehow happened to me anyway even in the presence of my closest friend...It is a wonder that I have not suffered from more nightmares, though I do suppose I have been too weak to dream. I awoke that next morning to find him at my bedside and myself abed once more fully dressed without any recollection of having come there. I sent him away to rest then and rang for the maid, but when she did not answer, I took my shivering self down to the parlor where I hoped I could be warmed by the fire. It is a cavernously hollow and cold feeling that all but consumes me every time I wake after having lost my blood this way. And such a sense of violation that I cannot help but weep…and I cannot physically afford to continue to suffer such attacks of weakness, for my body is not even entirely my own any longer.
I spoke to the doctor finally last night after having sought him so desperately for almost a week; he had been attacked as well. I entreated him to tell me if there was nothing we could do to discourage being bitten, and he actually informed me that in his investigations he had discovered that bats are repelled by certain scents—the one he mentioned specifically was the odour of garlic. He told me it might help me to rub the oil of the clove into my skin, but the mere thought of myself smelling that way and having others smell me that way almost nauseated me as much as—oh I cannot even write about that madman and his disgusting ways without at once feeling ill.
I suggested to the doctor that, as no one, no matter how beset, would likely be able to stand going about smelling of garlic, we might instead put it about the rooms to keep the bat away in general. He said that he doubted anyone would be any more open to that idea than rubbing the oil on their flesh, but we managed to find compromise in the plan of action of scenting the doorways and window sills. That way if the bat is without, it will not be able to come back within... If this idea even works at all.
We set about putting it all into action immediately and he assured me that he would finish the task while everyone was asleep. How strange that he does not want anyone to know that the idea was rooted with him. I am to take full credit or blame for anything garlic-related... The others will undoubtedly want an explanation for the smell, which I will readily provide, but I am to make no mention whatsoever of the doctor's involvement. Well, if that is what he wants from me, that is what he shall have; no one shall ever know of his part in this plot. After all, who am I to deny him anything he might request of me?
He was kind enough to finally treat Heathcliff's wound even though he is so unwell himself. I'd paid him once before, weeks ago, for his attention to Heathcliff which he accepted only when threatened with my displeasure, but he would certainly not accept payment again... And should Heathcliff know I were to attempt such a thing, he would be more than upset with me as well. For that matter, twice when I even offered the doctor verbal thanks for his help to my dear friend, he did not tell me I was welcome... He had told me before that he helps others so selflessly because he cannot help himself, but I do not understand this sense of guilt and obligation that presses within me in regards to Heathcliff's sake. Perhaps it is because our two friends are at such obvious odds and we are both bound by our loyalty to them.
I asked him not to speak to me of his assistant, for when I am reminded that the beast of a man exists, I cannot suppress violent feelings of hate. He asked me if his friend had done anything about making amends for his crude actions… Do amends include insults and vulgarity? I am just glad, though, that even with all he has weighing upon him, that the doctor did speak to his assistant about his behavior and attempt to repair it. It also pleases me that so far Mr. Hyde has obeyed the order I gave him not to speak to me. Of course, it took a thrashing from Heathcliff to enforce it, but since then the man has been most obedient.
Thankfully, however, Heathcliff has promised me that he will do the doctor’s assistant no more harm. I was terrified for the first day after that beating that when the others learned of it, they might rally against the fiend and do him damage irreparable, thereby destroying what hope the doctor has left of finding his cure, but all seems to have come to a level, if slightly tremulous, plateau in that respect. Besides there are much more important dangers to fear in this mansion than the worthless Mr. Hyde.
I found pleasant diversion in conversation with Mr. Campbell the night before last. He is strange and perhaps slightly mad as well, but I find him sweet, and after all it is his blood that flows in my veins and that saved my life. Before that, however, in result of our first few frights of the evening, I spent some time quite entangled with Miss Westenra, and then again, last night, I enjoyed the company of her and her friend before Mr. Holmes drew their attentions away. But I do think my good assessment of Miss Westenra has only been reinforced through our trying adventures in this house of madness, and I am now only more filled with encouraging faith in my previous designs.
The maid has been avoiding me except in times of high anxiety when we women must stand for each other, but when I do manage to get her to speak in calm seclusion, she lies. It makes me most uncomfortable to know that I have confided in her. Oh, how I miss my Ellen! She would never on her life have told a falsehood and even though she has betrayed me and been cruel, she will be loyal to me until her dying day… If I ever see her again…
I can pray that she may yet appear; more people have arrived as well as creatures. Last night, the madman introduced us to a great dog—nay, it must have been a wolf, though it seemed most tepid as it joined us in the library of all places. Perhaps it will rid us of all the rats and then the madman will go away. But what I fear most of all and long for at the same time is the arrival of Edgar. Certainly if he were to join us here, his prejudices would at once be in the way of my plans, but I miss him so and there are so many things I must tell him… Why has he stayed so long away? Mr. Gray said something the other night that shot grief and fear into my very heart. Is it possible that Edgar has left me? I arrived here without knowing how or why—Could it be that he has sent me here to be rid of me? No one must know… No one must ever, ever know! But I cannot imagine it—he worships me! And yet… why else would I be here? Why else? Oh, Edgar— |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 5th, 2006|04:08 pm] |
Early yesterday evening, an enjoyable conversation with the viscount was interrupted by the return of that monstrous creature that has, for the past three nights destructively appeared. There were screams from the kitchen, so he, Heathcliff and I fled upstairs where we would not be caught in the insanity. It seems no matter how politely I try to engage the handsome young man in conversation, he is intent on remaining quiet and answering in as few words as possible. While moving through the dark and dusty halls, we three came upon an undiscovered room with a wardrobe filled with the most extravagant of old clothing. We sorted through it, amusing ourselves with hats and gowns, but were soon joined by Mr. Rochester and Mr. Campbell. It is one matter to indulge in a bit of lighthearted fancy, but the childish foolishness of their behavior quite soon began to bore me and Heathcliff and I took our leave.
The doctor is right when he refers to Mr. Rochester as a child. It frustrates me incredibly to know that I sent him off to bang down the doctor's door in hopes that he would settle the matter of the hateful assistant with the strength and reasonability of a man--but instead he only annoyed the poor doctor with such childish petulance and I at once regretted ever breathing a word.
Is there truly no man here capable of doing something about that Hyde? If only they knew what I knew, they would not be so resistant... But dare I tell the detective? Would it really destroy the doctor or does he just say so to break my heart in order to protect his friend? I hardly know what to think of the doctor or his motives at all. I want to trust him... I cannot help but trust him... And yet there is something not quite right--something not quite honest. I cannot touch upon it, and yet I do think I find that I do not mind. We all have our own dark secrets here, it seems. And I want to confide in him, but he now avoids me. Not a day after I told him I wished to speak to him privately, he told me that he has realized he has been spending too much time focusing his attentions on the needs of others and not on his own affairs, and has since become much more scarce than before. He did not say it exactly, but who else could he mean but me whose concerns have been monopolizing his time? He is too kind to ignore my need unless, he says, I were request it of him. But am I to be entirely selfless and release him from his feelings of obligation? Am I to feel guilt knowing how ill he is and how much he needs to focus on his work? I try to ask him for as little as possible, but how can I help but feel fear and need of assistance in this place and accept him when he offers of his own accord? And he, more often than any other, is always there. And yet every time he lets me know he is available to speak to me, privacy or time happen to be conveniently unavailable. Well, I shall not allow him to evade me any longer. If he wishes never to speak to me again after I have said my piece, so be it, but I must discover some sort of truth, and I can think of no other way to go about it... Perhaps it may work, perhaps it may lead to nothing at all, but I must at least attempt to find a way to let myself know what to do with the knowledge Liza has given me. I will not, in my heart, be able to make up my mind to compassion or crualty until these dark secrets are uncovered. Something is not what it seems, and even if it has not to do with him, I at least suspect he knows quite a bit more than he lets on.
Oh, my head aches, but after my unnerving encounter with Mr. Todd the other night, I am quite terrified of going anywhere near Mrs. Lovett's cooking. I will have to make certain that it is only Liza that gives me my tea from now on... He made me swear to tell no one, but I certainly intend to at least tell Heathcliff. I have not slept a night free of nightmares in days. Is it poisoning we must fear from another unsuspected foe? Or perhaps something far worse? |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 1st, 2006|02:26 pm] |
I thought I should take it upon myself to degrade Heathcliff on paper a little lest, while lying here daydreaming, I let my foolish fancy begin to turn him into something he sorely isn't... However, as soon as I rose from bed, I collapsed upon the floor with dizzy weakness. I was terrified and disoriented, and it was only after a few moments of regaining myself that I realized I had been lying in bed fully clothed, even still wearing my shoes, with no recollection of how I had come to be there--and the entire night had passed!
Tearing through my memories of last night now, nothing returns to me at all! Heathcliff and I enjoyed a quite lighthearted stroll through the yard where we teased each other about ghosts and then I told him about the dance that may occur here (which, of course, he only mocked), and then I do remember him bidding me goodnight... But afterwards? I felt a strong desire to remain without in the air while the dry weather held, but I remember nothing.
And here I am in my very large and comfortable (if dark) bedroom unknown hours later with a stinging burn at my throat that causes me to wince every time my fingers brush the small, round wounds there. They had been healing so well, and my fears of a scar were even allayed, but they are open again and I can only fear the worst.
The pen is heavy and what little life there is here seems to pass more slowly in front of my eyes, and yet despite this lethargy, I am truly terrified. Writing is the only thing that calms me. What is happening to me and how do I stop it? Could I have somehow fallen asleep in the yard and been bitten again by that bat? But how did I come to my room? Surely I didn't bring myself here and go to bed without so much as getting undressed...
I'm so cold, and yet I feel stifled at the same time and still too weak to reach for the bell to ring to have the window opened. Last time, the doctor warned me very seriously of just how fatal these attacks of mine are--but I can't die--not now, not yet! Of all the times in my life when I have wished for death, this is a time I want nothing more than to live!
Please! Help me... |
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[Feb. 26th, 2006|07:45 pm] |
Why is it that every time I make up to mind my resolve, he manages to shatter it? With him, I am strengthless, without him I am weak. And no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I punish myself, no matter how much my mind commands that I be rid of him, I cannot do it short of tearing my own heart out of my breast. I hate him because I love him so, and then I hate him all the more because he will always, always love me. Were he to turn from me, were he to hate me, I could live normally, happily, completely hollowly... But no matter how cruel I am, he is always there, his fingers in my hair and his eyes looking out through my own eyes so that I see the world as he sees it and I want what he wants.
Heathcliff, why did you come back? What was meant to be can never be and neither of us shall ever stop suffering for it.
He berates me for caring at all about anything else in the world, but this is the world where we must live and I cannot help but cling to such worldly cares.
I don't know what to think about anything at all anymore. Who to trust... who to believe... Half of me wants solid answers, and half of me is too afraid to dare to try to know. And how could I possibly ask? How could I? |
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| Bats and Blood and Bargains... oh my... |
[Feb. 24th, 2006|05:03 pm] |
I will not write for long, for I feel so weak--it is to be expected as apparently all this time a bat has been drinking away my very life's blood. But if I do not write down all that I can remember and see it in front of me in blue and white, I shall begin to suspect my mind of madness. I saw the bat for the first time last night in the pantry. I hadn't taken more than tea in three days, and I suppose today makes four, and after an invigorating walk out of doors, I found myself with an appetite--and of course, Liza was nowhere to be found. I would have even settled for that boisterous Mrs. Lovett for though I have not tried it, her cooking has always smelled quite appealing. But after having left the doctor outside on the porch, I discovered the parlor, kitchen and halls all entirely deserted. The effect was eerie and reminded me of my first days here, but I was in no mood to be frightened by silly phobias and chose to take it upon myself to find something to eat.
I did not spend long in the pantry before a strange feeling of lethargy overtook me and I stopped to rest against the wall. I glanced up at the rafters and saw there the creature, winking at me with its black eyes and looking absolutely harmless. It seems strange to me now, but I had then lost my interest in eating and made my way back to the parlor, only to be informed by the doctor that I had been "bitten" again. Yes, "bitten," for apparently it has been true all along--This bat has been draining away all my blood. It did not look so very different from the bats we have back home, but then I've never made a close study of bats and doubt I would know at once a blood-drinking one from the ones that catch the moths in the barn.
But though I am pale, and my hand shakes, and no matter what I do, I cannot seem to find warmth, I am overall much better off than I have been on previous (presumably) encounters with this bat. Perhaps I am becoming used to its bite? I shudder at such a notion. Or perhaps the bites are not, as I fear more and more each day, the true cause of my weakening health… But I will not let myself think on that now.
Heathcliff joined us in the parlor and I could tell that he was still angry with me, but I was too upset to indulge his mood and soon gained his comfort. I had all but calmed myself then when the parlor was fouled by the arrival of that madman named Renfield. I immediately warned Heathcliff of his tendencies, and then the madman at once proved them by—All at once again I feel as if I will be ill…
* * * * * * * * *
I have opened the window and washed my face and will steel my stomach to try again to describe the madman’s actions, for these are the events which I cannot separate from reality and nightmare and know that if I do not record them now, my sanity shall suffer for it later.
The doctor was wounded two nights ago by his own assistant and sat near the hearth, tending to his wound, while I shivered in Heathcliff’s arms on the sofa. The madman, seeing the discarded, bloody bandage, snatched it up at once and proceeded to—eat it. He howled about his master and his penchant for cannibalism and the poor doctor, who it seems cannot keep himself from doing what is right even as he continues to suffer for it, took the opportunity to strike a ghastly deal with the man-creature who slathered and foamed, his mouth overflowing with filthy bandage. In our presence, the doctor offered the beast a cup of his own blood in exchange for answer—answers that from a madman’s blood-caked lips could be nothing more than twisted rantings of the insane! I begged him to reconsider, but when does he ever want to listen to a word I have to say? And they went off to complete their gruesome bargain.
I felt half-mad myself with the lunacy that surrounded me, and if Heathcliff had not remained so solid and calm, I am certain I would have beaten my head until I knew no more. He took me to bed and I begged him not to leave me alone. I do not even feel safe in my own room anymore, locked door or not. Bats and madmen have no respect for that which they can find a way to break into.
I vaguely remember the doctor joining us, and seeing him alive with no visible wounds must have been enough to allow me to relax into unconsciousness, for the next thing I knew, I was awakening with a sore headache and it was morning… If morning even exists in this place.
* * * * * * * * *
I must make note, before the memories are lost to me among those of dark horrors, of the conversation I had with the gentle and kind Mr. Gray much earlier yesterday evening after we escaped the volcanically stifling atmosphere are the parlor where the girls Lucy and Mina did not have much to say in the way of interesting conversation and Mr. Holmes seemed bent on making all present most uncomfortable. A most noble gentleman is Mr. Gray and I think I shall soon find in him a good friend, for there was not a point upon which we disagreed and it filled my heart at once with hope to find that he, unlike so many others in the place, too believes that something drastic must be done about the doctor’s assistant. I pity the doctor’s reliance upon him, but surely without forcing them apart in their working relationship, something quite substantial still can be done to curb his assistant’s vile and insulting ways.
Mr. Gray offered his protection and all but swore he would do something—something—about it. It is not that I desire vengeance, for I am not of a vengeful nature, but no one here knows the true extent of the injustice I have suffered save for the viscount who witnessed the episode. I had thought I could rely upon Heathcliff’s temper to satisfy my own, but in that respect I could see my memories of his wild youth have quite overestimated the strength of his changed adult nature.
If Mr. Gray’s actions can measure up to the strength of his words, perhaps I will be able to take pleasure in at least something amid all the wretched state of affairs of this dark and frustrating place. |
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[Feb. 23rd, 2006|03:18 pm] |
I awoke this morning and was momentarily seized by fear of unknown surroundings only to realize that this was the first night in the past five that I had actually spent alone and in my own room, in my own bed and not upon the parlor couch. I suppose I must say that my body feels better and as I gazed into the dim glass, I could tell color had returned to my cheeks, however my heart feels more hollow than ever and though I continue to find myself not hungry, my head is light from not eating and I cannot remain standing for long.
I peeled away the bandage at my throat to see that the two small marks there had become white and shriveled from the moisture that had been trapped beneath. I will not replace it and hope that they will soon disappear like those upon my arm. I miss being able to wear my hair pinned up...
I refuse to write about Heathcliff because he does not deserve the ink from my pen, and should I attempt it, my tears would immediately destroy the words I have already written. There, look, two words already blurred.
This place offers a cruel mockery of my childhood dreams of adventure and every day there comes a moment when I am struck by the aching need to be home again with Edgar and his quiet ways and with Ellen whom I know I will always be able to trust. The girl, Liza, reminds me of her... likely because they are of the same age, though Liza is much more of a city maid than my Nelly. I confided my fears to Liza the other night about the true reasons for my failing health and she swore to secrecy.. and... well-- I certainly hope I can trust her. At least... if only--especially with Heathcliff. If he were to know of this, I know I would never see him again. He would be lost to me forever... And then more than I would die without him.
The doctor confided in us last night the terrible extent of his own illness--he is dying. The count was far less than sympathetic, but my own sympathy was rebuffed and I suppose that is the way men are. How could I have suspected him of foul play? But I do not know what to think of him anymore... It was easy when he was just a doctor, but now--
To think I almost told the count of my suspicions.
I shall join the others for dinner tonight. Even though there are many I wish to avoid, there are several whose company I know would enliven my spirits and perhaps, in my own gentle way, I shall somehow be able to capture their attentions... |
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[Feb. 20th, 2006|02:36 pm] |
I awoke early this morning to find that once again I had passed the night on the parlor couch... but this time quite alone. I do not remember falling asleep, nor, for that matter, do I remember very much of the evening at all after Heathcliff so abruptly left our company. I refuse to deal with him gently when he becomes so cross and for no reason at all. Imagine, at once insisting a perfectly agreeable gentleman stranger was dubious before they had even so much as exchanged a word. H had better be careful lest his own true nature is discovered here. But aside from certain unpalatable aspects of the conversation and H's tiresome glowering, I can say for certain that I was feeling perfectly well save for the soreness in my wrists that has only enough lifted this morning to allow me to write. How is it then that I later became so weak and confused. The remainder of the evening, I only remember in brief snatches of clarity... A spider on the floor, the doctor's hand upon my shoulder as he put a blanket about me, a cup of tea, men arguing, the introduction of a Mr. Crane... everything else seems lost in a fog thicker than that which now strokes my windowpanes.
Perhaps I did catch a chill from that disagreeable night when I was so forced to linger out in the rain... but how was it then that I felt so well yesterday after a night's rest only to fall weak once more? I feel as if I am running across the hills, up and down, in and out of valleys of health and weakness and I do not understand it. A thought occurred to me--perhaps I am with child? But that is something I could not determine just yet... Oh, Edgar, why haven't you yet come for me? Aren't you worried for me? I need your good sense and constant nature. Everything in this place is so--tremulous.
I am disappointed with Heathcliff just now. I expected him, the other night to force an answer from the doctor about his vile assistant, but instead my would-be-brother displayed more quiet restraint than I have ever known him to posses. Perhaps our years apart have changed him more than it would seem... Of course, I had not told him of the full extent of the insult I received--though I almost feared the viscount might tell of what he witnessed--but the French have honor too and I am satisfied that my dignity shall not be defeated.
My arm is now almost fully healed, but in looking in the glass, the mark on my neck seems no different from when I first discovered it the other night. The doctor had said it was healing, but it appears the same... Perhaps I had better consult one of the other doctors as well; but later, after I have rested. |
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[Feb. 17th, 2006|05:26 pm] |
I do not know how long I have slept. Hours or days... But I do feel better for it and writing does come more easily, although I find my arm is stiff and sore. I peeled away the bandage and almost made myself ill at the sight of the black bruise beneath. I know the doctor caused it, but I cannot remember how and only vaguely remember why. I have eaten nothing in two days, but I am not hungry. Between nightmare images of blood flowing through the air like ribbons and the heaviness of my heart, I do not feel I shall ever want to eat again. I have not even thought to ring for the maid until now and yet my hand is stayed by lack of strength to rise from bed to reach the bell.
I suppose Heathcliff must be very angry with me to let me suffer so alone. Perhaps he has gone again. Perhaps all of it was nothing more than a dream. But I shall not regret using my tongue freely with him for I refuse to stand for him to insult Edgar in my presence. If H wishes to remain my friend then he must tolerate my family as I tolerate his coarse ways. If he wishes to become my enemy, then he knows how to break my heart in less than a word. My life cannot continue without him again and if he is indeed gone, then I shall not live. I hear clearly the doctor's voice in my mind telling me that what he did to my arm, to my blood was necessary for my health and I find myself wishing to Heaven that he had not done it at all. To slip into a weak slumber and never wake would mean the end of suffering. But it seems my heart beats strongly now and each of its thumps aches so.
* * * * * * * * * *
In rising just now to open my own window and let in the chill, the sight of my reflection in the glass startled me backwards so that I fell upon the dusty trunk at the end of my bed. It was not that I did not recognize myself, for much to my heart's dismay I am looking well, but there upon my throat were two small marks, just the same as those that the doctor had been investigating the other day. What has happened to me? Am I more than just a victim of sorrow and personal tragedy? They feel soft and coarse at the same time as I brush my fingers across them, but the darkness of my hair shall hide them from my sight from now on. I do not want to be alone anymore, but I do not know which state I fear more--what is without, or what is within. Homesickness has consumed me and I miss the comforts of the Grange more than ever just now. Writing about it calms me, but the last of my candles has almost burnt out and I do not know how I shall ever keep my mind when darkness falls. |
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miserymaker's journal