Mrs Rochester

WOW I haven’t posted for a while! I can promise a torrent of writing soon though…

 

I was absolutely beautiful as I walked down the aisle, and I was certain of this. I smiled slightly as I walked, aware that all eyes were fixed on me, and only me, the women jealous of me, the men envious of foolish Edward. I heard gasps from the people I passed. I was sure they were noticing my elfin figure, my enchanting eyes, my Creole complexion. Edward was standing perhaps two yards ahead of me, but I didn’t let my gaze pass to the man I was about to enslave myself to. Instead I shot sweeping glances at my audience, who were all enthralled. Father was amongst the crowd. He looked slightly deranged, despite my best efforts, pleased to be rid of me and my ‘condition’ and triumphant on having fooled poor Edward. Edward. I looked into his eyes now; we were only a yard apart. Foolish Edward. He claimed to love me, and perhaps he honestly was under this delusion his father and mine had forced on him, but he loved my beauty and riches. I knew his father was aware of the Mason ‘condition’ and had been offered a rather large amount of money to bribe him to persuade Edward to marry me, and I also knew he had neglected to inform Edward of this valuable knowledge. Why should he find out? Our marriage benefited him as he would gain our riches; our marriage benefited me as I would not be forced to an asylum when the ‘condition’ struck. Of course when it did strike, I was aware that his love would rapidly wear off, but by then it would be too late. I felt no guilt about this because I don’t believe I was capable of it and Edward was so very foolish and arrogant.

 

I was quite lost in this train of thought when I realised it was my turn to proclaim ‘I do’.

“I do,” I said, quite without feeling, though of course, Edward did not notice, being incapable of noticing anything. He gave me a look that could almost be mistaken for affection and kissed me. It was all I could do not to slap him and retch from his lips touch. I was no longer Miss Bertha Mason. I was Mrs Rochester.

 

It was two weeks later when I had the first fit of madness. Edward ignored it. Then another. Then another. Then I was locked in my room with the wretched Grace Poole.

I will probably be here all my life.

What Am I?

I am an odd creature. I have an annoying habit of jotting down interesting conversations while people are talking. I use words that people have to look up in the dictionary when I’ve gone. I am always on the outside of things, watching, noting. I can spend hours obsessing over which word to use. I think about words as if they have character. I like the name ‘Malacky’. I use people I know and weave them into stories. I mentally correct people’s grammar when they are speaking to me, and then forget what they are talking about. I spend most of my life in front of a keyboard. I have never quite understood the concept of numbers. I often stare blankly into space, dreaming of another world. I read books and think ‘I could write that sentence better’. I fall in love with characters in books. I always have a pen on me. What am I?

Prolouge

I’m writing a Victorian story and this is the prologue. Enjoy! xxx

Prologue 1875

The man slipped through London’s murky streets, insubstantial as a shadow. Anyone who encountered him forgot him immediately; he was just a shadowy figure fading into the darkness. That was how he liked it. Men of his profession do not wish to be noticed. His knife did not glint in the moonlight; nor did his eyes gleam with anticipation. That was for amateurs. A true expert of his profession had to blend in with the night.

He grew closer and closer to the house. He permitted himself a grin, white teeth glistening. This would be the final job. Shuddering, the man forced himself into the dim light of the street. He glanced around. No peelers. Good.The house, despite its impressive size, was exceptionally easy to break into, he noted; he’d have to change that when it was his. The window round the side swung open easily. The man slipped inside.

Once inside, the man took in his surroundings with one sweeping glance. The floor, a grand marble affair, could cause some problems; every step a huge clattering cacophony- but then, his ears were good. They needed to be when he had as many enemies as he did. The room was very grand, gleaming furniture everywhere, and vases of expensive flowers. Soon to be his, the man thought, almost dreamily, although not quite because he was utterly focussed on the job in hand.

A beautiful winding staircase was in the middle room. The man padded up the soft carpeted steps, silent as a cat, not even his breathing was audible. At the top was the mahogany door. Behind it lay his prey. He slunk through the door, to see a man and his wife safely asleep in bed. No, not ‘safely’ he corrected himself, they were anything but safe now.

The sleeping man was identical to him in every way, save for a faint scar upon one cheek. The man advanced on the bed-and tripped over a shoe. That was his first mistake. The sleeping man jerked awake. Identical eyes bore into each other. The man in bed opened his mouth, perhaps to scream, but no sound came out; the only sound was the vibration of the knife, which was stuck in the his throat. That was the first murder. The murderer bit his lip in annoyance. There was blood on the nightshirt. He didn’t like mess. That was the second mistake. He stripped the corpse of its nightshirt and flung him aside, with only a muffled thump. The woman was still asleep. The murderer briefly stroked her cheek. She was very beautiful. It would be a shame to see that beautiful face pale and still but- he slit her throat in one fluid motion. Dead. That was the second murder. He threw her upon her husband’s naked body. The Thames would take care of them; its fetid waters concealed many of the murderer’s secrets.

There was a baby in a cot beside the bed he noticed. He didn’t know his twin had had a son. He leant over the cot with the knife, poised. The baby awoke and gurgled. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen the eyes, the murderer could have done it. But something in those steely grey eyes, identical to his own stopped him. He sighed and stashed away the knife. That should have been the third murder. It was also the third mistake. The baby arrived at the Foundling Hospital the next day, and was named by the nurses William Tulip.

Amazing!

I just realized that the world is amazing. Life is amazing. Everything is amazing. I know this yet I have seen so little of it! I must learn about EVERYTHING and see EVERYTHING! I hat forgotten the world is amazing. But it is, it is! I must never forget this. I must never get lost in the midst of homework and mobile phones and school, all the mundane things and therefore miss all the amazing beauty of the world! I must meet people because everyone is amazing because they are ALIVE and have a story. People out there who are sitting in front of a TV screen: you are amazing! People out there who are halfway up a mountain: you are amazing! People out there working in a supermarket: you are amazing! The world is vast but I can contain it in a page of writing. But when I forget the world is amazing, I will forget how to live, how to dream, how to write. The world is amazing. AMAZING!

Bourbon on The Cage

Bourbon, Ginger and Twinke

Bourbon

I’m posting some pictures of Bourbon. Gertie xx

Gertie would always remember that Christmas when she’d been led downstairs into the living room and seen the rats scurrying about in their vast cage. She’d wanted rats for years, ever since she was seven. Her sister, Margery, let out a squeal and they both darted over to the cage (which was almost as tall as Marge!) where three excited rats wee zipping about the cage. One topaz, one ginger and one black, fluffy and fat. The parents explained that we could have one rat each, and they’d have one between them. Marge at once chose the orange one and gave her the original name of Ginger. Gertie had instantly fallen in love with the plump black one. First she was called Sooty, then Pickle but finally a name fitted: Bourbon. Mum named the topaz rat Twinkle, who remains to this day the only rat with half an ounce of intelligence. Gertie’s rats (they really were her rats, Marge lost interest after a few weeks and only Gertie had the dedication to clean out their stinky cage once a week) lived luxurious lives. They were not just fancy rats, they were fancy fancy rats; their cage, fit for eight rats, was almost as tall as Marge and was always filled with treats. They had the utmost care and attention; Gertie took them out almost everyday and sometimes they swam in the bath! Gertie taught them two tricks, which she was very proud of. When she clicked above their heads they stood on their hind legs and sniffed the air. They could walk across a tightrope, stretched across the living room from one sofa to another. Whenever she went near the cage, they rushed up and tried to lick her fingers.

Bourbon was always Gertie’s favourite and perhaps this was why she was always the friendlies and most tame out of them all. It was Bourbon that licked away her tears when she was sad, it was Bourbon who liked to curl up and make a nest in her hair and Bourbon who’d diligently been Gertie’s friend. Fat, dependable, loving old Bourbon. Yes, she was ‘Old Bourbon’. Two. Of course, Gertie knew that someday Bourbon would die. But somehow, ‘someday’ was forever in her mind.

Look at Gertie now. She’s sitting alone on the school bus, writing this. She writes it in third person because maybe, when she writes it like this, it won’t be her rat that’s dying. Not her life. It doesn’t work, she knows, but at least it will keep her from crying in front of everyone. She thinks about Bourbon and the lump and the vet. Bourbon is not dead yet, but she might be before the end of the day. A few months ago, Bourbon grew a lump under her arm, which Gertie pushed out of her mind, knowing what it was: a tumour. The parents noticed of course, and Gertie was told that it was a tumour; Bourbon had lived a happy life; it wasn’t hurting her but it would soon and she’d have to be put down. Yesterday, she’d seen a scab on it that looked like it could be infected, and asked for Bourbon to be sent to the vet. Not to be put down, just to ask what to do. Which might be to put her down. She’s going to the vet tonight. She might be okay for a little longer. She might. Gertie reads what she’s written and trys not to cry. She remembers the horrible girls at school who’d said “When your rat dies can I feed it to my snake?”. No. No you can’t. Gertie feels tears welling up and swallows them immidiately. She loves Bourbon; she can’t let her die. She’s just so scared that she won’t come back from the vet