I cannot tell you how long I have been in this room, long enough to commit all detail to memory. Useless knowledge I feel, but saturated into my mind, nonetheless. My husband says it is best for me, to remain in this room. I am not well, you see, and my nervous disposition as a result would benefit by staying within a familiar environment. So here I stay, surrounded by the Chippendale mahogany four-poster bed, the matching tallboy. The curtains in a glazed chintz fabric that wrap around the large windows looking out onto the vast gardens. I give a withered gaze to the floral wallpaper that I am now quite frankly tired of seeing. I don’t know why it bothers me so; I just feel my eyes occasionally flit to the opposite wall from the bed, only that wall, pursing my lips in distaste. The armchair sits nearby, with a long-abandoned tea set the maid had brought earlier. The cup is now grey inside from dust and I wonder why they have not returned to clear it. The fireplace stands proudly against that same wall, ornate white marble, with a fire screen and gilt overmantel mirror that now looks clouded. That whole section of the room bothers me immensely. It fills me with mixed feelings ranging from sadness to apprehension for which I cannot locate its reasoning. My husband said I had been in hysterics, yelling and thrashing in an animalistic way, so aggressive he locked the door once securing me in here. I do not quite remember doing such a thing, nor the cause as to why I would react in such a way. Yet it must be true, as I do feel an anger deep in my chest. Although it is not so much the burning rage as what he claims, rather a settled mass of embers, winking in the blackness.
Stop looking at the fireplace.
I find myself standing in the middle of the room, eyes unfocused, hands twisting around the material of my dress, unsure how long it had been. The light had drifted over the floor until there was none left, again and again. I did not feel the need to sleep; I was never physically tired. So, as you can imagine, there were countless conscious hours where I spent them simply thinking. In the darkest parts of the night, I would stretch my memory, try to unravel the reason I was here, so perhaps I could start to get better. I will admit I had been expecting a physician to eventually visit. In a house this grand and with such lavish things, one would easily expect us to have a doctor on call. Now I do not remember if we have a doctor, if I have ever met them. I feel as though I truly remember so little. I question every memory as though they are just imaginings and I want to ask someone to confirm, but not one person appears. Nobody comes with a warm meal or to even re-light the hearth.
Stop looking at the fireplace.
It is difficult to placate anger when you do not remember the reason why you felt it. Instead, I pace the length of the room for daily exercise, my dress dancing around my legs with each stride. Spend time watching the gardeners tend to the yew hedges below, the only indicator of life outside these walls. Although that is not quite true, as I am sure I sometimes hear footsteps pass by the door on their way down the hall, voices quietly conversing. I have tried calling to them, at the very least to clear the tea set, lest flies gather. But mainly to quell the fear that I have been forgotten. It is only heightened when my calls go unanswered, until soon they are spilling out of my lips in rasped cries of panic. I try to keep myself calm, as this cannot be good for my health. However, it is so lonesome and tiring simply listening to your own thoughts, following where your mind wanders to when left untethered from routine. The tricks it can play on you, I presume for its own entertainment. For instance, I am certain I hear the faraway cry of a child. A distant wail that sounds guttural, as though it could tear open its throat, and my heart clenches. Growing mad with frustration when I strain to listen, only for it to stop.
Stop looking at the fireplace!
It drives me to endless frustration. That hole in the wall like a screaming mouth, complete blackness behind the screen. It unsettles me and I shiver in its presence, my stomach twisting itself like wrung-out cloth. How strange to feel such a visceral reaction to something inanimate and I once again scour my mind for its source. I stare at the hearth as I think, until I’m unknowingly moving towards it. My breath turns jagged when my feet touch the floor tiles, convincing myself I must look. I peer behind the fire screen, behind the panelling, staying frozen there whilst my eyes adjust to the shadows. All the ash has been cleared out and I am initially confused, wondering if they ever intended to return to light it. I stare and stare at the erased space, my throat constricting as though I have screamed for many hours. My jaw slowly turns slack as a memory surfaces; I have peered over this screen before. I saw something there, something heinous, and now I cannot think of anything else. This past moment is rising to the surface, emerging like a floating corpse. Deep-seated horror and rage burns through me until it is all consuming and I am choking on it.
Stop looking!
I cannot look away, no longer seeing the empty hearth, but the pile of ash that cradled a handful of small human bones, the size of an infant's. I am unable to control my limbs as I stumble back from the fireplace. I cannot stop remembering now, the searing pain, the helplessness, the piercing noise of it all leaving my lips when I found out. My hands stretching for a throat, clawing at the ones who did this. I was a caged animal pacing, unable to cope with the onslaught of agony ripping through my chest. Left here to bleed out from my gaping wound. Then anger seeps through the cracks of it all. Broken breaths heave out of my body, brightening those dying embers with each exhale until they catch alight. How dare they do this? How dare they shut me away? I lurch toward the windows, ready to break them if I must. I stop suddenly when I see a gathering of people in the garden, the figures too far away to identify. A single person stands aside, wearing an odd uniform and pointing at different sections of the garden. They all look strange, like a mirage, and I step right up to the glass to see better, baffled at their blatant trespassing. Someone from the edge of the crowd turns to gaze back at the castle, their eyes perusing until they halt at my window. They freeze for a long time, the pair of us locked on one another, only for them to lift their arms to point a strange, little object at me, light blinking out from it. My confusion sparks new frustration, at these strangers in my garden, at their ignorant ogling. It is their fault the memory now melts onto the floor, and once again I cannot locate the source to my anguish.
Stop looking.