#ryan e

          I rarely see my husband, except at breakfast. As a physician, his life is dictated by the maladies of others. Such a noble career demands social sacrifices. He tends to a wide variety of ailing patients from all walks of life. While his duties are diverse, breakfast with him is always the same. John compliments Jennie's manner of cooking. I sit as still as a stone, trying not to breathe in the sour remnants of alcohol coating his lips.

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            It is very late, past the witching hour, I imagine. I know this because I can clearly see the position of the moon from where my nailed-down bed rests. The empyreal glow of the moon, so divine in its ability to illuminate even the darkest trenches of my imagination, throw light on my bedchamber. It's funny, really. I notice numerous vertical segments of light displayed on the wall. Carefully constructed and curiously detailed, it's almost as if I'm looking into another world. I can almost see beyond the iron bars. If I turn my head a short distance to the left, I'm almost able to...peculiar, really...her eyes are....

            But no, it's simply a trick of the light. At least it hides from view the hideous yellow wallpaper John refuses to paint over.

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            As habit dictates, I have become restless. I remember leaving off a quarter way through Pamela. It's not too late; I'd sure like to finish the chapter.

            I now just noticed the rain pelting hard against the window. The wind, howling to higher octaves outside, is breathing life into the old oak tree that stands like a sentry outside by window. Branches are moving wildly, disrupting the perfectly pristine bars of light on my walls.

            It takes me a good second to emerge from my resting place. My joints have settled into a deep sleep; oddly enough, their master isn't the least bit tired. I soon throw on my dressing gown and begin to tiptoe across the floor for fear of waking John up. I don't remember him coming in. After Jennie retired to her chambers, I assumed he would be working late. It's the fourth night in a row, however, where he hasn't bid me goodnight. Jennie, always reassuring my frantic nerves, insists that John has many patients to take care of.

            As if I don't already know that.

            John is a very busy man.

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                        The first thing that made my heart flutter was the door to the library partly open. If I squint carefully I'm able see a soft shadow of candlelight emanating from the library. With John at work all day and myself slowly wasting away in my bedroom, the only other living soul that could have been in the library was Jennie.

            I begin to calm down. Like my husband, Jennie's mind is always occupied. It's entirely plausible that, before retiring to her room, she forgot to extinguish the candle and close the door after her nightly rounds.

            I begin to inch closer to the door, my fears and suspicions slightly abated by logic and reason. Surely nothing is amiss.

            My pulse quickens. The sound of my heart beating wildly in my chest is deafening in my ears. All logic shatters and my pulse suddenly quickens. I begin to sneak closer, hugging the wall for fear of being captured by the light.

            A guttural moan, passionate and hungry, echoes softly throughout the library, faintly touching my ears and awakening in me distant and strange emotions. Jealousy, anger, and confusion all wrapped together into one seamless culmination of betrayal. 

            My thoughts are quickly interrupted by Jennie's all-too familiar voice, blanketed by a layer of desperation:

            "This is crazy. We're absolutely mad, John. What if...if...she.... we’re in the open John...usually in bed...my God...."

            "The only thing I'm mad about is you, Jennie. She's an...an invalid, my dear...completely...unaware...either in bed or...here...with you...I can't...oh Jennie...!"

            Their passion, just like their voices, begin to blend simultaneously as they reached the breaking point of sexual gratification. A strange, dark feeling - nausea, I suppose- begins to work its way up from my stomach, spreading throughout my body, and making my head numb. I can't think straight. My vision begins to blur. I'm frozen in time, an invalid, confined to her bed in a yellow covered nursery.

            The clatter of something falling loudly to the floor breaks the spell and wakes me from my temporary reverie.

            Strained voices and reassurances.

            A soft touch of the lips, a goodnight kiss.

            Quickly, I make the decision to hide behind the staircase, out of sight, consumed by shadows, waiting for them to exit my sanctuary.

            A few moments later, Jennie exits the library first, soon followed by my husband. Even in the faint light, I can see him adjusting his pants and straightening his tie. I wait several seconds, emerge from my hiding place, and enter my once-utopia, now defiled by infidelity and desecrated by betrayal. I make several paces round the room, trying to imagine their adventure, their tryst. I bend over to the square object on the carpet. Lying open, spine bent, pages slightly torn, is my beloved copy of Pamela.

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            Weary. Fatigued. The scotch scorches my throat, lighting a trail of fire all the way down into my stomach wear it's extinguished.

            Outside, the sun is beginning to spread his longs arms across the land, slowly making their way across the green landscape up to my estate. I suppose it's time to return to my nursery, assume my pre-ordained role. Blend back in. Forget about everything I've seen, the words I heard, the vows I mistook for sincerity.