#txciawrites

It has been two weeks since Maxim left in a trip to Berna, under the pretext of a negotiation between friends, things from the male business world that I did not seek to intrude on. He left without the said 'goodbye kiss', and hadn't spoken to me since the ball. The damned ball. He turned his face away from mine like light turns away from darkness. How could I be so stupid? How could I not realize the terrible mistake I was about to make? I don't blame him. I shouldn't. I can't.

In his absence, Manderley turned to me. The sensation fit me like an uncomfortable garment, and I wanted to escape it, but I couldn't. I couldn't face it, either, so I retreated to my quarters. I pity the novice servants, for I fear that I resemble a ghost, leaving my quarters only for the morning room and vice versa, avoiding everyone. I didn't do much in that room, except for trying to write a letter or two, and scribble faces and places on paper until my wrist tires; At the end of the morning, the trash bin would have twice as many crumpled papers as at the beginning of the day. Due to the silence of the place, the phone ringing never failed to scare me. I never answered it again. I'd simply watch it, hoping, perhaps, that it would magically cease ringing, but that never happened. It vibrated on the table for almost a full minute before it retreated into insignificance, and I resumed whatever activities I was doing. Mrs. Danvers must have known I would still be in the room, because without fail, Clarisse or even Alice would knock on the door, bringing the daily menu.

I haven't seen Mrs. Danvers since the ball. Not that I wanted to see her. Surely, she wouldn't want to, anyway. I wouldn't forgive her for what she did, for what she put me through. I was right, I thought, I was right from the start! Mrs. Danvers never liked me. Her deep morbid gaze and thin disdainful lips were enough signs of that, and I found myself shaking my head, my chin trembling like a child, chastising myself for being so foolish. I remembered the infamous night, the cursed costume, Maxim's look of horror. I imagined her, watching with pleasure as he yelled, humiliating me in front of the guests. Under the cloak of shadows, always lurking as the chaos unfolded, like a woolen thread tangled in her own hands. I imagined her, as I stumbled up the stairs in tears, with her machiavellian smile, which outlines her thin cheeks so macabrely well. I remembered looking into her eyes, seeing the happiness and satisfaction on her pale face as she followed the path of the tears that fell from my chin – I ran, because I saw the devil in her eyes.

'She is a tenebrous woman', I whispered to the walls of Manderley, so that they would keep the words.

I didn't wish to think about it anymore. I stayed here too long, and I could feel the ambience gradually getting heavier. I stood up, crossing my arms stiffly, and walked to the door of the morning room. The scent of the flowers already brought the harbinger of a migraine. When I touched the cold handle, I didn't need to turn it, because it turned by itself. I took a step back as the door opened, and the figure standing before me was as stunned as I was.

“Mrs. de Winter.” The words took a long time to leave her mouth, and when they did, they were unexpectedly quiet.

I didn't respond, I was looking at her eyes in a way I shouldn't have – not at all like a lady should, but I've never had class, and it wouldn't be now that I would gain a sense of etiquette. I hoped to convey with my gaze everything I felt for her: the anger, the disdain, the distrust, the disappointment. But her gaze was firm, much more so than mine, and I lost the battle. I looked to the side and down, away from the dark ocean of her irises.

“I imagined you would be in your room.” She continued, already recovered from the little surprise.

"I'm not." I uncrossed my arms, immediately regretting doing so.

“Well,” She looked to the side, down the hall. "Forgive me. I’ll get back to my chores.” And with that, she straightened her blouse and turned around.

There was no regret in her eyes, as if she had never done anything wrong. For a second, I could see a slight smile on her lips. I felt so small, so much so that I almost saw Maxim in her retreating figure – I didn't like that.

“Mrs. Danvers!” I don't know why I called her, but I waited for her steps to stop before continuing. I'm still not sure what I wanted to say, maybe I just wanted to make sure I was still her Lady, that the orders were mine. “Change the side dish. I don’t like that pasta.”

She looked at me, for a second, two. And nodded, her eyes drinking in my figure as if it were a bitter chalice. It was then that I realized that I was still in my night clothes, with a wool robe which tried to keep my image less sloppy than it actually was. I felt uncomfortable under the judgment in her eyes and I closed the robe tighter, walking to my room.

Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. I stood by the iron gate that led to the entrance and, for a second, I couldn't pass through, for the way was blocked. I looked up, the golden letters still held the magnitude of the theater's name, marvelous to all but those who made a life out of that building.

I had my coffee while Jasper wagged it's tail against my leg, and the memory of it plagued me still; how is it now? How are the old students? And the new? Should I visit? No, perhaps not, it would be too sudden, surely. I sipped my coffee, it was bitter, and reminded me of her. Jasper barked, and I pushed the chair out before my mind could dwell further into that path – it's far too early for it.

The day was cloudy, the sky held a light grey shade, contrasting well with the blackbirds that cut through the scenery. A chill current of wind kissed my face, and I hid my chin further into the jacket, walking faster down the street. The bag I held was too heavy, and I missed having someone to carry it for me – instinctively, I looked to the side, as if hoping Maxim would be there, and I would ask ‘can you hold this for me, dear?’ and he would look at me, finally, and mutter a ‘sure’. And we would walk to his car, not another word spoken between us. But there's no more car, no more short dialogues, and above all, no more Maxim. A strange feeling settled in my chest, one I felt a pinch of guilt for experiencing far too often.

The daily chattering remained the same, and as usually, I sat to the side, avoiding lingering looks as I stretched my leg and held my foot. Hasty whispers and quiet giggles were the only sounds that filled the room at times such as this, and I have never taken a liking to it. Their looks are almost dangerous, and I feel my stomach turn each time our gazes meet briefly – I fear one day they might pour onto me whatever horrible things they whisper in secret. I switched to the other foot.

I almost fell during the solo rehearsal, I must've blushed, I'm sure. I even saw Alice stifling a giggle – as if she thinks she's sly. The teacher barely corrected me, choosing to simply restart the dance; in moments like this, I find myself with a strange and twisted longing, missing my former teacher, and her brute way of putting me on the line. I shouldn't feel that way, I'm certain; Mrs Danvers was nothing but a devil, feeding off my sweat and tears. Yet.

The music began once again; I exhaled through my nose, placing my feet and hands in position. I heard her voice deep in my head, the cold and merciless tone that used to send shivers up my spine.

— And one, and two, and- italian fouetté! And, — The teacher clapped along the melody, counting the marks; I didn't dare miss a single one.

I despised how well she made me dance. How good I became, just by recalling her macabre words by my ear. As if my muscles couldn't help but react, and my body couldn't dare disobey. I was trained by her like I had trained Jasper, and the thought infuriated me – infuriated me because I responded perfectly to each of her commands, and it made me who I am now. The others stared at me in a dark manner, and cold sweat trailed down my nape.

𓍢ִ໋🀦

I dabbed my face with a cotton towel, standing far from the mirrored wall. Everyday, I grew more tired of the stolen glances the other dancers threw my way; but I had been warned that envy is not a small thing, and it grows like wild weeds and spreads like vines. I knew it, for I too, envied them. Their confidence, their bodies, their elegance, it all seems too easily achievable for them.

I bent down to pick up my water bottle, hearing Mrs Danvers' echoed whispers calling me a newborn deer, as I had the same elegance of one – and that was a matter she had expertise on. Not one day passed by in which I didn't wish I had her dignity and composure.

When I close my eyes now, I see myself in the moment I first met her. One rainy day, after I had just gotten married to Maxim. We came back from our honeymoon, and I was thrilled to finally meet the infamous Manderley, The De Winter's treasure. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face if I tried – that is, until I gazed upon her. I was standing in the entrance hall of the theater, a clumsy, thin figure wearing a knitting dress, holding in my sweaty hands a pair of long gloves. She had come to me and I offered my hand, but when she came forward to shake it, her hand was still and heavy, indubitably cold, and it fell upon mine like a dead thing.

— This is Mrs Danvers. — Maxim said, one hand slipping away from my shoulder. I couldn't tear my eyes away from hers, which were so deadly empty and dark like the night sea. I recall she had said something, yet now the words are long gone from my memory. Perhaps whatever she said needed an answer, for I remember very well how she arched an eyebrow, gaze still glued on my face, and hand still holding mine. I blushed, looking away, not even managing to get a proper sentence out of my mouth.

In that mess of an introduction, I dropped both my gloves to the floor, and she didn't hesitate for a moment to bend down and pick them up; I couldn't ignore how graceful she looked while doing so. When I took it back, our fingers brushed, and I barely took notice of the small smile of mockery she had on her thin lips.

— I need to go, darling — Maxim looked behind his shoulder, and a man stood by a corridor with a pile of papers in hands — Do get acquainted with Mrs Danvers. We will discuss the details of your classes later.

I didn't want him to leave – to leave me with her. Like a lost child, I watched him go, hands clutching tightly my crumpled gloves, and shoulders too tense to make a good first impression. Mrs Danvers' voice startled me, for it was far too gelid and placid.

— Would you like me to show you around, madam? — Her head delicately tilted sideways, not quite matching the harshness of her gaze.

For a brief moment, I wondered why she had called me ‘madam’; perhaps the reality of being married to Maxim hadn't settled just yet. I chose not to muster a verbal response, fearing my voice would waver, or even fail, thus I nodded.

— This way, madam. — She outstretched her hand, signaling towards the main hall. I took a hesitant step, and she followed - turned on her heels, and walked down the path as if she built it herself.

My eyes wandered, drinking in the details of the place; even the tiniest carvings on the columns did not go unnoticed, and I imagined the artist with their small tools, sitting on a staircase and chipping away, making a masterpiece out of a piece of gesso. Mrs Danvers now walked in front of me, guiding me through the corridors with mastery.

There was palpable pride in her tone as she spoke and gestured to the paintings and photos on the walls, each containing different women, posing with trophies and flowers, a radiant smile on their faces. I imagined myself as one of them, holding a bouquet of roses as the crowd clapped for my performance; I'd bow and smile, too, waving to the reporters with cameras pointed my way, and one would ask me about the specific moment I successfully did a difficult pirouette of some kind, and I'd laugh and say it's all due to dedication. And a myriad of flashes would blind me, and I would smile through it all, knowing my photo would end up in the journals, and most importantly, in the halls of Manderley.

Her eyes sparkled, hypnotized by a specific one. Her steps slowed, and she eventually stood like a statue in front of a golden frame, the biggest in the corridor. I followed her gaze, and I too, became hypnotized.

— Rebecca de Winter. — The name rolled off her tongue like it belonged there, like she had done it far too many times. Her hand touched a small table under the photo, where a vase sat upon; the flowers were blooming wildly with vivid colors, hues of pink and purple adorning the matching portrait above it. I almost reached to touch them, for they were beautifully kept – but Mrs Danvers gently repositioned the vase, rearranging some of the petals.

— The greatest woman this place has ever seen. — She spoke with much conviction.

I stared at her picture. I could barely see her face, only make out a dark silhouette, illuminated by a warm spotlight. Her hair was perfectly neat, and her collant shone with the light of a thousand diamonds; her legs were long and strong, as expected of a ballerina, and even on the picture, she stood perfectly on her pointe shoes. I stared some more, and could not deny it – she was quite the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.

I wanted to be like her.

— Madam. — Mrs Danvers called, making me realize I had been truly hypnotized by the figure on the frame. I blinked, following behind as she continued the tour.

I sat on the floor, watching distractedly as another dancer rehearsed her part. Locked knees, I thought, Does she want an injury? Although being my own thoughts, they were spoken very clearly in her voice. Are they truly my thoughts? I picked at my cuticles absentmindedly, deeply worried for the woman's overly relaxed movements – Core! Don't be looking like a deflated balloon, I wish I could say, I hoped the instructor would say; but instead he tapped her stomach once, and it was all she needed to understand her mistake. I never understood mine that fast. I took my nail off my mouth with a pained expression, pressing the now bloody finger against my opposite arm.