The Woman in White

It’s affecting both of us. And it creeps into my dreams. The other night it was Countess Fosco, with her smoothed hair, pulled hard into a bun at the nape of her neck. Last night was more a blurring of them all. It is addictive. Thrillers are. You want to be taken to the conclusion even if it may not, and ultimately won’t be, a joyful one. This adaptation is beautiful. The costumes and settings are exquisite. It is luscious to watch. I itch to tell him the ending but resist it. His entrancement is mine.

It looked like a bundle of blankets but it was a person. So tiny. My heart goes out to him, to them or perhaps it was a her. I want them to be safe. He or she had chosen the doorway to the florists on Chalybeate Street. A quiet street, mostly, I would’ve done the same. Only the seagulls squawk down it on bin day. There was no one else about this morning. It was good. Good to be alone.

Are you cross? he asked at breakfast. No, though I had been sharp when he’d asked me to repeat something. I am impatience with his deafness. I know I am. But it is wearying to say things twice. But I should and will try harder. No, I am not cross, just a little stressed. The ten thousand things that never get resolved get to me sometimes, often times. I want to escape, to fly away. But there is no where to go, not any more.

Just breathe and take it all one thing at a time. It is enough, sometimes, just to breathe.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.