London, 1892.
The rain pressed against the tall windows of Whitford Manor with a thousand impatient fingers, as though the heavens themselves longed to be let inside. In the hush of my chamber, the fire in the grate sighed low, and the only true sound was the restless scratching of my quill across the page. Ink spread into trembling rivers, sentences blooming like forbidden roses, and in that solitude I was no longer the lady society believed me to be.Iam cruel person inside who loves creating love stories and villains story also yearnings , The hate u have for man can always reflect in my novels
By daylight, I was Lady Anna Whitfort, noble, daughter of a Duke, a tutor of young ladies who came in pale silks and ribbons to learn the proper measure of poise and restraint. I carried myself with grace, I spoke with precision, and I played my role in the grand theatre of manners. But when night fell, and the lamps dimmed to a single flame, I became someone else entirely. I was not a noblewoman, but a sinner of words. A woman who bled ink instead of blood. A writer of lives that no polite society would ever permit me to confess.
The candle burned beside me, its wax pooling slow and heavy, as though time itself were melting into memory. Shadows stretched long and trembling against the walls, and I leaned closer to the page. My fingers, smudged with ink, shook as I gave shape once more to him my shadow, my most terrible child, my own creation
He had no name, though I called him many in secret. A boy once, hungry, beaten, abandoned to the filth of alleys where even rats pitied him. He had been born into cruelty, and cruelty became his only companion. I wrote him as a villain because the world had made him one. He wore darkness as others wore coats, not out of choice but out of necessity. He was the villain who stole breath and peace from my heroines, and yet, I could not help but grieve each word I gave him. For every sin I penned upon him, I felt my own soul shrink.
And then I heard it soft as breath against the curve of my ear.
"Why do you hate me so, Mother of my misery?"
The quill stilled in my hand. My heart stumbled against my ribs.iam more shocked and flabbergasted
I told myself it was only the wind, only the storm beyond my chamber. But even as I forced my gaze back to the page, the candle flickered violently, and the hairs on my arms rose as though unseen fingers had brushed them.
I dipped the quill once more, determined to banish the madness by writing it away. Yet the words that bled across the parchment were not my own. The hand was mine, the strokes familiar, but the sentence I read was foreign to my intent.
You made me a monster. Did I play the role well? Am i cruel enough for your readers
Have you ever thought about me after you ended my life to suffering like I deserved as you right ??
I stared until the ink blurred. My breath fogged the air like smoke in winter.
The room seemed to tighten, shrinking around me, walls closing in with the weight of my own creation. My throat was dry, yet the taste of iron coated my tongue.
Outside, the rain struck harder, a relentless drum upon the windows, and thunder rolled like a judge calling order. Inside, the silence between each heartbeat grew unbearable.
And in the hush of that hour, I knew it was no longer I who commanded the story. My story stared back at me.
The ink had grown eyes.
And I told myself to sleep what have I done lord???