Morning returned with all its expected courtesies. The rain had ceased, leaving the streets of Mayfair slick and shining, and Whitford Manor filled once more with the voices of my pupils. Girls in pale muslin gowns gathered in the parlour, books upon their laps, their laughter soft as bells. I, Lady Eleanor Whitford, was to be their guide into literature, into virtue, into refinement,by the time I totally forgotten about the voices in my head , I believe, the so called villian I created and his yearnings , I was hoping nothing will go wrong and it's all my imagination as it is.
I taught them of Milton and Shakespeare, of noble heroes who suffered bravely, of heroines who preserved dignity above all things.
And yet, as I read aloud passages of virtue,
I felt my throat tighten with hypocrisy.
For in the corner of my mind,
I still heard his words, the words written upon the letter I could not burn.
"You made me cruel. You made me hated."
The girls spoke of novels with girlish excitement, for fiction had become fashionable again in the circles of London. And among their chatter, I heard the title of my own work whispered. "The Fall of dorian veyne"
My novel.
The one I had published under a false name.
"Have you read it, Lady Whitford?"
one of the bolder girls asked, her cheeks flushed.
"The villain is so vile, so unholy, I could scarce sleep!"
Another chimed in,
"They say the author is a man, for surely no woman could imagine such horrors.
Why, my aunt swore the villain reminded her of a devil himself!"
Their laughter rose, delicate and cruel. I smiled as society required me to smile, but inside, each word struck like a lash.I thought to myself am i feeling guilt , no , no way I sore to myself it's just all fictional
That evening, at tea with my aunt and several of her acquaintances, the matter surfaced again. The parlour filled with sharp perfumes and sharper tongues.
"It is disgraceful," my aunt declared, teacup rattling on its saucer.
"The villain is nothing more than a demon in human guise. And to think the author dares profit from such monstrosity! If I knew the scoundrel's name, I should never permit him within my home."
Murmurs of agreement swept through the room.
They condemned him, the man I had created, the child of my imagination,
as though he were truly alive. As though he could hear, I had no voice to defend him or to criticize him because he was my creation.
And God help me, I knew he could.
That night, when I returned to my chamber, a letter lay waiting upon my desk. The paper glowed pale in the candlelight, the handwriting jagged as ever, bleeding with fury.
"Do you hear them?
Do you hear how they spit my name into the gutter?
You gave me to the crowd, and they despise me.
I am their beast, their nightmare, their curse. Was this your desire,
Mother of Ink?
Was it not enough that you made me suffer? You must make me hated as well?"
"They call me monster, and I wonder, do you sit among them, laughing too?
Do you sip your tea while they tear me apart, piece by piece, as if I am less than vermin?
Tell me, Lady Whitford, does it please you to see me dragged through the mud, though I never asked to be born?"
The words blurred as tears burned my eyes. I pressed the letter to my breast, my heart a wild bird within its cage.
It was not only guilt that shook me now, but dread. For I knew this truth with chilling certainty: he had heard them. He had heard the parlour gossip, the students' laughter, the ridicule of society. My villain was listening listening from the shadows between my words.
And he would not forgive me.
Why would he , I hope it's all in my head
Although just like the almighty abandoning the peasants and the people in the war
Am i a creator who abanded my own
Is this how lord feels when his children dying in sorrow and hunger and in wars
I don't know , I don't want to know ..