My Last Duke

I vacantly stared into the lengthy mirror which was situated on a bare wall in my bedroom. The sight of my husband's portrait on the wall opposite sickened me. The whole of my body was quivering, I was on edge. Every movement I made was sharp and sudden. I couldn't keep my mind off the dreadful thought which was continuously going through my head. Shivering with fear of what I might do next. Trying to control myself but knowing that all attempts would fail. There was no uncertainty in my mind of what was going to happen next...

I lay on  my bed, listening to the rain hitting my window like hooves on a harsh surface. 01.13am. Most people would be in a deep sleep by now. Comfortable in their warm, safe beds. But mine felt like concrete. Rigid and insecure. I could be in a prison cell and it wouldn't be any different. Shut out from the world. I haven't let myself fall asleep as I fear my dreams. It appears that recently I have only been able to create nightmares. Or as I see them; my hopeless future.

Whenever I think about what I did and the reason behind it, I end up with tears gently flowing down my cheeks, my throat seizing up with no one to talk to. I have no one to wipe the tears of my face, to comfort me. Except the Duke of coarse, but I cannot bring myself to be emotionally open with him as much as I used to. He seems different now. I can barely breathe and don't even bother to clean my running make-up.

Every night is like this.

I slowly crawled out of my cruel bed. Unhurriedly dragging my feet along the floor over to my desk. I stared at my dresser momentarily. Then reached out my hand, curled my fingers around the fabric scissors, and drew them towards me. I separated the blades to their fullest. And lifted my wrist...

Once again I lay in bed, crying. But this time I have the blood gradually dripping down my wrist. Representing my life, slowly drifting away into despair. I finally let myself fall asleep to behold the many nightmares that await me.

I awakened to the common sound of my mistress calling me. Meaning it was time for me to wake up and wait for her to attend to me, then go down the extravagant staircase to breakfast where my family would await me and make believe to everyone that I am well. All my garments which I wear now have long tight sleeves. The perfect mask for my unsightly struggle. I look intently at my blood-stained wrist, thinking that it does not seem bold enough. But I quickly slip the dress sleeve down again as my mistress enters the room with my finest jewellery.

My mistress watched what I was doing in an odd way, she could identify that something was not right. Which unfortunately meant that she would harass the truth out of me.

I slowly made my way down the elegant staircase, keeping perfect balance with a phony smile on my face, hoping that everyone would be preoccupied by breakfast to become conscious of the deep sorrow in my eyes. I also hope that I too become distracted by breakfast and for once in my life not worry about what lie ahead me today, what my husband will utter to me, how my husband will proceed around and towards me. But no. Because even with a diversion the pain is cut far too deep into oneself.  

After breakfast was over and done with, the Duke approached me with a glimmer in his eye. He is very commanding of me, and I am far too weak to defend myself from his hateful orders. I quickly dismissed him, turned and set off into our majestic garden. So many people operated in our garden, and I enjoy every visit I make to them. However I constantly catch the Duke glaring at me from the corner of my eye. I feel nervous under such in impressive and violent stare that it worries me to be obliged to such a envious fool, till death do as part.

As I was making pleasantries with the cherry-picker, my husband caught me off guard by clasping his strong hands onto my fragile hips, spinning me round and entirely disregarding the cherry-picker's existence.

I pleaded him to apologise for such improper behaviour out in such a lovely and public sector.  He pretended as though I had not even mentioned a word and firmly seized my hand, yanking me away from the cherry-picker and my once happy early mourn. I requested what his intentions were, and why they were urgent enough to spoil my mourning.