I put the dishes and all the utensils I used while preparing the meal in the sink, I wear the apron , put on the yellow gloves and fold my sleeves above my elbows. I pour few drops of dish washing liquid in a plastic bowl , open a new sack of sponges and select the green one- exactly the colour of his eyes. I open the tap and let the water run for few minutes until it becomes like a blazing fire. I can see the vapour rising up and dissipating in the enormous expanse of the ceiling. I have never done the chores. It was always him. I barely knew what toil is . I never experienced backache except when menstruation hit the hell out of my spine . After all, I was his spoiled woman and he enjoyed this accurate fact. I struggle with the dishes, having been standing for thirty-five minutes , my lower limps numb and my gorgeous , moderately thin and extremely white almost feckless yet fecund thighs urge me to take off my alluring red Gucci sandals. The hot water cools up my anxiety , releases all the trapped emotional yearnings. Memories start flooding in like Tsunami waves washing away the sorrows suppressed long, long ago in my SnowWhite heart. Being drenched in reminiscences of my sublime old days, I feel a warm touch caressing my messy bun reaching for the end of my spine and embracing it so delicately that I catch a slight satisfactory arousal between my thighs and a circulation of excessive testosterone and oxytocin. My nipples erect and suddenly
I feel weak to the knees and the dishes slip away from my grip to the floor with a clatter as I almost orgasm to the thought of his return and I close my eyes unaware of the world surrounding me expecting a seize the day moment.
I must be mad , but I hold on to my still sane senses as I believe . After all ,I am the heroine of my fate as I assume. I convince myself that few awkward incidents and Tuberculosis can not conquer my will. I am a strong Veronika and I will not sip from the well as the king and pretend that things are okay.
Hamlet was never mad.
Malvolio was never mad.
I am not mad.
4:45 am
The house is still. The washing- up is complete. Everything is immaculate even all the chaotic notions striving for answers.
Fate-
Faith-
Reason-
Emotions-
Society-
Order-
Universe-
Big Bang-
Darwin-
System-
Madness-
Shakespeare- .
No more. Stop. Cease.
P-e-a-c-e.
I turn off the lights in the kitchen, close the window, roll down the curtains to their regular position and sniff the barely recognisable fresh air circulating around my cloak and which indeed is masked by the Noir of his while I march to the couch to pamper my flesh after being Beowulf of the night and sit to rest until my stomach grumbles calling for war again. As I reach the couch , my body gradually unfolds its muscles letting go of all the contractions agonising every inch of my arms and thighs. The candles start losing their flame as I scrutinise the living room for some details of where I left the last wax cylinder , in vain all the attempts were. My eyes start to thoroughly examine each insignificant aspect of the room paying a detailed attention to all the banal details the dim light of the flames allowed me to set my eyes at. You would be marvelling about the mystery of lights in my mansion. Even Gatsby has no clue to why the ignition system in my mansion simulates the morbid atmosphere of The Tell Tale Heart. I could form a mental image of the vulture eye which does not literally exist peeping out of the tiny hole where keys are placed to fasten doors each time "I wander lonely as a cloud "in the hall. Only the kitchen has an incandescent bulb which can freak away even the most horrifying of creatures- Chucky. I am certain that Marry Shelly would have found my mansion a great source of inspiration and that Frankenstein would definitely claim it in his name and perhaps marry the grotesque woman I always believe has existed in the basement before "the stars threw down their spears /And water'd heaven with their tears". My mansion resembles Villa Diodati with two spacious stories , stone exterior with a complicated, asymmetrical shape having wings and bays in many directions I sometimes lost not only tracks but thought as well. The architecture of the building is like the maze of Alice in Wonderland and the long stair connecting the two floors is nothing but a refined , polished road to the Milky Way. The decorative trim is an exotic supplement that stands out as the garnishing of some extremely beautiful and, typically, delicate Victorian muffin or an exquisite, jewel-like portraits of the possessions of Queen Elizabeth. Looking at the house by all means is an intensely felt luxury to the sight and like the most exquisite kind of agony a human soul can hope to experience. Every chandelier , tablecloth , every aspect of the house I never noticed to exist is lit by the fading candles creating a bewitching effect of time loss or a faint perfection of time ceased in an expression by LILY BRISCOE with her highly sensitive and exquisite taste in painting. My mansion is located on a remote yet still adjacent low area of Irish land surrounded by modern architecture and which indeed gave me a full sight of the outside world. My large, impressive ,and stately home has textured wall surfaces , scalloped shingles and half-timbering (in the dinning room were he and I had discussions with the Guardian about the status quo of a new amateur poet), patterned masonry , steep imposing roof-line the colour of the rusty -like sun disk upon sunset or even more precisely the colour of some red-brick precipitate after a chemical reaction with many gables facing in divergent directions. The bedroom has large wraparound porch with ornamental spindles and brackets laid and polished with genuine gold threads and calm brown. The walls range between bright earth tones like burnt sienna and mustard yellow.
At the corner of the saloon just beneath the rusty mosaic portrait , lies a gigantic chimney with multiple ducts at the roof . The stone which I assume is as ancient as the first established brewery in the kingdom of earth and which dates to the unknown millennia of Darwinian theories of evolution sets the atmosphere alive, though the ashes which I never tried to clean up and which indeed never bothered my sight remind me of the innumerable corpses burnt as a sacrifice for deities of the past in some sorts of mysterious myths of Mesopotamia. I scarcely lit the chimney after he left , I did not even consider the joviality of the Heat waves stroking my complexion and abandoning all the frosty feelings overwhelming my wretched body.
He was not a pious Christian as I recall, and the Bible did not do him a good deal of moral instructions upon issues of lust , taking away the fact that attending the mass on sacred Sundays was much an obligation rather than pure adherence to the strict teachings of Jesus which justifies why I gradually and as him found in faith no salvation . The more we yearned to the pleasures of our flesh , the more I believed in nothing but lust. He was perfectly astounding with matters of language and which indeed fulfilled my insatiable thirst to never let go of him. He had dexterity with language and the dazzling impacts of rhetoric . His voice was as convincing as his dick. His polished words were the exact definition of the art of effective and persuasive speech , adding the gestures particularly those he used while intercourse and which indeed brought my reproductive system under his command. Each time he whispers how sensual my appeal is, each time he so skilfully exploits his knack with the rhetorical devices and exquisite figures of speech and the remaining kit of other compositional techniques , my petals open wide with a gypsy smile , that grimace which appears in an unrestrained manner and with the mouth open -I unleash my potential and climax as he slowly moves inside me , gratifying me on all regards.
He lit the chimney because I was barely dressed on our profane nights as he made sure I never got infected with the slightest of cold. We had timber in the basement which he used to light the fire . We had a kilt near the chimney and it was an old habit of his to prepare English tea and toss French chocolate with sticky caramel and a light layer of cream into my mouth. He was charming not only physically but also with the attempts he tried to show me that his up bringing did not entail any sort of artificial breeding- meaning the Victorian manners .
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