This is an experimental piece that I decieded to start. I'm not sure if I should continue or not so honest opinions are needed.
Happy Reading!
**Edited as of Oct. 28**
________________
Preface
Winter of 1884
It was in the dark hours of mourning when realization hit me. It was as if my whole life had been lived in the shadows of the unknown, and I was just now being introduced to the revelation of the day. Bile rose unprovoked into my throat, and I clutched feebly at the neckline of my dress. Forcing it down, I tightened my grip on the satin material of my skirt with white-knuckled hands. How could this have happened? How did I not know?
Staring into the pool that was my wine, a variety of emotions filling me until I felt the bile rise again. How could they have lied to me for all these years? Did they have no remorse? No pride?
I raised my eyes to the figures of my mother and sister. They both smiled sorrowfully at the sight of me, identical eyes shimmering with new-fallen tears. My own eyes were dry, something that was abnormal for the wife of a deceased husband. “Darling, why exile yourself? Come, converse,” my mother urged, taking a step towards me.
I stared long and hard into the eyes that I have known since my birth. They were gray in color, watery with swimming salty droplets. Around the pupils, shots of iron-colored ink dotted the irises, hardening the softer gray that outlined them. Tilting my head, I met my sister’s. Same, identical soft gray with iron flecks. Were these the eyes of the deceivers? Or were they just as oblivious as I was to this whole plot?
“Excuse me, mother, but I don’t think I can withstand the charade,” I replied coolly, unable to succumb to the meek daughter I once was.
“Charade? What’s this?” My mother’s eyes blinked free of the tears in blatant shock while my sister lowered her own, embarrassed for me. This only enraged me further.
“Yes, mother, charade. Those people care not for the well being of my passed husband or for the widow. They only mean to impress you, so to somehow reach new heights in this masked society.”
My mother’s hands flew to her neck and she clutched at her throat, startled into silence. When she finally opened her mouth, the iron-flecks became stones. “I will not tolerate this, Christine. Either you will come and converse with the fellow mourners, or you will leave, and feign illness for the night.”
I swallowed the words I so craved to utter, and instead, mocked innocence. “I will leave.”
My mother nodded. “Very well. I will tell everyone you are far too overcome with grief. Come, Arabella.”
I watched my mother and sister leave, Arabella’s eyes downcast in perfect daughter form. I waited until they were out of sight before leaving, setting my wineglass down onto the gold-gilded table. Lifting my heavy skirts, I ascended the stairs. With each step taken, my heart grew heavier until I felt like a rock was in place of my beating organ. The corset constricted my breathing, and I slowly grew light-headed. But I pressed on.
Images of my husband filled my mind’s eyes. Of his rustic charm and dazzling smile. I had fallen for those simple traits like a young girl sneaking candies behind her mother’s back. But the danger in those eyes…I had blocked that out, forgetting his past and letting myself be swept up in a whirlwind of romance and passion.
“Now look at me,” I mumbled, shaking myself at how pathetic my life had become.
It seems that all eyes carry secrets. As my father used to tell me: the eyes are the doorways to the soul. How true he was! I should have obeyed him; I should have turned the other cheek at that manic glint in my husband’s eyes instead of falling for his caresses and spoken love tokens.
“All lies, every one of them,” I spoke, my words coated with venom.
At the top of the stairs, I turned down the long, narrow hallway. It was dimly lit the lights having not yet come in. Electricity was all the rage now. I remember when I was little and would read by candlelight. Now, I would read by the light of the lamp that I could flick on with the turn of my wrist.
Wrinkling my nose, I wasn’t sure I liked this new invention. The carpeted floor muffled the sound of my slippers, and I was able to continue on in silence. Letting my gloved hand fall against the wall, I felt the textured, uneven paint from beneath the soft silk material bound to my palm. On one side, portraits of my family lined the wall. Ancestors, young and old, were depicted across a canvass to forever adorn the hall. Between every other portrait were where the new lights would be fitted, holes in the wall for the “bulbs” to come through.
Coming to the end of the long walkway, I turned to my left and entered my room. It was of modest design, and that seemed to irk my mother to no end. Guest normally saw my mother’s taste, full of ostentatious and expensive miscellaneous items. Mine was more of an earthy, relaxing feel. The walls were painted a forest green with a milky white bedspread. The carpet was dark brown, almost black, and silken to the touch. My desk in the corner was of oaken wood, carved from the very tree I used to climb as a child. A time before my mother caught me by the scruff my neck, and forced me into the world of women, gossip, and lust.
I crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind me with a soft click. A warm fire was crackling in the hearth across from me, the effects of a loyal maid. The flames licked eagerly at the grate, fighting away the winter chill.
Turning away from it, I left my room for the door to my left, into which was my powder room. Undressing myself like the expert I have become, I pulled on my silk nightgown, soft lavender in color, and slipped on my wool slippers, something of a rebellious fashion statement to my mother. Then, walking into another room, I entered my own study.
This was the room my whole family loathed me for. It was uncustomary for a woman to learn the arts and literature names of the age. I, however, did not care for what my parents wanted. This was one thing I felt I could never give up. Even my husband did not mind it, and many times I would find him in here, reading the many novels lining the walls. This was a sacred place for us, hidden away from prying eyes.
The room was stuffy from the fire, and I tugged at my neckline as if it was choking me. His presence was here, suffocating me. In the beginning, our marriage had been one of bliss. But after the first year, he felt it was time to show me his real face. Not the gentle man, a lover of literature, he was a ruthless drunk, abusive verbally, and extremely intolerable. In public, he returned to the gentle man he appeared to be, and my parents admired him for it. They thought they had made a good match, one that had suited me.
They had no idea.
“To those that are blind, there is no light,” I mumbled, thinking out loud. My parents were blind to the real nature of those around them. Edward York had been my soul mate, at least to their blind sight. They had turned the other cheek to the malice in his eyes, to the danger lurking just beneath the surface of his demeanor.
And it was I who had paid the price for their lack of judgment.
When I couldn’t take anymore, I deserted the study for the airiness of my room. Burying myself under the mountain of sheets, I clamped my eyes shut against the gloom that pervaded my soul. Had my whole life been a lie, spoken out loud for so long that everyone soon became oblivious to it? It wasn’t that far-fetched, thinking of my parents who wed me to a monster. I was barely beyond the age of seventeen, but I carried the woes of a middle-aged widow.
Rolling onto my back, I shivered, though the room was slowly rising in temperature. My spine was tingling with sensation, and I felt him again, my bed soaked with his damaged soul. My husband had left scars everywhere, and even my bed held his poisoned being.
Pushing him forcefully from my mind, I came again to the thoughts that had driven me from the funeral. My parents, my sister, my older brother…were they all pawns or players in this wild game that was my life? Had they known all along or had they been just as oblivious as I was?
No, they had to know. How could they not? I should have seen it long ago. Wasn’t I the only one with ruby hair, with emerald eyes, with a svelte figure? Father was of dark hair and countenance, as was my older brother. Mother was of blonde locks, as was Arabella.
When I finally came to this conclusion, I rushed to the powder room, retching up the foods I had consumed earlier. Kneeling, trembling, on the wooden floor, I clutched at my temples. Shaking my head, I struggled to come up with something else, some other explanation. But the answer was there, swaying coyly before my closed lids, just waiting for me to snatch it up and take it for what it was.
I wasn’t the daughter of Roy and Samantha Rickmond. I was not the sibling of Captain Andrew and Miss Arabella. I wasn’t Christine Ann Rickmond. But then…
Who was I?
. I love this, and can't wait for you to write more... Now, onto the evil side of me...)
)
hehe
I think I understood what you were saying but I just did it to clarify 
Didn't mean to, honest. It's just... the rest was tell, tell, tell. Nothing happened, and it was all how Christine was so sad and angry. I mean, it's good you're giving us information right away - but mayeb you could liven things up a bit by giving us a memory of her husband or something, so we actually care that he's dead, you know?
)
Gender:
Points: 1075
Reviews: 842