212

I am free to live my life, but what life is it?  My torpor has clouded my mind far more than I knew.  I have memories that are vivid, and I have memories that are clouded.  I may be in a fever dream.  Perhaps I was never released.  Perhaps the theologically-minded were right, and there is a Hell.

I say this because Abigail Collins, whose death I know somewhat intimately, greeted me at the door, but acted as if she were the maid.  (Were the Hindus correct?)  More shocking was the immediate presence of my mother at Collinwood.  It took all of my composure and rehearsal to maintain my countenance of nonchalance.  Despite her shocking display of leg, Naomi (“Elizabeth”) was as warm as she was in my time.  Perhaps more.  And then there was a young woman named Victoria Winters, a tutor.  She reminds me both of Josette and, strangely, of Phyllis Wick.  But why?  It goes beyond the position in which they both served.  No, it was more.

The theatrics of ignorance that I displayed were constantly disrupted by my exclamations of nostalgia.  It was just yesterday that I was here, and it was nearly two hundred years ago.  What was more disturbing was the appearance of Young Master Daniel (“David”) at Collins Hall (or “the Old House”) who is fond of playing in the shambles of the home.  There, he cited the ghost of Josette as making frequent appearances.  This news and the sight of her portrait above the mantel sliced into my heart as a knife.  After all that I experienced, perhaps she could have aided me more.  Why do I feel as such?  Perhaps because she was such an intimate confidant of Angelique’s.

Yes, these are ghosts.  Vapors of the past.  To there, they should be consigned.  I am home, be it in 1967 or in Hell.  I am home.

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1 Comments ↓

One Comment on “212”

  1. mrsgreenhands June 4, 2013 at 8:32 pm #

    Reblogged this on Mrsgreenhands’s Weblog.

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