To Anna: March Creative writing Competition

Sunday, 13th February 1887

At first I was unaware that anything had changed. The day progressed along normal lines, in that I had breakfasted early as is my habit, and retired to my study for a few hours to complete another chapter of my diary. I feel the need to tell you at this point Anna; this was not so much for posterity, more a confession of a life squandered, and a need to express regret for all the hurt I have caused to my family. I do not feel a need to broadcast to the world, but I would like a chance perhaps, to explain to those who remain alive.

Our children will judge me harshly, and how can I blame them? You perhaps will have a more enlightened view of my actions; I do hope so. Your understanding now, as I am aging and alone, is becoming ever more important to me. I know I have your forgiveness, and that too is now a source of comfort, and no longer fuelling my bitterness and self-loathing. Such emotions are akin to snakes, their coils, loose at first, tighten until life is squeezed out, and no emotion remains, save a deep and desperate hatred.

I digress, however, and painful though it is, I must continue with my tale. The first hint of the change to come was fleeting and at first I thought I had imagined it: the slight shift in the light quality and a strange chill that settled imperceptibly around the study. I laid down my pen, for although the feeling was faint, the fire in the grate had only just been lit and the morning was chill. I shivered and made my way to the hearth. What happened then was more akin to an out of body experience; my physical self remained still, but my spirit, my soul if you like, seemed to leave and I found myself viewing the room from a vantage point that seemed somehow closer to the ceiling. I floated at the height of the picture rail and watched with a peculiar detachment, the light from the window fade into a smoky mist which gave the room a sepia tint, not unlike our wedding photograph. Do you remember our unalloyed joy on that day, Anna? No hint of things to come, our simple delight in our union is my most precious memory.

Anna, at this point in my story, you entered the study. Do you remember that day? You had been missing and my despair had never abated. For the sake of the children, l tried to maintain some semblance of normality, hence my routine remained unchanged although my whole being raged at your betrayal. Anger yes, but underneath it all was a deep sense of shame and unworthiness. Why Hugh: why not indeed, he was everything that I am not. I could not blame you, but I did confront my own inadequacies and my inability to be the man that you thought you loved.

The rivalry between my brother and I was always a source of anguish and distress to you and your attempts to heal this rift were typical of your loving, generous nature. It was hardly surprising that it came to this unhappy conclusion. Hugh was always your protector and your friend. I sensed by mother’s disappointment in me, her younger son, and could not bear it to be so. Indeed my unhappiness as a child has warranted two pages in this journal, and is no doubt a clue as to my intense jealousy of my blameless sibling.

Yes, you entered the study and your bearing was defiant but oddly no less loving. That somehow made it worse, and even as I watched myself move to kiss your cheek, I knew you understood. My hand upon your hair was gentle and you smelt of sandalwood. Even when my hands moved to your neck you did not flinch and slowly slowly as my grip grew tight you did not struggle. I watched it all, and weird though it may seem Anna, it was not me. I felt detached and full of calm. The happiness came as a shock; it scorched my soul but bizarrely felt so right. Don’t ask me to explain this, Anna, nothing in my experience had prepared me for this strange, base pleasure that my brutality brought me. Hitherto my cruelty was confined to breaking your spirit and suppressing your joy.

I cannot in truth Anna explain what then transpired. The fire grew warm and sunlight hurt my eyes; the chill receded and I found myself back at my desk with pen in hand. You were nowhere to be seen.

The first few weeks were painful, Anna, but the children were young and adapted gradually to your absence. This was wholly due to the tender ministrations of dear Eliza who took over the running of the household and showered them with love and tenderness. Even Eliza, God knows how she tolerated my moods, has now departed after the marriage of our youngest, but she is remembered in my will, and was the most devoted of servants.

All traces of your existence were removed from the house including your portrait above the bureau in the hall. You were never spoken of again and your children never knew of you. I now know that this was cruel. What can I say? Guilt played a large part, and pride was also present. Life continued for our daughters and they were happy and content. I, however, withdrew gradually and became apart, for fear my misery and guilt would somehow taint their lives.

I have had a thousand such conversations with you, my dearest wife; although no longer here, you have ever been in my thoughts. As to the girls, I should have let you take them with you: I know you loved them so. I trust your life with Hugh to have been a happy one and your new son a joy; but how much was left behind? I watched your face soften when I permitted you to stand outside the church when Katie left a bride. The one and only time I gave you joy in all those years apart. You even thanked me, and how I hated the generosity of such gratitude, and loathed you for your forgiveness. The fault was mine, and this I do at last acknowledge. I thought your love was undeserved and tried my best to make you less: to find the flaws and test resolve and drove you straight to him.

I lost the most though Anna, by my selfish ploys; a wife, my brother and my daughters.