Dear Simon,
I'm writing this letter to you because I miss you dearly. It seems like only yesterday we were swimming in the creek by the estate, and you commented how my skin glows so deliciously in the sun. But you left me, and that was your choice. Now I'm stranded in this massive villa all alone, with just my echoes as company.
I won't dwell on this point too much and guilt you, for I know your abandonment must be weighing heavy on your heart. I'm also writing to tell you about my recent afflictions, as I have no one else who will listen. Roughly six months ago, I began to develop a case of insomnia. Normally my eyelids would flutter closed at no later than midnight, but recently I haven't been able to sleep until three or four o'clock in the morning.
When I do manage to fall asleep, the quality of rest is abysmal, filled with short nightmares and night sweats. Laura, our maid, and Helga, the cook, don't sleep in the house, of course, for they have their own guest house down the road. I tried to convince them to use any of the many empty bedrooms but they refused, being too shy. I wish they were with me, as those nights of terror keep me from resting appropriately, and the whole situation is wearing down my nerves.
After many sleepless nights in a row, I began to suffer from a delirium. I attempted to bake buttermilk scones at five in the morning, just like the ones I baked the morning after our honeymoon, remember? Unfortunately, I burnt them terribly, and simply sat watching the smoke billow out of the oven and cloud the kitchen. I would have sat there until I suffocated, but luckily it was the start of Helga's shift. She opened the windows and gave me a cup of tea to calm my nerves when she saw me in my haunting trance.
On Helga's request, I called Dr. Laurence to see me and propose a remedy for my awful state. After probing my ears, listening to my chest rising and falling, and a short conversation, he concluded that I am suffering from hysteria, and that I should be confined to my bedroom for at least several months until I'm not a danger to myself. He prescribed some strong, foul smelling tea for my insomnia, which didn't help one bit.
My situation has only degraded after that. As I am quarantined in my bedroom, I can only look at my beautiful garden, filled with pink roses and petunias, from my tiny window. The only objects in my room are my small stack of romance novels, a dressing table with a dusty mirror, a stack of paper and pen, and a quilt that I am currently stitching together. I can only leave the room a few times a day to use the restroom and pick up the hot meals that Helga prepares for me.
Staying static in one spot is damaging for the soul, and confuses the mind. My nightmares and insomnia have gotten worse. Every night for the past week, I have had the same grotesque dream. As I drift off around three in the morning or so, I dream that I am lying in bed, in my room, unaware that I am dreaming. I see one black shape move from the top left corner of the ceiling wallpaper, and I see the outline of multiple thin legs. Then another. As the shapes come closer to me I notice they are large, hairy spiders with pincer-like fangs, which are large and exaggerated since they are in a dream.
Unable to move or to wake myself up, I am helpless as the bugs crawl up the legs of my bed, on the blanket, and move towards my nose, so close to me that I can sense their furry legs on my chin. I then wake up in a panic and release a yelp, lighting my beside candle as quickly as I can, only to see that my room is tranquil and unchanged, the full moon shining her pleasant light outside the window.
Oh-- it's awful, Simon! Like the devil is playing a cruel trick on me. You know how much I am terrified of spiders. Every time I shrieked when I saw a spider, in any part of our villa, you would race to me and be my hero. You would never kill the poor spider; you would coax it onto a newspaper and gently carry it into our yard. These are the sweet memories I cherish, but now I don't have you to get rid of the spiders, real and imaginary.
I believe that if I continue being cooped up in my room as I am now, I will go completely mad, and do something rash. I wish I could at least take a stroll around the terrace, smell the sweet roses around me, and feel the sun's rays on my skin. Perhaps next time Dr. Laurence visits, I will try to convince him that I am in fact sleeping much better and that I should be allowed for a daily stroll. That probably won't happen, though, as he will be able to call my bluff from the gray circles under my eyes, as proof of many restless nights.
I'm writing this letter at three in the morning, and my eyelids are starting to feel heavy. Perhaps the fix for my insomnia is talking to you. I don't know why you left me, and I guess I'll never know. When I am cured of my hysteria and I can venture to town again, I will stop by the cemetery and leave my beloved pink roses on your gravestone. Maybe you will work some magic and I will never see those dreaded spiders again. I miss you dearly, and you're always in my thoughts.
Good night,
Rose
I'm writing this letter to you because I miss you dearly. It seems like only yesterday we were swimming in the creek by the estate, and you commented how my skin glows so deliciously in the sun. But you left me, and that was your choice. Now I'm stranded in this massive villa all alone, with just my echoes as company.
I won't dwell on this point too much and guilt you, for I know your abandonment must be weighing heavy on your heart. I'm also writing to tell you about my recent afflictions, as I have no one else who will listen. Roughly six months ago, I began to develop a case of insomnia. Normally my eyelids would flutter closed at no later than midnight, but recently I haven't been able to sleep until three or four o'clock in the morning.
When I do manage to fall asleep, the quality of rest is abysmal, filled with short nightmares and night sweats. Laura, our maid, and Helga, the cook, don't sleep in the house, of course, for they have their own guest house down the road. I tried to convince them to use any of the many empty bedrooms but they refused, being too shy. I wish they were with me, as those nights of terror keep me from resting appropriately, and the whole situation is wearing down my nerves.
After many sleepless nights in a row, I began to suffer from a delirium. I attempted to bake buttermilk scones at five in the morning, just like the ones I baked the morning after our honeymoon, remember? Unfortunately, I burnt them terribly, and simply sat watching the smoke billow out of the oven and cloud the kitchen. I would have sat there until I suffocated, but luckily it was the start of Helga's shift. She opened the windows and gave me a cup of tea to calm my nerves when she saw me in my haunting trance.
On Helga's request, I called Dr. Laurence to see me and propose a remedy for my awful state. After probing my ears, listening to my chest rising and falling, and a short conversation, he concluded that I am suffering from hysteria, and that I should be confined to my bedroom for at least several months until I'm not a danger to myself. He prescribed some strong, foul smelling tea for my insomnia, which didn't help one bit.
My situation has only degraded after that. As I am quarantined in my bedroom, I can only look at my beautiful garden, filled with pink roses and petunias, from my tiny window. The only objects in my room are my small stack of romance novels, a dressing table with a dusty mirror, a stack of paper and pen, and a quilt that I am currently stitching together. I can only leave the room a few times a day to use the restroom and pick up the hot meals that Helga prepares for me.
Staying static in one spot is damaging for the soul, and confuses the mind. My nightmares and insomnia have gotten worse. Every night for the past week, I have had the same grotesque dream. As I drift off around three in the morning or so, I dream that I am lying in bed, in my room, unaware that I am dreaming. I see one black shape move from the top left corner of the ceiling wallpaper, and I see the outline of multiple thin legs. Then another. As the shapes come closer to me I notice they are large, hairy spiders with pincer-like fangs, which are large and exaggerated since they are in a dream.
Unable to move or to wake myself up, I am helpless as the bugs crawl up the legs of my bed, on the blanket, and move towards my nose, so close to me that I can sense their furry legs on my chin. I then wake up in a panic and release a yelp, lighting my beside candle as quickly as I can, only to see that my room is tranquil and unchanged, the full moon shining her pleasant light outside the window.
Oh-- it's awful, Simon! Like the devil is playing a cruel trick on me. You know how much I am terrified of spiders. Every time I shrieked when I saw a spider, in any part of our villa, you would race to me and be my hero. You would never kill the poor spider; you would coax it onto a newspaper and gently carry it into our yard. These are the sweet memories I cherish, but now I don't have you to get rid of the spiders, real and imaginary.
I believe that if I continue being cooped up in my room as I am now, I will go completely mad, and do something rash. I wish I could at least take a stroll around the terrace, smell the sweet roses around me, and feel the sun's rays on my skin. Perhaps next time Dr. Laurence visits, I will try to convince him that I am in fact sleeping much better and that I should be allowed for a daily stroll. That probably won't happen, though, as he will be able to call my bluff from the gray circles under my eyes, as proof of many restless nights.
I'm writing this letter at three in the morning, and my eyelids are starting to feel heavy. Perhaps the fix for my insomnia is talking to you. I don't know why you left me, and I guess I'll never know. When I am cured of my hysteria and I can venture to town again, I will stop by the cemetery and leave my beloved pink roses on your gravestone. Maybe you will work some magic and I will never see those dreaded spiders again. I miss you dearly, and you're always in my thoughts.
Good night,
Rose
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