Tasting my life

Short story.
If Bertha acted differently, would he still have loved her? If she said she was "normal", would he have considered her unique? Could she not be who she is?
The swirls intrigue her.
Why won't society accept her for who she is? They would rather keep her hidden. Forbidding her from getting what she truly wants. Understanding. Acceptance. Freedom.
Bases on the character Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre.


1. The beauty of the fire.

Yellow. Like my wallpaper. Orange. Like the sun. Red. Like my doll. Fire. Like me. Painful. Shameful. Hated. Has good uses, but is thought harmful. I know, I can hear it. Feed me, it says, Care for me. Sacrifice everything you have so that I can be happy. See? It’s like me.

I am not a freak, I deserve happiness, I deserve life. It continues but I block it out. I can taste it, the fishy sadness. How so that the beauty of the fire contrasts with the dullness of the sky. The sky. People say it’s beautiful, but it isn’t, the fire is. Do you prefer the grey sadness of the sky, or the multicoloured excitement of the fire? It’s breathtaking.

There is one difference. The fire takes what it desires. I cannot. I live forever in fear. Fearing freedom, fearing the true me.

I smell him, his cologne. He used to wear that to impress me, now it’s for her. I saw her, once. I wanted to make her understand. It worked, I think. I could taste her bitter fear, her sour desperation, and her salty tears that were sure to form.

I follow the smoke and see its majesty unfold. It brings happiness to me. I give and I give and no one will give me my happiness. It talks to me again. I think to it Dear fire, I feel like you are the only one who will ever truly understand me. The rest will stare at me as if I do not belong. Not even my guardian will understand. He did. Once. Then he put me upstairs and left. Both the room, and my life. Yes, he does occasionally enter, but only when I request. It is getting harder and harder. Life is getting harder and harder.

I look out and follow the swirls once again. They fade at the top, why? They are the representation of branching out, and going up, but still, they die. Is it that when you reach freedom, you die? When you feel as if you belong, you die? When you have tried every single path but gone nowhere, you die?

The smoke, goes up, but won’t come back. I do not like it. I want it to come back. I want it to be with me. But, if he did not want to be, why should it?

I taste the fear. The bitterness. The servants’, as well as his. I want to help, but they would not accept it. I take a step. Towards freedom. I can hear him now. Bertha, he cries, Bertha, come down! Bertha, listen! Come over here! I see him too. He is frantically waving. I taste his sour desperation. I taste their sweet joy as they escape the fiery inferno that was their home. Sickeningly sweet shock, as they see me.  And finally, the salty understanding as they realise who I am. Lies. They will never understand.

Get your freedom.

I run and leap. And I fly up. With the swirls.




True freedom.

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