So I had to leave my beloved boyfriends house whilst in the middle of a hockey game on TV, to return home due to my fatigue. It pained me to leave since I feel like I never get to spend as much time with him as I would like to. And now, here I am, preparing myself for an early bedtime. A fresh copy of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights is waiting for me on the paisley orange comforter upon my bed, and in times like these, reading is the only thing that can help pass the lonely and dismal hours of illness away. I forced down a slice of cheesecake a moment ago. Time will tell if it was a poor choice of sustenance now stuck at the bottom of my stomach.
Did I mention that today I finished Diane Setterfield's novel, The Thirteenth Tale? Fantastic read, and I highly recommend it if you are fond of gothic fiction.
"I thought you said something about a wolf," I began.
"Yes. That black beast that gnaws at my bones whenever he gets a chance. He loiters in corners and hides behind doors most of the time, because he's afraid of these." She indicated the white pills on the table beside her.
"But they don't last forever. It's nearly twelve and they are wearing off. He is sniffing at my neck. By half past he will be digging his teeth and claws in. Until one, when I can take another tablet and he will have to return to his corner. We are always clockwatching, he and I. He pounces five minutes earlier every day. But I cannot take my tablets five minutes earlier. That stays the same."
"But surely the doctor -"
"Of course. Once a week, or once every ten days, he adjusts the dose. Only never quite enough. He does not want to be the one to kill me, you see. And so when it comes, it must be the wolf that finishes me off."
[Vida Winter conversing with Margret Lea, The Thirteenth Tale.]
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