36/ 415 pages

And so I sleep for a grand total of 5 hours before I woke to dry nasal passages and a fever like warmth to my entire body.  For the past few hours I've continued to read through Wuthering Heights and set up my VICKS humidifier.  Now the air in my room is moist and smells of eucalyptus.

What I wanted was for a soul to spoon soup or tea to me, pamper my dry flesh with a hydrating lotion, and comfort me as I drifted back to sleep.  Maybe not a real person.  Perhaps more of a ghost or some kind spirit that would tend to me as if I were bed ridden and then vanish once I was well.  Seeing as there is no one to do such things, I did them myself.  Opening my jar of Ponds lotion, I slathered it on my dry limbs, unsatisfied at the blue veins that peer at me through my white skin.  Feeling to lazy to steep a cup of tea, I downed a few butter cookies from the tin my mother gave me before the holiday, and now I return to my book and hopefully the province of sleep.

7pm, to bed.

I felt poorly today, which is some what of a rarity for me. I like to stay chipper and emotionally healthy, but lately its been taxing. I can't quite put my finger on the variable that is causing the change in my moods. I wake up, emotionally exhausted some days. Everything appears muted and dull, and my vitality feels as if its receded beneath my epidermis, puckered and weak if affected with some sort of illness. On these days, I favor isolation and find it laborious to even change out of my bed clothes. I feel as though I'm not fit to face the people who know and love me. They expect me to be my perky self, full of ambition to work/study/socialize but on these days I can't even pretend to oblige them. I'm usually to restless to sleep and my appetite dwindles. Today is one of those days that have become more and more frequent. I try to "snap out of it" but it's strange fog ensnares me, and becomes difficult to fan away.

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.]