From Antoinette of fire and colour and vibrance to Bertha Mason in the closet in the cardboard home, a secret. A lifetime of passion and fever-burning love hides behind those closed doors. You will not tell that story. Jane must never know anything, any of that magical escapade that resulted in tragedy. She must never know, other than the fact that it was a mistake.
Does she know you? How much about you did you reveal? How far into your soul did you let her reach, in between the jokes and the teasing? Does she know about me? Was there anything to tell? Or is it all untranslatable, only that the images flash through your mind when they shouldn't? Did I tarnish your soul? Do you wish you could erase it all and get on with life? Do you wish your white slate hadn't been stained with blood? I shouldn't have let it.
(I do love Jean Rhys. Who she was, her brokenness on paper.)
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