Chapter Text
Being alone almost crushed her, she longed to have someone by her side, who would break this murderous silence. The silence she has known well since childhood. The silence of her parents. A father, who never speaks and does everything to be as far away from his family as possible. A mother, who looks at her daughter as an inconvenience, she does everything to avoid having to deal with her and who is ignored by her husband. And now she too has become the captive of this marital silence.
All she wanted was for her love to be with her, or at least to let her know that he still loved her and that they would overcome their problems together. Communicate with each other. But Colin shut her out, almost running away from her and refusing to talk to her.
Her soul was so in need of a little kindness, a little care. It can probably be like this in the desert without water, her soul was quite bleak, dried out. She was hungry and thirsty for love, but she has nothing, no one. She wants to write, but the words just won't come because she keeps seeing Colin's face and his reaction to her being Lady Whistledown. It's like killing the creativity in her soul, like destroying the writer in her. She is torn between what to be: a wife or a writer. She doesn't want to give up either. She cannot cut the writer out of her soul, she cannot deny a piece of her personality, because it is not life. It wouldn't be her. Couldn't Colin just expect her to deny herself for him? To give up, who she is, for him?
Denying who you are is never good. She learned to hide who she was because she didn't fit into the image that others imagined of her, and she was afraid of losing her loved ones because of it, but even then she couldn't deny herself. She tried to give up writing for others, several times, but it didn't work. She couldn't sacrifice a piece of her soul just because he expected her to.
Her mother thinks women can't have dreams, but she disagrees. Everyone needs dreams, life would be empty without them. And it is. Her dream of becoming a writer is shattered because her husband cannot accept it. He only needs certain pieces of her, not her whole being. It's soul-crushing. Why can't he accept her as she is? She does this for him, she loves Colin with all his faults, why can't she do the same?
She loves to write, but this situation takes away the joy from what used to be her comfort, her refuge. Who is she if not a writer? She feels completely empty when the one thing that always brought her joy can no longer bring her that. Like he poisoned it.
She was so tired, as if the strength had been drained from all her limbs. She just lies on the bed and can't move, like she's frozen. Her body and soul were completely exhausted. She wants to love something, but everything has lost its meaning. No wonder no one wants her. Her biggest value is that she is a writer, and now she can't even be that. She is unable to recall the words, bring a story to life, analyse and create. Totally worthless. Her talent is what makes her, her. What is she without it? Who is she without it? Life without writing has no sense, no meaning, no anything.
This fatigue took over her body, she was unable to do anything but look at the ceiling. It's not life, without writing, it's not life. She needs more, but nothing makes sense, so what could be more? She is alone, no one cares about her, no one needs her, everyone has left her alone and they would even take away the only thing she is good at?
They did. She can't write, she can't, the joy and healing effect of writing has disappeared, only the pain remains. The pain from which her writings were born, the pain that she processed in them and after which she felt a little better about herself, is now lost. There's no more. She can't bring it up. She cannot create.
If an artist is unable to practice their art, they are lost, their soul is destroyed. All reasons for existence lose its meaning. Their hands yearn to create, but they are unable to set them in motion and bring a new work to life. And if they can't do that, there's no point in them being in the world. This is the purpose of their existence, and now she is lost, she would not be able to find her way back to herself even with a compass. If she can't create again, she might as well die. She just closes her eyes and it's over. If only it were that simple...
If only she could close her eyes to rest and never have to open them again... But she can't even close them, her eyelids won’t move, her body is completely rigid. At least she tries to blink, but even that doesn't work. She is so tired, everything is exhausted. She could just rest for a bit. Just a little...
She is alone. And she'll probably be alone for the rest of her life, so what's the point of it all?
Being alone is unbearable. People need each other, companionship, family, love and care, why can't she have these? Why is she so unlovable that no one wants her? She needs someone, just someone who thinks she is enough, nothing else but enough. What kind of flaw could she have that would make no one want her?
She made a lot of mistakes, yes, but maybe those aren't enough reasons for anyone to hate her? Shouldn't that be enough of a reason for them not to care? Or does she really deserve this? Complete solitude for the rest of her life?
If so, this life could end, because being alone, in this loneliness is unbearable. She's been lonely all her life, she can't take it anymore.
Being alone in the world... Yes, she said she can take care of herself, because she can, she was dependent on herself, since no one was taking care of her, so she had to pull herself together. If she wanted to have food, clothes, education, read what she liked... write... then she had to do it for her. But it wouldn't be bad if someone took care of her. But no one will. They should love you for that. And she had to realize that no one loved her. She is completely, utterly alone in this world. All she can do is watch the ceiling and hope to be able to close her eyes, and never open them again.
She was a writer, now she is nothing more but the ghost of her old self.