It is not chains that bind me to the position I now hold . . . and, that, for a lengthy time now.
I stand motionless, my eyes peering through dark curtains, they fixed steadily upon cheerful passersby on the street below my third-storey bedroom window. By their simply being out and about in the daytime sun I perceive that, in contrast to my placid self, these happy souls are at peace with the world. Not so long ago would I have been a companion to them all, as I was democratic in my tastes, enjoying the society of all my town's citizenry.
After my abrupt withdrawal from constant companionship, these, my true friends, inquired after my state, leaving their cards with Hayworth as he, my faithful butler, politely but firmly turned them all away. Consequently, they ceased further inquiry into my health and caught up with their own lives and made tracks elsewhere. Needless to say, my doorway has not been brightened by old friends for a considerable time.
Though the August sun has been burning with her characteristic, seasonal fire, I cannot for the life of me be rid of this penetrating, bone-biting chill that has settled in at my core. When, one day, I had casually regarded my overall aspect in the bevelled glass of Mother's wardrobe mirror, I was taken aback by both an aggressive increase in facial pallor and a mallen streak creeping up a disconcertingly flaky scalp.
Months had already languorously passed, with myself confined to what had once been Mother's suite. I steadfastly refused, with obdurate resolve, to allow my curious eyes to wander toward the honesty of silvered glass. With the passage of time, I completely left off wondering about that horrid reflection cast in glass.
Despite what I had discerned to be incremental physical modifications over time, I one day forced myself to look head on into that dread mirror. What frightened me was what I beheld fading . . .
I.