Notice the slender perfectly sowed figure. The dazzling color of the snow itself. The highlighted details. The puffed sleeves and the little bodice. Everything combined with each other, makes it the ultimate fire in a woman's desiring heart. It is the attachment to the very feminine side of your inner goddess - only to be created by the dress itself. Who am I kidding? The goddess is me; dress or not. But surely, the dress sparkled my body up, more than usual that night. Oh that night; surrounded by the purest and finest furniture. Only to be completed by the perfect matching colors on the walls. The champagne bottles were popped off and as to fulfill the missing sound of cheerful laughter, gossip and money discussion were set alive over the dinner. The mood was excellent and the atmosphere was filled with excitement - as always, when around me.What I didn't do to make the night end perfect, to make it memorable and worth the price of the dress. And now, all I can do, is watch. Watch carefully as the dress adjusts to the body of a young woman, who seems too eager, too distracted by the situation and her excitement, unaware of the dress' real owner. Will she even have the guts to do, what she has planned, not aware of the consequences? I know the consequences of her decision. Yet, I can’t help but smile at her failed attempt to be something she’s not and will never be. As she stands there, fitting the dress by the help of her ally, - her so beloved Clarice - with lighting in her eyes, equal to her beautifully yet too innocent blond hair, framing her round face with marked cheekbones and blue eyes, the act itself gives me blood on my teeth. Nobody knows I’m here in the corner of her room, only able to see by the light of myself, which no one notice. If my imagination wants to, I can walk a few steps closer to her, do her harm in a certain way - observe and capture the moment, without her notice. She would scream and accuse her ’oh so dear Clarice’, and she would deny and there would be accusations against one and another - just the way I like it.As she carefully receives the brown curly wig from her ally and puts it on her head, the reflection of herself in the mirror, surprises all corners of the room. The curls of the wig, perfectly standing out from the face, do such a change in the young woman’s face, that I by fright take a step back, and to my surprise I can’t feel the wall against my back as I have expected. It is as if I see my very own breath in front of me, yet it is only the light from the moon. And as the light from the moon falls on the young woman, her face lightens up by the beauty of herself - or is it the fact, that she’s finally someone else than herself, that has dawned her? My lips pulls up into a smile by the thought.Flawlessly, I nearly hover over to the doorway as few knocks on the door is set alive. I observe her expression and the sudden despair rush over her face as Beatrice, talks to her through the door, only to know when she will be down. Oh Beatrice, poor woman, the protective mind of her would stop this young girl abruptly, only to prevent to experience the facial expression of her brother, Maxwell. I smile at the thought of him. This will not only cause shock, but also a remembering - I told him he wouldn’t and couldn’t forget me, and this is how my word is being held.Beatrice is gone now, and I slender across the corridor to the doorway leading to the west wing, to stand beside Mrs. Denvers. All because of her, and all for her. The pleasure is her and mine, as well as Maxwell’s - if only he knew it. As soon as this young girl has secured herself that nobody is on the stairway, she quickly manages to get herself out of her room filled with excitement. We all are very excited, I think and smile divinely. By exchanging a few words to a young man, she gets herself ready as the sound of drums, as a presentation, fills out the corridor and down the stairs to fulfill the silence in the room that now is laid upon them all. She comes forward to the start of the stairs, almost as if she walks into a spotlight of fame, with a delighted smile on her face. And to complete this ridiculous attempt of hers, the hat which is matching to the dress, is in her hands, almost glued to the skin of her hands as if it is her property. None of this will ever be her property, and this will give her the lesson. I laugh exultantly as I watch the faces of the crowd. The light from the moon reflecting into the eyes of one and another, making their faces all pale white. The reaction itself is hilarious. I walk a few steps away from the doorway, to observe Maxwell’s expression clearly and detailed, always to remember it afterwards. Oh and Maxwell, his face all ashen white and eyes filled with anger. This is your memory of me, my dear.And as the first one to speak, Beatrice utters a cry followed by her hands to cover her mouth - no one dares to speak.He walks forward to the stairs and without showing her the slightest sign of loving her, he speaks cold and direct to her, ‘‘What do hell do you think you are doing?’’. Oh those words, so perfectly match able to those I heard from your lips that night, my love. That night you filled me up with lies, telling me you didn’t wanted me any longer. How was I supposed to believe that? Of course, you wanted me - and you still want me. The emotions in your face shows it all, dear.In cold and distant manners, the two ’’lovebirds’’ exchange words, and then I watch this young girl run down the corridor, noticing Mrs. Denvers, with that exact delighted smile, identical with mine. She disappears into her room, and after her is Beatrice in such a hurry.I hover into her room.Laughing my delicate grin while watching the hopelessly young girl all shattered, and Beatrice trying to cheer her up, I slowly disappear into the corner of the room again - lightly fading into the darkness as if I‘m equal to it.I will always be the true, Mrs. De Winter. Rebecca.
/Mille
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