But Still
bellonablack said she wanted to read my "The Yellow Wall-Paper" fanfic that I wrote for my Studies in Women and Literature course, so I decided to post it here for anyone who's interested. I was going to post it on FFN, but I can't figure out what the appropriate category would be, so... whatever.
Title: But Still
Author: slytherin-heart
Original Work: The Yellow Wall-Paper
Rating: G/K/E/whatever - anyone can read it
Disclaimer: "The Yellow Wall-Paper" is not mine, and no profit is being made off of this besides the fact that hopefully it'll increase my grade in Studies in Women and Literature. Some artistic license has been taken, etc. etc.
But Still
His wife was… sufficient. She was pretty, when she felt well enough to try. She had some sort of intellect, when it suited her - though, lately, it hadn’t. She even bore him a son, which was more than a lot of men could say about their wives. But still.
He knew that he should be satisfied with her. It was not her fault that she was ill. She was not, by any means, the only woman in the country suffering from hysteria. But still.
He could not suppress the thought that it was her fault that she was so sick; she was weak. She hadn’t always been so frail. When he married her, she had been lively enough, and had even been known to write a bit. Now, it was rare that he could get her to hold a conversation about anything besides that damn wallpaper. Didn’t she realize that he had more important things to think about than the decorations? But still.
He tried not to think about the wallpaper. Admittedly, it was not a pleasant color. But it was irrelevant. They were only in the room, only in the house, for three months; they would grow used to it, or leave soon enough anyway. There was no point in even considering the matter. But still.
He would admit, if pressed, that there was one point of interest in the room. Sometimes, late at night or in the middle of the day if the sun was hitting the walls at the proper angle, he would see a woman in the wallpaper - and what a woman it was. She was wild and powerful, though trapped by the complex, nonsensical pattern of lines weaved across the room. She wanted to be free, he could tell; she was fighting her way through, and it seemed as if she was getting a little bit closer every time he looked. He knew that she couldn’t be real, that it was merely an optical illusion of some sort, and that he shouldn’t spend his time worrying about such things. But still.
He couldn’t help himself. He was discrete about the whole ordeal; he needn’t put such ideas into his wife’s mind. He looked for her, the woman in the wallpaper, every time he came into the room - and soon, he was finding her more and more often. It seemed that any time she managed to free herself from one set of tangles, another would apppear to trap her. It was hopeless; she would never be able to escape her prison, not at this rate. She should give up, and he should ignore her. But still.
He would go, while his wife was walking the grounds, and talk to her; his wife thought that he was working, but it was better that way. He would guide her, the woman in the wallpaper, through the treacherous knots that barred her way. He couldn’t manipulate them physically, but he could and did talk her through them; she made swifter progress when he was around, because he could see the vines waiting for her with her next step. She was grateful to him, for helping her through; maybe she would be free from her prison someday. He was waiting eagerly for the day that she would be out in the open, able to fight him in the same way that she was fighting her surroundings now; he felt that he direly needed the company, in the same way that his wife had once been. That time might not be for a while, he knew. But still.
He had to wait; he had to help her. He didn’t have a choice, not anymore, not now that he’d seen the fire and the passion and the strength that this woman, the woman in the wallpaper, possessed. He would spend as much time as he could, sneaking it in while his wife was outside or asleep. Even while he was out working, his thoughts stayed at home, winding through the twists in the wallpaper pattern, wondering how far she’d gotten in his absence. Sometimes, he worried that she would succeed while he was gone, and vanish without him knowing. He knew that this was always possible, and that he shouldn’t care so much about her, this woman in the wallpaper. But still.
He realized the problem one day, while talking to her, the woman in the wallpaper; her prison would not allow itself to be empty. The branches would never release her so long as she was their sole occupant; he knew what he needed to do. He was loathe to subject his wife to the imprisonment. But still.
His wife had no fire, no spark; she would not mind being captured nearly as much as she, the woman in the wallpaper, did. He had to free her, the woman in the wallpaper, so that he could have her company - and he had to have her company. So he trapped his wife, slowly but surely, day after day. Sometimes, it seemed like it would never work, like the walls would not accept his offering. But still.
He came home one day, and knew that his wife was gone; he could see her standing there, sullen but resigned, within the snarls of the wallpaper. He could see, too, the woman of his obsession, the woman in the wallpaper, crouched down, crawling around the perimeter of the room. She was hunched over, almost curled into herself, like a frightened animal, bowing her head to him, her savior, refusing to make eye contact. There must have been a mistake, he thought. But still.
He looked at the walls again and saw her, his wife, beginning to fight against her restraints; there was the power and strength he had remembered in her. In a moment, he realized what he had done. He fainted, and for a long while was nothing but still.
Title: But Still
Author: slytherin-heart
Original Work: The Yellow Wall-Paper
Rating: G/K/E/whatever - anyone can read it
Disclaimer: "The Yellow Wall-Paper" is not mine, and no profit is being made off of this besides the fact that hopefully it'll increase my grade in Studies in Women and Literature. Some artistic license has been taken, etc. etc.
But Still
His wife was… sufficient. She was pretty, when she felt well enough to try. She had some sort of intellect, when it suited her - though, lately, it hadn’t. She even bore him a son, which was more than a lot of men could say about their wives. But still.
He knew that he should be satisfied with her. It was not her fault that she was ill. She was not, by any means, the only woman in the country suffering from hysteria. But still.
He could not suppress the thought that it was her fault that she was so sick; she was weak. She hadn’t always been so frail. When he married her, she had been lively enough, and had even been known to write a bit. Now, it was rare that he could get her to hold a conversation about anything besides that damn wallpaper. Didn’t she realize that he had more important things to think about than the decorations? But still.
He tried not to think about the wallpaper. Admittedly, it was not a pleasant color. But it was irrelevant. They were only in the room, only in the house, for three months; they would grow used to it, or leave soon enough anyway. There was no point in even considering the matter. But still.
He would admit, if pressed, that there was one point of interest in the room. Sometimes, late at night or in the middle of the day if the sun was hitting the walls at the proper angle, he would see a woman in the wallpaper - and what a woman it was. She was wild and powerful, though trapped by the complex, nonsensical pattern of lines weaved across the room. She wanted to be free, he could tell; she was fighting her way through, and it seemed as if she was getting a little bit closer every time he looked. He knew that she couldn’t be real, that it was merely an optical illusion of some sort, and that he shouldn’t spend his time worrying about such things. But still.
He couldn’t help himself. He was discrete about the whole ordeal; he needn’t put such ideas into his wife’s mind. He looked for her, the woman in the wallpaper, every time he came into the room - and soon, he was finding her more and more often. It seemed that any time she managed to free herself from one set of tangles, another would apppear to trap her. It was hopeless; she would never be able to escape her prison, not at this rate. She should give up, and he should ignore her. But still.
He would go, while his wife was walking the grounds, and talk to her; his wife thought that he was working, but it was better that way. He would guide her, the woman in the wallpaper, through the treacherous knots that barred her way. He couldn’t manipulate them physically, but he could and did talk her through them; she made swifter progress when he was around, because he could see the vines waiting for her with her next step. She was grateful to him, for helping her through; maybe she would be free from her prison someday. He was waiting eagerly for the day that she would be out in the open, able to fight him in the same way that she was fighting her surroundings now; he felt that he direly needed the company, in the same way that his wife had once been. That time might not be for a while, he knew. But still.
He had to wait; he had to help her. He didn’t have a choice, not anymore, not now that he’d seen the fire and the passion and the strength that this woman, the woman in the wallpaper, possessed. He would spend as much time as he could, sneaking it in while his wife was outside or asleep. Even while he was out working, his thoughts stayed at home, winding through the twists in the wallpaper pattern, wondering how far she’d gotten in his absence. Sometimes, he worried that she would succeed while he was gone, and vanish without him knowing. He knew that this was always possible, and that he shouldn’t care so much about her, this woman in the wallpaper. But still.
He realized the problem one day, while talking to her, the woman in the wallpaper; her prison would not allow itself to be empty. The branches would never release her so long as she was their sole occupant; he knew what he needed to do. He was loathe to subject his wife to the imprisonment. But still.
His wife had no fire, no spark; she would not mind being captured nearly as much as she, the woman in the wallpaper, did. He had to free her, the woman in the wallpaper, so that he could have her company - and he had to have her company. So he trapped his wife, slowly but surely, day after day. Sometimes, it seemed like it would never work, like the walls would not accept his offering. But still.
He came home one day, and knew that his wife was gone; he could see her standing there, sullen but resigned, within the snarls of the wallpaper. He could see, too, the woman of his obsession, the woman in the wallpaper, crouched down, crawling around the perimeter of the room. She was hunched over, almost curled into herself, like a frightened animal, bowing her head to him, her savior, refusing to make eye contact. There must have been a mistake, he thought. But still.
He looked at the walls again and saw her, his wife, beginning to fight against her restraints; there was the power and strength he had remembered in her. In a moment, he realized what he had done. He fainted, and for a long while was nothing but still.