Author Topic: Cécila-Valentina Von Chéreau- Scripts Between Socialites (Read 1476 times)

TherapyCat · « **on:** July 20, 2024, 03:01:56 AM »

[Two women, bound by the tether of time, find solace in a common pastime. Regardless of the day's temperament - be it fraught, banal, jubilant, solemn or infuriating - they each retreat to their quiet corner, quill poised above parchment, their hearts transcribing their most intimate thoughts... their minds whispering to their souls. Could this shared ritual be the solitary thread weaving their fates together...?]

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

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May 4th, 752

An uncanny sensation, indeed. Or should I say...odd? The theatre, my dear refuge, has tutored me in the intricate dance of decorum, particularly amidst the illustrious echelons of society. Yet, as I pirouette at the epicenter of this grand masquerade, I can't help but trip over my own two feet. The gilded cage of nobles and social butterflies...do they truly desire honesty? Or merely the dulcet tones of flattery, polished and refined like a well-cut diamond? It's a bitter pill, this pretense, yet I swallow it for my beloved Claude. He revels in this world like a peacock in full bloom. Relishing the spotlight on his ventures, basking in the applause, the finery, the decadent banquets, the silken suits...and how they not just recognize his name, but kneel before it with reverence. I can only implore the heavens that this intoxicating brew of adulation doesn't spoil him...for oh, how I would mourn the loss of the earnest lad from the Marchand who serenaded me with a clover ring. Despite his newfound wealth in gemstones, I contend – to anyone who dares lend an ear – that my humble clover remains the most coveted jewel of them all...

On the cusp of an autumn eve, as dusk unfurled its cloak, the echoes of our union reverberated... An event of humble semblance, it was. Discarded candles, their lives half-spent, now found renewed purpose, casting an ethereal glow upon the shoreline... I, arrayed in the spectral echoes of my mother's own bridal attire, rendered white once more, not for deception, but a nod to tradition... Claude, in a suit borrowed not from a friend, but a benefactor, his workman's garb momentarily set aside... Weeds, plucked from the edge of the woods, transformed into an unassuming bouquet of rustic charm...
Only two souls bore witness... Melodie, my kin in blood and spirit, and Gabriel claude’s dearest friend...The melody of my own composition served as my march, carrying me across the sands, toward the sea's tender cradle... The joining of hands, a silent testament to our bond...
The vows, oh, the vows... Just three promises, no more, no less... Was Claude undeserving of a grander pledge? No, it was not a question of his worth, but one of honesty... of realism... Could I promise him the universe? Perhaps... But I feared it was he who had already bestowed it upon me...

I vow to cherish the tender sentiment of love, from its initial spark... to the final flicker of life's candle...
I pledge my fidelity, as if my heart and sight were blind to the existence of another...
I assure to preserve my authenticity, so the woman you fell for... remains an indelible memory...

In the grand scheme of our existence, we found ourselves immortalizing the moment with a tender kiss... amongst other sentimentalities. Why, one might wonder, does this particular day awaken such an emotional landscape within my heart? Claude's return, imminent as it is, looms near...I should prepare ‘something’ for him indeed.

[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

(tw: Curse Words In Song))

Spoiler: show

TherapyCat · « **Reply #1 on:** July 20, 2024, 06:39:32 PM »

[two women, write again.. and again.. as if this is the only place where their shared voices can exist between time, unedited.]

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

TherapyCat · « **Reply #2 on:** July 29, 2024, 12:02:17 PM »

[two women, write again.. and again.. as if this is the only place where their shared voices can exist between time, unedited.]

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show
Quote
July 28th, 779

I rediscovered my love for dancing while choreographing my upcoming musical on the softly illuminated stage, with only the theater staff present as silent witnesses. Their focus was not on me but on the theater itself – the curtains, shadows, lights, benches, doorways, and windows. This absence of scrutiny allowed me to dance without fear of judgment. I strayed from the prescribed choreography, dancing freely for the first time in years. It was a departure from the structured and disciplined nature of ballet, where the fundamentals are honed for the eventual moment of unrestrained expression akin to the flight of birds.
In my youth, dancing brought simplicity to my life. I possessed a slender frame and garnered admiration effortlessly. During that ephemeral period, my peers found me captivating, while Gabriel remained untouched by the turmoil of war. His eyes still held a brightness that eclipsed any gem, making him my cherished beacon. The notion of acquiring a suitor was then a jest, a distant reminder of future obligations, not a daily imposition. My father found joy in observing my dances, considering them a mere pastime to occupy my restless mind, rather than a lifelong aspiration. Surrounded by acquaintances who knew my name, strolling arm in arm back from the ballet house felt akin to having a companion.
I so desperately long for a friend.
Not someone I employ, or someone who wants a part in the next play I write, or to take a moment of passion from me, but a genuine friend.
It is intriguing, isn't it? Somewhat morbidly so. My mother and Ezra bestowed upon me a lifelong friend; we developed in the same womb, born only 6 minutes apart. Yet, now it seems as though he is a stranger to me.
What transpired during those six minutes?
What unfolded during the war?
What became of Gabriel?

[/center]

TherapyCat · « **Reply #3 on:** August 13, 2024, 08:35:02 PM »

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

August 10th, 779
I’m barely sleeping anymore, every time I attempt, I hear this soft, yet shrill echo lamenting through the walls of the hotel room. It sounds so familiar, so intricately warm, and yet I have not the slightest inclination of why it is happening. When I awake, I see nothing out of the ordinary, other than this dairy is always open to an empty page, and the quill is slightly escew. But there is never any other writings upon it other than my own.... I wonder if I have been so busy lately that it is simply my own exhaustion playing tricks on me. And assuming Gabriel is trying to toy with me is never out of the question.

Yet something about it seems odd. Purposeful.

I think the majority seemed to enjoy the play. It is always so hard to tell. When I was younger and performing in the ballets, people would smile, dip their heads. They would say nice things, but mere moments after I would see them turn and mutter lowly amongst themselves as they spared fleeting glances to me. I could tell they didn’t truely believe a woman of my waistline deserved to be there. And for the longest time, I believed them.
Perhaps a part of myself still believes them.

Some ginger woman didn’t enjoy it. She harbored some disdain because she thought it to be a parrel to some criminal named Dove. I never knew a woman named after a bird. It was hard to hold my tongue. The play of course, had many parrels, none of course to a stranger delinquent I had never met.
Aimee was me in many ways. Not fitting into the traditional look and allure of a performer. Doing what she loved, despite her father's wishes. Her father desperately misses his wife and limits the life his daughter could have because of it. Aimee’s mother being missing was a game of grief I used to play as a child. Hoping that somehow my own was not dead, but just.. misplaced somewhere and creating scenarios of where she might have been. The Macabre nature of it, was purely for shock value. I wanted to garner attention. I wanted them to remember this play, for whatever it might have been. The delicate aesthetic of it all, the mention of lace, sweet-tasting pastries, the color palette, all of it was a nod to the force of feminity that has been pushed upon me my entire life.

It wasn’t a parrel to a criminal.

It was a parallel to me.

I didn’t intend to perform. I wrote the play so I wouldn’t have to perform, but here we are I suppose. Figures. The stage light was brighter than I remember. Lines were easier to learn at least, when one writes the script I find, and my castmates were supportive, overwhelmingly so. I want to believe that perhaps I could stem friendships from this comradery, but my father would warn me to be smarter than that. “Allies, not friends” he’d remind me if he was here.

I’m grateful he’s not here.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #4 on:** October 13, 2024, 05:25:06 PM »

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

October 10th, 779
I find myself uncertain about the reception of my latest play. While audience members applaud and bestow comments upon me as if I were some sort of revolutionary figure, I do not share that sentiment. I feel more like a fool wielding a quill, haphazardly scattering words onto paper in an attempt to craft something of merit. The gilded quill longs to engage with a representative, yet I did not anticipate the necessity of actual conversation. I had hoped my works would speak for themselves, allowing me to maintain a reclusive and elusive presence. At times, it feels as though I am surpassing my own creative limits, yet the allure of the spotlight and the accolades is undeniably intoxicating. It is a peculiar contradiction; while on stage, I crave their attention, but once the lights dim, my deepest desire is to retreat into obscurity. This juxtaposition is both bewildering and profound.
I often look to my peers for guidance, though I cannot shake the feeling that a doctor, a maitresse, and a baroness—who I know are not truly my equals—serve as my companions in this realm. Although I hold noble status as the daughter of a baronet, I am acutely aware of my position at the lower end of the social hierarchy.

The pressure to improve my standing, perhaps through a more advantageous marriage, is immense. The doctor, for instance, detests casual conversation, preferring to immerse herself in lengthy written discourse. I empathize with her to some extent; as a child, I was sociable and outgoing, but as the years progressed, the weight I carried and my diminishing self-esteem compelled me to seek refuge in solitude when confronted with social expectations. In contrast, the baroness and the maitresse thrive on conversation and social engagement, both on and off the stage. Sometimes, I wonder if I was meant to radiate as they do, only to have forgotten how along the way.

Then there is.. this other woman-- /her/. She possesses an unusual allure, a profound darkness that I struggle to articulate, yet it is undeniably captivating. This enigmatic quality, combined with her elusiveness, creates a duality—she is both inviting and secretive, akin to an intricate play that requires patience to fully comprehend. When she smiles, it is haunting, penetrating, and direct. Her talent is natural, evoking a sense of envy within me, while simultaneously compelling me to observe her every endeavor.
She engages with me as if we share a friendship, casual and unpretentious. I am aware that this connection lacks depth; we will never braid each other’s hair or spend nights confiding secrets. Yet, in fleeting moments, when she offers that enigmatic smile, I find myself indulging in the fantasy of what could be. There are many things I wish we could share, but ultimately, it is inconsequential. I chose not to attend her event, overwhelmed by fear that a single additional moment in her presence might unravel me completely. The thought of being seen merely gazing at her—exposing my feelings—terrifies me.

I am surrounded by beautiful women, talented men, and decent individuals.
Yet, I feel disconnected from them, and they remain unaware of my existence. This is the intricate dance of nobility, one for which my upbringing has prepared me. I understand it all too well, and I loathe that I do.

Sleep eludes me, though I am fortunate that no one seems to notice. My heavily painted face and relentless work schedule lead others to assume that my exhaustion stems from my artistic endeavors. However, the echoes of the night grow increasingly elaborate, and no one has questioned why my writings are marked by themes of death. No one seems to inquire about my single status or scrutinize my actions—unless they pertain to the arts. Even Gabriel has ceased to question me.

Do they already sense my inner turmoil, or do they simply not care?
Perhaps this city is more liberating than my father warned me it would be.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #5 on:** October 17, 2024, 07:25:11 PM »

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

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October 17th, 779

I find it difficult to like him.

My discontent began on the day I attended his wedding and witnessed the profound misery of his bride-to-be. She seemed on the verge of dissolving into a puddle of despair, and he appeared oblivious, ready to marry her regardless. The atmosphere was deeply unsettling, reminiscent of a haunted house, surrounded by mist and clergymen, evoking a sense of darkness and ritualism.
I understand that this is how weddings typically unfold and that many marriages can be perceived as insincere. I recognize this reality.
However, that does not mean I have to embrace it.
Nor do I have to like him.

He embodies the type of individual my father seeks solace in, but I cannot bring myself to do the same. I harbor a fear of men like him—those who are acutely aware of the suffering of those around them yet remain indifferent. While I may consider myself an opportunist, I do not possess cruelty or inhumanity.
Perhaps he epitomizes the very qualities that define humanity and masculinity: an insatiable, self-serving greed. I have observed similar traits in women, including her, as she sat across from him, her words bubbling forth with enthusiasm. Their conversation flowed like beautiful birds engaging in a harmonious exchange.
At times, he appeared impressed by her; she knew how to say the right things. Their interaction resembled a self-indulgent dance, each fulfilling the other's ego in a cycle of admiration.

In contrast, he showed no interest in me whatsoever. At best, he found me dull; at worst, he viewed my reluctance to engage in his game as an annoyance.

All I yearn for is the chance to dance once more.

The writing emerged organically, as did the acting.

Even this social interaction at the table unfolded without intention.

He seeks to establish a connection between our businesses. If this had occurred merely a month ago, I would have embraced the opportunity, embodying my father's legacy of seizing every potential profit. I would have taken everything he had to offer, all while receiving his gratitude. Such is the Von Chereau way. However, I sense a transformation within myself—one that renders me quieter, more modest, and contemplative. I find myself allowing my counterpart to dominate the conversation.
It is unfortunate that she is a woman; my father would undoubtedly appreciate her.

Moreover, it is regrettable that she is not my counterpart, as I have developed an affinity for her.

As they engage in conversation, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Sleep eludes me, and when I do manage to rest, it is fragmented and fleeting, leaving me more fatigued than if I remained awake. I cannot pinpoint the cause of this exhaustion, except for the persistent sound of a woman singing. I do not know her identity or her intentions, yet I wish she would cease, allowing me to find solace—or at least project her voice with enough clarity for me to grasp her words. I fear myself.

I am beginning to hear her throughout the day as well. In moments of silence, or even while seated in the café, her presence is palpable. She proves to be quite distracting. The song is simplistic in its composition, almost childlike, and it seems as though it may have been intended for children. Her voice often resonates in my mind during quiet moments in social interactions.

I’d rather hear the unknown voice of a woman than play the petty games of a man.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #6 on:** October 28, 2024, 04:49:06 PM »

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

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[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

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October 27th 779

Women often present a perplexing dynamic. It may seem amusing for me to express this, considering I am a woman myself, yet the complexity remains undeniable.
When I compliment her, she responds in a manner reminiscent of those trained in nobility to navigate discomfort—offering a few polite words and a smile that reveals just enough teeth, signaling disinterest.

However, she subsequently invited me for drinks. What should I make of this? Is it a mere gesture of pity, or is it a sincere invitation? Is she genuinely interested or not?
I find myself at a loss. Even if she were interested, I am uncertain of how to proceed. Courtship feels out of the question; marriage seems implausible, and love feels unattainable.
Furthermore, any physical contact could jeopardize her reputation—and mine as well. I have no desire to tarnish her standing. Ezra knows I cannot forgo my own.
Even as I make my waves within this city, it will never be enough to stand alone.

I find it challenging to stand alone; I do not possess the strength, creativity, or boldness of the remarkable women who inhabit this city.
In comparison to her, I feel weaker.

Perhaps that is why I am so captivated by her. She embodies quiet strength, intelligence, wit, and resilience.
She is truly exceptional.

While the play was undoubtedly a success, I find it challenging to fully relish this accomplishment as I walk home alone. Upon closing the door, a profound sense of loneliness envelops me. At times, I fantasize about her presence; we could engage in conversation for hours, and I would relish listening to her stories. I yearn to learn more about her, to uncover aspects of her that may not conform to conventional beauty. Although I have yet to witness these facets, I am aware they exist, and for some reason, I feel compelled to seek them out. My intention is not to exploit this knowledge, as many socialites might, but rather to understand her more deeply and foster a closer connection in this manner.
Perhaps it would be better to forget about my attraction to her entirely. A drunk cannot drown himself in his vices if he forbids himself from them.
I haven’t taken a drink from her yet, and I am already helpless.

She, however, spins through life unchanged.

It isn’t fair.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #7 on:** November 22, 2024, 11:10:35 PM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

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Quote

Novembre 22nd, 779

I have a strong aversion to interviews, particularly when I am the focal point. I dislike providing responses that lack authenticity; however, I have been conditioned to do precisely that. To do otherwise would be deemed immoral, and it would tarnish the esteemed Von Chereau name. Anything less than flawless would be unacceptable. I, Cecila-Valentia Von Chereau, am compelled to embody perfection.

Monsieur Fielder was a genuinely kind man. Had he not been affiliated with a questionable organization, we might have forged a friendship. He had an acute awareness of my somewhat fabricated responses, a quality I appreciated in him. His intellect is commendable, yet I can only hope that it does not lead him into peril within this intricate social maze known as dementileu.
That is why I remain stupid. Simple.
To craft each answer as if it were a delicate piece of art, carefully curated to fit the expectations set upon me. The dance of words required finesse, a skill I had honed over years of practice. As I sat across from him, I maintained a serene composure, my smile never faltering, even when the questions bordered on the mundane.
Perhaps it was a relief, in a sense, that he did not dig deeper, for beneath the polished exterior lay a world of complexities that I was not ready to unravel before him. It was easier to remain within the confines of this well-rehearsed performance, to keep the layers of my true self hidden away.
Still, I wish I could’ve responded how I truely wanted to. Perhaps here is the only place I can.

“First things first... How did you get involved with the Theatre de la Cathedrale?”

I sifted through my dead mothers things, drawn to them as if they were part of a macabre choir. Because they were. As a child it felt like they were screeaching at me, demanding my attention. I mean this quite literally of course. It was rather horrifying.
I adored ballet. But ballet did not adore me back. So this is the closest thing I can find to performing ballet that does not make me wish to shoot myself.
That and if I distract my father with how succesfull I am at this, I pray he will make me not marry an old, decrepit man. Because if that fate happens, I will whole heartedly-- have to shoot myself.

“What has it meant for you to see people lining up out the door?”

As an individual who would prefer to be in a locked room, spinning around for hours rather than confronting social situations, I find it quite burdensome. Despite my efforts, it often feels as though expectations continue to rise—more perfection, more creativity, and an expectation of wisdom as if I were an ancient sage. However, I must confess: I do not possess such wisdom. I am merely a spontaneous, impulse-driven being, akin to a puppy on a leash, dreaming of becoming a rabid wolf.
I am truly appreciative of their favorable opinion of me. The only thing hated more than a woman, is a woman people have no use for.

“ What a touching thing to say. Speaking of what's next... I was reading your "Stargazer Gazette" and saw mention of your upcoming production, "Allotment". What can you tell us about it ahead of time?”

I could’nt possibly know. I have penned three pages of this script merely to fill the void on the theater boards. It revolves around themes of time, love, or perhaps something else entirely. Did I mention I don’t know? I am not a writer; I am a ballet dancer momentarily assuming the role of a playwright with a quill in hand. I don’t know. Why must I always feel compelled to anticipate my next move? I do not know. I am nineteen. I still feel like a child. I don’t know anything.

"Tell me about your love for stars, mademoiselle."

The stars are a quiet rebellion, a token of freedom for me. But if I say that I sound like a red-shash woman. I’m not. I enjoy my wealth. I would’nt be poor for love. But often find myself daydreaming about the experience of being in love and the sense of freedom it entails. I envision sneaking out, not just through the window to gaze at the stars, but venturing out into the street, down the road, unencumbered—free to share a kiss with someone, anyone, at any moment.

“ I'll be looking forward to the ball myself.”

I’m not. I’m not remotely excited to watch her perform love songs about men. And dance with men, and smile at men, and see what ensemble she looks fetching in to torture myself with. I’m not excited about any of it. Except maybe the food. I need to hire a caterer.

"If you had one piece of advice for any aspiring playwrights, what would it be?"

partake in alcohol. It makes the constant door of rejection easier.

"Anything you just /need/ the world to know?"

I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t know I exist and I think it is the death of me. Also I think I am cursed because I cannot sleep without hearing distant wailing of women I do not know.
...I also hate the color salmon.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #8 on:** December 09, 2024, 01:41:18 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

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Quote

Decembre 8th, 779

As the last echoes of laughter dissipated and the vibrant lights dimmed into obscurity, the guests of the ball graciously excused themselves, leaving me enveloped in an unsettling stillness. The performers meticulously stowed away their instruments, their elegant movements starkly contrasting the heavy weight settling upon my heart. In that moment of solitude, I found myself alone in the vast hall, and what transpired next was far from noble.

I sank onto the cool mosaic floor, my gaze drawn upwards to the magnificent chandeliers that sparkled like stars in the night sky. These fixtures illuminated the lavish room, steeped in opulence and extravagance. Yet, to me, everything appeared dull and lifeless.

My eyelids grew heavy, likely burdened by the fourteen shades of makeup I had artfully applied. It felt as if I were drifting into a dream, and perhaps I was, for what unfolded next was undeniably surreal.

“"A melody of such melancholy you've conceived... I had hoped for a more cheerful tune, dear one.”

The soft, familiar voice pierced the stillness, sending a surge of panic through me. I sat up abruptly, my heart racing, fearing I had been caught in an unflattering position.
Then I saw her—my mother—reclining beside me on the mosaic floor, her graceful form curled elegantly to one side, a radiant smile illuminating her features. Judith.

In that moment, I grasped the profound truth: she was a reflection of what could have been, a fragmented mirror of my own existence. In this reflection, happiness radiated with unparalleled brightness. The stark contrast between us felt like night and day, and I gazed at her in a blend of awe and horror, grappling with the haunting vision of the woman who was both my mother, smiling at me, and the long-deceased actress who had been absent from my life for the past nineteen years.

The sight was a macabre one. She wore nothing but a dressing gown, stained with blood from the abdomen down to her legs. She was not a beautiful specture of her best days, but instead a haunting image of her last. The day I was born, and the day Judith died.

I stared at her in utter disbelief. She could not be real. She could not be alive. She could not be here. I had always been tormented by apparitions that others could not perceive—distant voices and shadows fleeting past me. My nights were restless, and my mornings filled with paranoia. Yet, this was different; she was undeniably real. The situation was escalating.

I cannot confide in anyone regarding this matter. A single word could lead to my being forgotten, confined to an asylum, or labeled as a lunatic, forever dismissed and taken seriously. My father would likely marry me off to the first suitor who comes along, solely to rid himself of me and preserve his own reputation.
I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them, she would be gone. However, she remained, her smile sincere and unwavering.

"Do the masses ever truly comprehend the profound solitude that dwells within the hearts of poets, I wonder?" my mother would frown them, sympathetic.
I stared at her still speechless. This only seemed to humor her as she continued to speak to me.

"Decades have passed in my quest to reach out to you, cherished Cecilia, and yet, is this the sum of your sentiments now that comprehension dawns? Surely, my words do not fall on deaf ears, do they?"

“No,” I muttered to her, astounded. This was beyond comprehension; it was maddening and felt entirely unreal.

"An abundance of revelations teeter on the edge of my tongue, dear daughter.. Oh, the urgency of these untold truths..."

She prompted, extending her hand toward me. I noticed it possessed an ethereal quality, distinctly non-human in appearance—perhaps even reflective.
“I am listening.” I hurried to give her my undivided attention, my eyes widening in anticipation of the wisdom she was about to share. I yearned for her guidance, as my life had seemingly been a series of blunders, or at least it felt that way.

"Indeed, the melody of your composition has graced her ears as well..." my mother said with a small smile that seemed absolute.

"Bemoan not those who would deny you the role of muse, my dear... such is a destiny of solitude. And am I not familiar with it?"She frowned, glancing at her hand that adorned her wedding ring.

As I prepared to voice my thoughts, I was abruptly jolted awake, gasping as though a shard of ice had pierced my heart. My heart raced as I rose from the floor, surveying the ballroom in shock.

To my joy or dismay I am unsure, but Judith was nowhere to be found.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #9 on:** December 19, 2024, 11:33:13 PM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

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Decembre 19th, 779,

I have irrevocably ruined everything. Not in the hyperbolic sense where circumstances remain intact and I embody the archetype of a tortured artist; no, I have genuinely brought about ruin.

I consciously chose to witness a man’s demise and remained silent. The reason for my inaction eludes me; it felt as though I was compelled to bear witness. I was acutely aware of his impending death, sensing its approach from a distance. Why did I feel the urge to observe a man’s end? He was indeed a vile individual, but what does that reveal about my own nature that I was drawn to witness such an event? I watched on as his eyes rolled back and the blood within his person spilled out of his heart and decorated his being like some macabre canvas. I sound mad, comparing art to some poetic death. But this is something beauitful about it. The end.

I find myself contemplating the concept of endings frequently of late, a reflection I do not take pride in. I often wonder if it would be easier to simply... end it all. In that scenario, Mother would be there. I would be with her, not in the haunting way I am now, but in a natural sense—if there is anything natural left within me.

Gabriel harbors contempt for me, not only for my intrinsic nature but also for the choices I am now making. I anticipated how the letter would reflect on him in our father's eyes, yet he fails to grasp the complexities of my position. He will never understand what it means to be a woman in my circumstances—walking three paces ahead of him yet still feeling ten steps behind. It’s not as if he ever expressed a desire to engage in the family business, but the injustice remains palpable.

I recognize the wrongness of it all.

I despise myself as well.

Love has rendered me foolish—not in a liberating, uplifting manner that frees me from my thoughts and envelops me in blissful ignorance, but rather in a way that compels me to allow myself to be hurt repeatedly. I confessed my feelings to her, and although she was kind, the dagger that pierced my heart did not lessen the pain.

She is untainted, unlike me. I should have realized her perfection in every way, that she could never gaze at women as I do. The fondness, the affection, the admiration—it was all a construct of my imagination. My first love was entirely my own.

Unrequited.

I crafted a narrative and convinced my heart it was reality.

There is nothing more foolish than that.

I find myself at a loss regarding how to navigate my current emotions. The feelings of vulnerability I experience seem to adversely affect those I hold dear. My misconceptions hinder my ability to function effectively, resulting in a cycle of pain and distress.

I want to end, but there are so many things still left to begin.

That, and I am learning that death is never the end, anyhow.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #10 on:** December 24, 2024, 07:39:49 PM »

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Decembre 24th, 779

I want to be different.
This year will be different.

I mentioned my intention to rewrite my narrative to Etolie. While she did not seem entirely supportive of the idea, she lacks any comprehension of my experiences. I genuinely appreciate Etolie; she is a good friend and a talented performer. However, she is a baroness who married for love, seamlessly fitting into social circles with her effortless charm and cascading hair. It is clear that she has never had to struggle for acceptance.

I certainly did not have to force myself to like her.

Etolie posed numerous questions about my decision, the most piercing being, “Who made you feel like you needed to change?” I deftly dodged that question.
I doubt that altering myself will create any affection of the mademoiselle I fell in love with.
I can finally write her name without fear of scandal, for the scandal exists only in my mind.

Madeliene Picaud.

Although I do not know her middle name, I envision it to be Elouise; she seems to embody that name.

I do not harbor resentment toward her for denying my affections. It would be cruel to blame her for something beyond her control, just as it is for me. She did extend a gesture of friendship, which I accepted, as I would genuinely like to be her friend in time. Yet, I struggle with feelings of envy when I look at her. As a twin, I have often felt like a half of a whole, a fragment of existence. When she smiles at me, I experience a fleeting sense of completeness.

But she has never felt whole.
This realization leaves me feeling emptier than ever.

I do not believe that changing will bring me love.
I doubt it will make me more likable to anyone, for that matter.
However, it may render me more tolerable, easier to digest.
Perhaps achieving a state of invisibility is more attainable than love.

I loathe the skin I inhabit; it feels like a dichotomy, either celebrated or reviled. I observe how confidently other women carry themselves and strive to emulate that grace, but it remains elusive to me. Do people genuinely like themselves? I suspect I never have.
I recognize that I possess notable qualities. Yet, is my worth solely defined by my ability to write a script or hit a musical note? I yearn for something more. I contemplate pursuing an education, as even those who may not appreciate Mademoiselle Parsons or find Dr. Detourne too brash still command respect.
Perhaps what I truly desire is to be taken seriously.

I have only a vague outline for this transformation, which follows:

1. Enroll in university.

2. Reconcile with Gabriel (Check).

3. Attempt to pursue a romantic relationship, (with a man...) despite my apprehensions.

4. Consider a new hairstyle? I remain uncertain.

5. Avoid wearing cyan again, as it reminds me of her; I need to forget her.

6. Cultivate emotional resilience (perhaps by prioritizing better sleep).

7. Exercise greater caution with my words.

8. Present a less genuine persona (outwardly).

9. Reevaluate my eating habits.

10. Become a maîtresse. (How challenging could that be?)

If I successfully overcome these challenges and the republic acknowledges my efforts,
then why couldn't Father?

TherapyCat · « **Reply #11 on:** December 29, 2024, 01:07:02 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Decembre 29th, 779

He never truly saw the paintings, not in the way I did. He would glance, sure, but his eyes were empty, his gaze vacant, as if he were looking through the canvas to some distant point beyond. All the while, he continued to drape his words over me, like a shroud. It was a shame. The paintings were a symphony of colour and emotion, silent stories waiting to be told, if only he’d listened. I longed to engage him, to discuss the art, the beauty, the mystery of the world around us. But he was unmoved, uninterested.
This melancholy that clings to me is a cold, heavy chain. It binds me, pulling me back to the same, solitary thoughts, over and over again.

“You look every inch the proper young woman.”

Was that a sincere accolade, or a veiled jibe at my figure? Or perhaps, an applause for comprehending my position at last. The certainty eludes me, but I am fated to ruminate on it endlessly.

“How do you intend to capitalize on the death?”

Death. It has never brought me any benefit. The question felt almost overwhelming to contemplate. Death has only served to derail my life, robbing me of what I hold dear. Now I am expected to find power or momentum in it? The notion seems morbid—no, it feels inherently evil, like a vulture awaiting its next meal. Surely, he did not intend it in such a manner.
I hope he did not mean it that way.

“Whatever you want, I can put in a word for you.”

His words hold no power to sway her heart in my direction. They are but empty promises, hollow echoes in the night. They cannot paint her thoughts with the same dark shades that haunt my own. Neither can they steal away her flaws, those beautiful imperfections, nor force her to return my unrequited love. What use is all else when love, the one thing I yearn for, remains elusive? It's a harsh reality, leaving everything else feeling meaningless.

“There are few men in the city who don’t have their secrets.”

This is the existence he weaves for me, a dance with a phantom who will forever shroud himself in deceit, forever elusive, forever an enigma. When I begged him to seek out a soul of kindness, he deemed it a quest for the unattainable, an illusion mirrored in his gaze.
Such understanding is intimate to me, for it is an echo of my own despair.

Such a man is but a myth.

He articulated several other remarks that were both poignant and hurtful; however, I choose not to document them. I refuse to carry the burden of his words for more than a day. Ultimately, he is mistaken. I am determined to forge my own path, and my gravestone will signify more than just 'wife' or 'daughter.' I will embody something greater.
I will be different.
And he will be proven wrong.

Updated List:

1. Enroll in university. (Check? I applied. With my major in Fine Arts (Theatre) and A minor in Natural sciences (Geology)

2. Reconcile with Gabriel (Check)-- We designed a ring together for the Councilor Palaescu. Gabriel still gives bratty comments from time to time, but I believe we are mended, for the moment. I am excited about our impending birthday.

3. Attempt to pursue a romantic relationship, (with a man...) despite my apprehensions. ( I have not the slighest idea where to begin with. Nor do I really desire. It is more a chore
than anything else.)

4. Consider a new hairstyle? (I did this! Only Madeliene noticed... it was rather counterproductive.)

5. Avoid wearing cyan again, as it reminds me of her; I need to forget her. (I’m still trying to forget her... It’s not going well)

6. Cultivate emotional resilience ( I don’t sleep. I cannot sleep. I have tried every tea in dementileu. Perhaps I should befriend the doctor and demurely ask about this?)

7. Exercise greater caution with my words. (I’m doing this, it’s miserable)

8. Present a less genuine persona (Check, it is lonely.)

9. Reevaluate my eating habits. (This week presented significant challenges, and eating was the sole means by which I could navigate through it)

10. Become a maîtresse. (This task has proven to be more challenging than I initially anticipated.)

He did not even take the time to observe the artwork.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #12 on:** January 07, 2025, 08:54:40 PM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Janvier 7th 780,

Life has presented considerable challenges lately.
I strive to maintain a positive outlook; however, I have always struggled with an intrinsic sense of optimism. Recently, I witnessed a woman executed by her own employer. While many lauded the act as noble, I find little to admire in the act of death itself. Does the manner in which we conclude our lives truly matter? Ultimately, it is the end that we all face, and for those fortunate enough to experience it, the conclusion is inevitable.

I cannot say I was particularly fond of the deceased. She was an artistic rival, and while I do not consider myself a ruthless competitor, I felt the competition was inherently unfair. She possessed a unique wit and charm that captivated others in a way I could never emulate. Even my own brother seemed to prefer her company over mine.
Moreover, I disliked her condescending manner. She often took it upon herself to reprimand me, reminding me of my place and responsibilities. I found her behavior rude and inappropriate, yet Etolie condoned it. I swallowed my pride, but I did not forget her actions.

I grapple with the question of whether she deserved to die. Does anyone truly deserve death? Does anyone deserve life? According to the baron's account, the man she murdered was cruel, evil, and terrible. While I would argue that he did not merit kindness, the responsibility of playing God should not rest in the hands of mortals.
I will document my thoughts here, where they remain secure.

I have always admired her courage and boldness, even if I resented the way it cut into me.

Gabriel, unsurprisingly, holds a contrary perspective. His discussions predominantly revolve around themes of death, war, and violence—murder and killing being frequent topics. I often wonder if he ever tires of this incessant cycle of vengeance. While I acknowledge the necessity of maintaining tranquility within the republic, I cannot help but feel apprehensive whenever the Baron brings up the idea of preparing a militia once more. If he does not cease--I might be the first fatility of the war. Self inflicted.
I cannot bear the thought of losing Gabriel again. I am acutely aware that it would only take a single word from the baron for him to leap to his feet and enlist. He cannot enlist; he is my everything. It may seem trivial to refer to him as my rock, but he truly is. Like an igneous rock, he possesses sharp edges that cut into me as I strive to draw closer to him. He is my obsidian, and much like obsidian, I understand that his hardness stems from internal fractures.

I wish I could undo the scars left by his first war.
I wish I could prevent him from rushing into what could become his second.
I wish I had power over anything.

But the cursed reality of this life is that I do not. I have so very little power over anything. In the theatre, I am not a maitresse or manager, or an asistant of anykind. I am an actor, a brief director, a sometimes playwright, and a random event planner. In my personal life, I am quite lonely destined to a life without love, and soon forced marriages of a man I will never truely know. I will likely watch my brothers, my father, and everyone I love vanish from me during this life time.
I’ll create life, against my will and against my wishes, and I will raise a stranger that will either continue the cycle of hating women, or being a woman that is hated while I will be powerless-- to stop that too.

What a wonderous future awaits me.

I once cherished rehearsal; it served as my refuge, yet it has become increasingly difficult.
She is present, perhaps she always has been, but now she seems unphased, unchanged, and unmoved. It feels unjust how effortlessly she laughs, smiles, and simply exists. It is not that I wish for her to experience misery; I genuinely want her to find happiness.
But authentic happiness.

I long for her to feel anything genuinely.

Yet, it appears there is a void within her now—so practiced, so formal, so devoid of emotion. Was she always this way? Did I construct a romance and a life around an illusion of this woman?

And yet, even when the script denotes she has to look at me.

For a moment, I delude myself into thinking I had any control of that.

Despite the disparaging comments made about my waist, behavior, intelligence, and various foolish actions, the aspect I dislike most about myself remains unchanged.

I cannot forget her.

I regret confiding in Gabriel about my feelings. He now believes that every attractive woman who smiles at me is a potential object of my affection. While their presence may momentarily fluster me or bring a blush to my cheeks, they do not occupy my thoughts or my heart.

I don’t have any control over that, either.

Updated List:

1. I have been accepted into university. I simply need to pay my dues this upcoming week and then I can distract myself with my studies.

2. Reconcile with Gabriel-- It is a daily battle. It is hard when despite history and bloodline, we have so little in common.

3. Attempt to pursue a romantic relationship, (with a man...) Still no progress.

4. I have adopted a new hairstyle, and it appears to have garnered positive feedback from many. However, a government official made an unflattering comparison of my wardrobe to that of a pig, which suggests that I may need to consider reinventing my style once again.

5. I will forget her even if it kills me.

6. Cultivate emotional resilience--- I cannot fix my face although I think my words are getting better.

7. Exercise greater caution with my words--- I still despise this.

8. Present a less genuine persona- Eveyone is ingenuine. I find I’m not special.

9. Reevaluate my eating habits-- It is miserable but I am as empty as I feel.

10. Become a maîtresse-- Perhaps I too, should go to war. How hard could it be?

TherapyCat · « **Reply #13 on:** January 15, 2025, 03:57:27 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Janvier 15th, 780

Spoiler: show
Quote
This city is peculiar, and not in the endearing manner I might have hoped to convey. It is genuinely strange.
Everyone here seems to embody a snake, a villain, a damsel, or some bizarre and torturous combination of all three.

Gabriel posed a question: “Who do you consider your friends?”

My initial thought was of Etolie. She is the oldest one amongst them and the first to explicitly declare, “We are friends.” However, I briefly contemplated the possibility that she might be a murderer. It turns out her retainer was involved—or perhaps manipulated into such acts. I remain uncertain. One would assume that doubting her capacity for vile deeds would disqualify her from my friendship.

Yet, if I were to exclude her, Dementileu would indeed be a profoundly lonely place.

I think me and the doctor are friends. I certianly admire her, even if I think her husband to be...suspicious in nature and character. I do find it odd that an injured woman approached him and she could barely speak and instead of rushing to say ‘we’ll help her’ he sounded annoyed and invonvienced that he’d have to shift things around to fit it into his social calendar-- But I digress I speak not of him, I speak of her.
She has always been kind, enough. She smiles at me. And not in the polite way with one’s teeth, but in the way she might be happy to see me. We don’t talk often, she is quite busy. But she did stay and watch me rehearse nonsense today for a good hour. I apperciated that. She was there when picaud.....did whatever she did today.

Reynauld is my friend. He is likely my best friend. He is just easier to talk to than anyone else. He also loves his bethrothed, some moringlordian woman named Arshtat. He spoke of her like she hung the moon in the sky, but he doesn’t do it in performance for the terraces. He does it randomly, as if the feeling explodes from him. It is admirable to watch someone love in that way. I want to love and be loved in that way.

He works hard too. In the plays he is always prepared, and always eager to impress. He’s passionate about what he does. I like people with a passion. He knows alot of things. Alot of dark things howerver, and sometimes-- he speaks them with me.

I hope what he knows hasn’t tainted him.

Cecelia is my friend. I find it funny our names is so simillar. I quite like her husband too. Perhaps one day we could be friends, but in this moment i would only consider Cecelia such. She is witty. I can tell she has have had to live a life harder than my own. That pains me. I wish life was simplier for her. But I think she enjoys the complexity of some degree. The Grit of it all. She is loyal, however. She tells me everything she is feeling. Or atleast it seems that way.
I adore her for that.

Camille could be my friend. I don’t think she is however. We speak, on occasion, and she’s quick to smile. But it reminds me of Picaud. The smile she gives me seems replicated, easily given. And while there is nothing wrong with being friendly, I fear she enjoys seeing me getting flustered. Like picaud, she’ll compliment and smile and she even --winks! and for the a mere couple days I thought my self special but no. I am not special. She winks for everyone, Gabriel included.
She likes Gabriel. He likes her-- he says he doesn’t but he’s an idiot. He melts when she speaks.
She likes Gabriel but winks at me.
Who does that?

Picaud said we could be friends, but I admit we are both terrible at it. She still seems to act like she’s unbothered by anything I say and do, and still wishes to everything she used to. I cannot hide the fact that I am no longer entertained by it. Or perhaps I could I just don’t have the energy to anymore. She wanted me to fight her. With swords today. Not prop swords but duelest swords. I’ve held a rapier.. a very limited amount of times in my life. Just because they are dull doesn’t mean they are toys. Not to mention she had this crazed look within her eyes and denied my refusal not once but thrice.
Never did I think I’d be grateful my work had turned into a gravesite that the doctor was doing routine patrols for safety and disrupted the entire affair.

Gabriel, is my brother. I didn’t tell him this but I think we are friends. I hope we are friends, afterall. It is hard to say, at times I feel like he would take the bullet for me, and other times I feel like he could be the one firing at anymoment.
But.
He has been exceptally kind lately... the night terrors are getting worse. I go days without sleeping. It is impossible to stay awake once I get to a certian point. I can tell he’s worried. he was there when I collasped the other day from exhaustion.
I haven’t told him about my new found eating habits. Mostly because I can’t seem to will myself to sustian them, and also because I am ashamed.
I simply wish I wasn’t this way.

Spoiler: show
Quote
I slept on the gala floor again. Gabriel placed me there when I passed out, I pressume. I faded in out of conciousness before the room went dark other then a dim light that shined on the stage floor. She stood there, certian stage, glancing about. Judith, stood there, staring at me.

"My dear, it appears that mine is no longer the sole voice gracing your ears, is it now?" Judith’s lips gave an odd smile to me, one that dripped with melancholy, and one that smiled. She seemed.. grateful to see me.

“...My heart is not strong enough for this tourment.” I told her, pleading. “...I cannot take much more of this.”

“Could it be... that you, indeed, possess the capacity?”She offered me reassurance, bridging the distance between us without uttering a single word. When she touched my arm, I was struck by the sensation of coldness, an eerie hollowness that lingered.

“Someday, you will swallow the same fate that all women of your station do and become, hollow, numb, ” Her narrowed at me, absolute.

"...and you shalt diminish, dwindling to such minute proportions... until, pray, you.. simply cease to be.” Her gaze adverted leftwards. a small shake of her head. The blood from her corpse bled unto the floor as she moved. The crimson trail of regret never ceased.

As I open my mouth to speak, she started screaming, shrilly, the image of her form, fading from my sight, suddenly.
“Do you indeed strive to belittle me, the very woman who bore you... Is it possible that you are blinded by self-interest, Is the sound of final laments too much for you!?" she broke out into a sob then, as she became less and less.

I remain unclear about the circumstances surrounding Judith's departure or the motivations that led her to visit me that night. However, upon awakening, I discovered Gabriel still present, keeping a watchful eye over me. He held an unusual contraption with a circular base adorned with various strings, beads, and feathers, hovering above my head.

Spoiler: show

TherapyCat · « **Reply #14 on:** January 26, 2025, 05:02:51 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Janvier 26th,

Madeliene proclaimed that we were never friends and suggested that I had fabricated our relationship. Perhaps it is for the best to completely detach if that is her desire; I will certainly respect her wishes. I no longer feel the same desperation for companionship that I once did. Interestingly, others seem to value my presence, though I remain uncertain as to why. They smile, wave, and confide in me—perhaps even sharing too many secrets. In the moment she made her declaration, I experienced a profound sense of loss. However, now that I am free from her manipulative games, I find a newfound sense of calm and liberation. I feel more authentically myself.

That said, I have inadvertently made some enemies. I do not believe it is anything particularly dramatic—I purchased a piece of art, specifically a watercolor, which everyone seems to adore. The issue arose because the artist in question has a husband whose actions are deemed questionable. I have been told this reflects a cultural difference. Perhaps it does; I cannot say for certain. Personally, I find all men to possess their own brand of strangeness, just in differing degrees.

Some for example are murders. Some of undead legions, and others are just cruel to those they swore to love.
But we all ignore those narratives.

Parsons was incessantly vocalizing their views on societal unfitness, mere feet away from the woman in question. I found this deeply troubling; no one deserves such disdain for actions they did not commit, especially when others seem to navigate society so effortlessly. It simply isn't fair. I recognize that I should have remained silent, that I am expected to have evolved, to be better. And while I have indeed changed, it is not in the way that those on the terraces would condemn me for.

Consequently, I spoke up. I voiced my concerns. Shortly thereafter, a group of noble women approached, challenging me to transform this elven artist into some sort of charitable spectacle—a project intended to "cultivate" her and present her to the Councillor.

I refuse to comply with that notion. I will not reconstruct a perfectly content woman to fit their narrative simply because they are bored and seek to undermine both her and me. I struggle to comprehend women who harbor such perspectives. We cannot progress if we continually push one another down.

It seems they do not share my sentiment.

I find immense satisfaction in my secret smithing projects. There is something rewarding about engaging in such a messy and experimental craft. I now understand Gabriel's fondness for fire; the atmosphere within the forges is remarkably calming. Thus far, I have only produced an array of shortswords, but I am confident that I will create something far greater in the near future.

Regrettably, my university experience has not yielded much in terms of learning, which is disappointing considering the substantial amount of my personal funds that I invested in my education. Nonetheless, I do appreciate the social aspect of university life. I've come to realize that I genuinely enjoy socializing, especially when I feel I am succeeding in those interactions.

The play was performed satisfactorily, though I believe our individual performances were exceptional. The baroness crafted a remarkable script, directed with skill, and assembled an outstanding cast, while the set design was truly breathtaking. However, the Councillor expressed his disapproval, which does not concern me greatly, as I am well aware of his troubling behavior toward women. It is evident that he lacks an understanding of the play, and I have been informed that he is of advanced age. While I do not wish for his demise, I would not lament the decline of his outdated ideals.

My sleep has been profoundly disturbed. During the day, I am tormented by these... apparitions? Visions? Glimpses of the departed that haunt me. It is no longer just my mother, Judith, who visits; the encounters seem endless, each spirit yearning for something different. Cecelia insists that I have been chosen for this experience, yet I wish I had not been. Rather than feeling special, I feel broken, tainted, and morally jaded. Despite my efforts to maintain kindness in my heart and clarity in my mind, the burden is exhausting. I am utterly fatigued. When does it end. Does it ever end?

I really hope at some point. Everything that I am or was, truely ends.

I have no desire to live, or be undead forever.

The Desrosiers family is quite intriguing, and I say this with genuine fondness! They are particularly engaging conversationalists.

During my first encounter with Eliza Mercier , she quickly came to my rescue from an unfortunate situation involving a gentleman who appeared to be attempting to flirt with me—though I remain uncertain of his intentions. Remarkably, she winked at me as she intervened! The frequency of women winking at me is perplexing; I have no idea why it happens, but I must admit, I am not opposed to it.

I also met Auria, who was delightfully talkative in a way that felt familiar, as if we had been dear friends for years. I found our conversation enjoyable, and despite the possibility that her feelings might differ, I felt a genuine connection. I would love to be her ally. Auria is married to Celestin; while I cannot ascertain the depth of their happiness, they do not appear to be miserable, which offers me a small glimmer of hope.

Then, of course, there is Aster Desrosiers. He had the audacity to laugh at me, which piqued my curiosity. How dare he.

Never before have I felt such a strong desire to learn everything about a man.

Spoiler: show

Quote

Spoiler: show
*Updated List:**

1. I am currently enrolled in university and have earned 30 credit hours thus far. I anticipate earning significantly more in the coming week. I feel anxious about my upcoming lecture and hope for a good turnout, as well as that my peers will take me seriously. I desire to feel a sense of belonging here.

2.Gabriel attended my play today, which leaves me uncertain about his intentions. Perhaps he has changed, or maybe he has simply returned. I hope he is back for good.

3.I believe I have made progress in this area.

4. I do not wish to forget her. I have loved and experienced loss, even for something that was never truly mine. This experience has transformed me. Whether for better or worse remains uncertain, but I am indeed changed.

5. I aim to cultivate emotional resilience; however, I have faltered in this endeavor. Perfection is unattainable.

6.I need to exercise greater caution with my words, as I did not excel in this aspect either.

7.I sometimes present a less genuine persona, which, in itself, must count for something.

8.I must reevaluate my eating habits—I find that I hardly eat anymore due to my busy schedule, often forgetting to do so. Additionally, my secret projects leave me exhausted and frequently too nauseous to eat.

9. Become a maitresse?-- I am uncertain whether I still crave this ambition.

10. considering the possibility of pursuing a romantic relationship with a man---(?????)

TherapyCat · « **Reply #15 on:** January 31, 2025, 12:22:30 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Janvier 31rst,

I don’t know what to think of him.
I find myself thinking of him frequently. Does this hold any significance, and if so, what does it imply?
Every statement he makes resonates with depth, bordering on the humorous. Even a simple tree transforms into a profound philosophical discussion following his observations.
Why am I so invested in his opinions?
He is after all, just a man. I mean that wih no malice but he is not family. He is not a friend. he is.... well I don’t know what he is.

He’s kind. I know that.
He has to be to still have any desire to talk to me after the things he has witnessed.
I don’t know why I welcome his company. I spent my entire youth evading dinner with men, and now I have willingingly-- and perhaps excitedly even joined him thrice for dinner now. Well, if you count crepes dinner.
I count crepes for dinner.
He ordered crepes for dinner today.
I find myself pondering whether he thinks of me.
Not that it particularly matters to me if he does; clearly, it does not.
It does not?

It seems trivial and somewhat self-centered to concern myself with these matters when far more significant issues are unfolding. I find it difficult to articulate my thoughts, both in writing and verbally.
I sincerely hope that Gabriel is navigating this situation wisely, for I certainly feel lost.

I continue to experience unsettling visions—terrible, haunting images.
I remain perplexed as to why this undead woman is drawn to me. I cannot comprehend what darkness within me she perceives so clearly. Just yesterday, she attempted to invade my being, but I resisted her. I am uncertain what empowered my victory—was it my heart or my spite?
Both are ever-present.

I fear she’ll attempt again, or worse. She’ll come after someone else.
I wish to avoid causing harm to anyone due to my... unusual condition.
I also prefer that no one discovers this aspect of myself. However, it seems that he must suspect something.
It is inevitable that he does.
So why does he linger? Is it out of pity?
Is there, perhaps, a darker aspect within him as well?
I don’t know which would concern me more.

One thing is certain: my days are considerably less lonely with him by my side. It is not that I lack friends—I have many. However, Cecelia has Josiah, Reynauld has his wife, Gabriel has Camille, and Etolie has the warden. Everyone seems to have their own special connection.
I find myself uncertain about his identity, and what he is to me... beyond the fact that he is a man.

Quote

Spoiler: show
1. University is quite fun when you are the one lecturing. You can spend hours going on about things that intrest you , and no one can stop you really. It is a wonderful creation. People tell me that I am talented at lecturing. I remain undecided myself.

2.Gabriel attended my lecture today. I hope that I impressed him. I wish he.. give me some indication if I did or did not. I hate a mystery.

3. I have wholeheartedly forgotten what step three was.

4. Sometimes I do get melancholy, but it is not often. She hates me, and is rather cruel at times. I don't enjoy cruel people.

5. I need more practice.

6. I feel like I excersize this in passing way. It is merely good enough.

7. There are certian people I don't wish to be ingenuine for. I do not know when it is appropiate... to stop.

8. He makes it hard to forget meals, The past three nights I have dined with him. Foie de gras, is not terrible. It is just odd.

9. I do want to be a maitresse, I think. I work quite hard.

10. I think I am the closest I have ever been.

TherapyCat · « **Reply #16 on:** February 13, 2025, 02:30:33 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Fevrier 13th,

I’ve been thinking about that letter since the say it arrived.
The letter from Madeleine.
That was ten days ago.

I find myself grappling with the obsessive nature of my personality. I am burdened by memories that linger far longer than they should, recalling details that others might easily overlook. This selective memory complicates my attempts to move on, especially when I consciously strive to forget the individual associated with those memories.
I believed I had successfully put her from my mind—until she sent that stupid letter.

Every time I close my eyes, I can see the letterhead so clearly. All of it. Word by word. Every stupid word. She writes with so many words that don’t mean anything. Or they mean everything. I don’t know anymore.

It began with "Dear Cecilia." I can count on one hand the instances in which she used my name. Once, it was uttered in pity; another time, it was a reprimand. However, it was never spoken in praise, never accompanied by a smile, and never in a manner that truly conveyed affection. Everytime she spared me any kindness, any sort of womanly attention, she always said “Mademoiselle Von Chereau.” I always thought equally humorous as I did annoying.

I wanted to be Cecila to her.

She continued the letter with “I cannot suppress fervent remorse with regards to our recently transpired disagreements.” Is that what it is called when you lead someone on for months? I’ve loved her since july.

July.

It is febuarary now.

The letter continued. “My dear Cecila, you truly are a singular specimen without whom the world would be far bleaker place.” That is quite the counter narrative to the last words she said to me. “My” she claimed that I never belonged to her, or her to me. She said we were never friends. She said we were never anything and I had entirely crafted this world within my mind.

She said it was lie.

But now, on her ugly stationary I exist as “My dear Cecila.” And now, she claims that my life means something. I’ve studied the grieving process closely. Mourning is interesting, and everyone does such differently. I complated death often, after Madeleine made me feel worthless.

I did.

I anticpated my father would mourn me for a month, my friends six months, and gabriel a lifetime.

So I didn’t do it.

Not that I reasoned that Madeleine Picaud would mourn me at all.

The flattery continued.

“To stand beside and bask in the radiance you bestow upon the existence of us mundane mortals was for me - a billious vestige of uncaring dusky past best left to decompose - a vividly intoxicating and unforgettable glimpse of the very quintessence of brilliance, one I shall forever hold affectionately dear.”

She never thought me intoxicating. She never thought me unforgettable, she never thought be brilliant, and she never held me ‘afffectionately dear’. I desperately wanted her to think me all of things, but by her own admission I was dellusional, exhausting, and she would never harbor feelings for me. I do not understand why now she seeks to rewrite the narrative. I suppose that is what confuses me more than anything.

Why did she write this letter?

Does she harbor fear towards me? Am I truly a woman whom others regard with trepidation? While I am the daughter of a baronet and belong to the gentry, my status is tenuous at best. I hold little regard for fame; I am neither inclined to appropriate the achievements of others nor to undermine them for the sake of remaining in the limelight. My involvement in theatre is solely for my mother's sake. Why would she perceive me as a threat? I have no desire to tarnish her reputation, as doing so would inevitably compromise my own.

Without admitting, that I have.. unnatural thoughts.

She continued to write about her future aspirations, particularly regarding her plans for university and other related topics. While her ambitions do not directly concern me, I sincerely hope she finds joy in her pursuits, albeit from a distance.

what bothered me the most is how she signed the letter.

“Yours faithfully,”. Yours. My. Yours. Like we belonged to eachother.

Each time I reflect on that, I struggle to suppress the urge to cry, as it feels like a festering, recurring wound that pierces deeply into my core.

“Yours.” Was all I wanted her to say for six months.

And she signs it in a letter, like a coward. Like a fraud.

Like a liar.

I told Eponine about the letter. I told Gabriel, of course I told Cecelia. I might of told Reynauld, I cannot remember. I tell him everything it all blurs together.
They all had the same advice, in some phrase or another.

Burn it. Don’t Reply. Ignore it. Forget Her.

And I did. I did throw away the letter.
I did ignore it. I won’t pen a response.
But I cannot forget her. Because she’s not dead. But I am in mourning.

I encountered her today, adorned in her turquoise gown with multiple layers, complemented by a matching umbrella. She consistently dons this attire when it rains. She was waiting for a caravan, and our eyes briefly met.

I saw her, yet I was deliberately presenting a different version of myself—a lesson she imparted to me: the art of becoming someone else when it is convenient.
I am uncertain why I lingered to observe her. I would like to believe that my noble instincts compelled me to ensure her well-being; however, the rational part of me recognizes that my true motivation was a simple, innate desire to be near her. Her lips frequently curled into a smile as she conversed with Reynauld, yet I now perceive that smile as overly fabricated, lacking authenticity. I see it clearly now: it was never genuine.

I see it now how I was the fool.

She dissapeared on a caravan, and I went to give my lecture.

Even though I wanted to self destruct, I did not.

I smiled. I jested, I presented, I did what was expected of me.

When it concluded, a man awaited me, clad in emerald. His smile was genuine, and the affection he held for me was unmistakably real, free from any semblance of delusion.

In that moment, I decided.
I will find away to belong to him,
because I know that he actually desires to be mine.

Spoiler: show

TherapyCat · « **Reply #17 on:** February 25, 2025, 02:17:05 PM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

TherapyCat · « **Reply #18 on:** March 06, 2025, 05:43:44 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

Mars 6th 780,

I find myself declaring that I am cured—at least as much as a woman like me can be cured. People often say, “What a pleasure it is to see you on the terraces once more,” or “What a pleasure it is to see you well!” But what does "well" truly mean? What constitutes "good"? Is it anything more than mere functionality? I feel like a cog within a wheel, endlessly turning and spinning. This sensation is reminiscent of that wretched, demented ballerina encased in the music box that Picaud gifted me—a box I eventually set ablaze.
I cannot explain why I chose to destroy it. It was a stunning piece of artistry. Aster would undoubtedly label it as waste—the waste of not finding a way to repurpose it or gift it to someone else. He is not incorrect. But I digrees, Instead, I reduced it to ashes. This is the dichotomy of womanhood: we are expected to create endlessly. Life, a home, art, beauty, warmth—create, create, create. Even in death, we are never truly gone, for the lives we have nurtured continue, either gleaming or littering the streets. We are not permitted to die. We are not allowed to rest. We are not allowed to become waste.
Yet, how liberating it would be to embrace waste.

This thought occupies my mind incessantly.

I am not cured; I am merely quiet once again. Perhaps that is why I set the music box on fire—to exert control over something, anything, to feel something, anything. All this anger awakened within me reflects only Gabriel's image in the mirror. I was meant to be the light amid darkness; he was supposed to illuminate my path.
Now, there is no light left.

He concurs with Father, asserting that my empathy is nothing but a facade. I strive to be a good person, but it never seems sufficient. What does it mean to be "good"? It is not universally definable. The maitre believes the Jarreu family embodies goodness, while the Baron considers them a manifestation of evil. Could both perspectives hold some truth? I find myself at a loss. I know nothing.

I study factoids, when I don’t know what to say. I study facets of people so that I can pretend like a know something, about this world I find myself submerged within. They are usually pointless facts.

Reynauld has the talent of juggling, while Rosalie longs for the days when she wore turquoise. Eponine has an aversion to lemons, and Camille enjoys the scent of lavender. Auria favors the color violet, and Aster had never experienced crepes for dinner until meeting me. Coralie is a proud owner of two dogs, and Crespin is fond of horses, boasting an impressive number of siblings. Mariah hails from a place called “Amn,” and Celestin is a self-proclaimed night owl. Josephine offers a prayer before every showing, while Etolie is known for being a thoughtful gift-giver. Gabriel is trustworthy when it comes to secrets, and Elise thrives on competition. Cordelia has a dark past, having taken a life, while James has a fascination with swords. Emeric harbors a dislike for barefooted elves, and Brooke finds joy in composing poetry. Cecelia is in desperate need of answers, and Josiah has maritime experience. Enora has an affinity for rocks, and Dorian has been moved to tears by art. Maren is an artist, and Madeleine enjoys dressing in costumes. Reneta has a strong aversion to port, while Auguste smokes cigars. Yves stands in the same spot daily, a habit ingrained in him rather than a requirement. Lidya makes delightful ice cream, and Gavour once dropped a ham sandwich. Bahram takes pride in wearing a burgundy scarf.
Yet, despite this knowledge, it holds little significance. It does not reveal who is trustworthy, who is deserving of love, or who is worth knowing. It does not indicate who has been healed or who remains unhealable, like myself.

I often find myself staring at the ceiling—whether in the bedroom, the theater, or outside; the sky serves as the ceiling of life. This act of reflection has become a routine. My thoughts, once filled with a multitude of distractions, now seem consumed by her hazel eyes. Yet, I am forbidden from contemplating them. I must avoid recalling the cadence of her laughter, the way her eyes glisten when she cries, or the warmth of her skin against my hand. I should not remember how her cheeks flushed a soft pink at the mere thought of me, nor how she candidly expressed her desire for me. It is a fact that she has the most beautiful hazel eyes I have ever seen. I see them, over and over again.

No one has ever desired me.

Not in full. not in both heart and flesh, not entirely. Does she want that? Does she want me? Or is she merely another picaud? I know not. I don’t know anything. I could never encourage it... I could not allow it to happen.

I promised I would resign myself. I promised my father I would fufill what I was borne to do. I promised him.

My words have to mean something, even if it is what I used to sign my own physical imprisonment.

But she told me she wanted me. Atleast the words were said.

I am not supposed to dwell on these thoughts.

Instead, I am meant to focus on blue eyes. I should be replaying the words “I love you” in my mind, allowing them to seep into my being and embed themselves in my heart. I am supposed to feel a spark when he kisses me and be grateful for his lack of carnal desire for me. Why does he not want me? Why do I not want him? I do like him, as a person. I adore him, as one does someone they spend a great deal of time with. I do love him, not in the way I loved Picaud. I know not if that is normal. I have never been normal. Perhaps he does desire me, he just does not act as such feelings are deemed improper, for I am not his wife. Will the desire come then? I wonder. I fear. Is it shameful to fear? I should want him. He is a good man. Why do I not want him? Why does not he desire me? Although-- I know in truth.. I am not supposed to wonder.

I am supposed to be cured.

Do cured people still have the thoughts of the damned?

TherapyCat · « **Reply #19 on:** March 12, 2025, 03:29:32 AM »

[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show

Quote

March 12th, 780

She is yet another picaud—an entirely different entity, somehow evolved to torment me.
Picaud once claimed she never desired to kiss me.

Yet, this new woman does. Though she is not truly new; I have known her for months, ever since she had the audacity to wink at me. I observed her hazel eyes light up three times, and I watched her lips curl into a smile as her eyes, and then her words later confessed her feelings. Each time , I felt a pang of guilt.

I believed I was making the right choice by rnot kissing her. After all, I am practically engaged to be married, and although I do not really want him in all ways , it still felt inappropriate to entertain the notion of another. All I have ever desired is to belong to someone wholeheartedly—how foolish that was.

She gifted me a piece of charcoal, crafted from the first tree I ever climbed. It was one of the best moments of my life. I have bowed on a stage a hundred times, received flowers from numerous suitors, and finally shared a kiss with someone. Yet, I have never felt more cherished than in that moment when I rested on the tree branch, surrounded by smiles as if I had cured a plague. Life was much simpler then; it was merely a matter of months ago. I actually overcame something without it consuming me entirely.
That was the feeling I experienced when she presented me with the Charcoal—a gift meant to be consumed entirely. She could have chosen any other day to bestow this upon me, but she selected Roseday, the most romantic night on the social calendar. She was fully aware of her actions.
She wore black, my favorite color, a detail she certainly knew.

Before I could catch my breath, she urged me to "Wish her good luck," all the while smiling at the nobleman behind her. "Good luck." The phrase echoed in my mind countless times as I beheld him clutching the most dreadful bouquet imaginable. Such flowers are typically given by those unfamiliar with your preferences, those who wish to garner praise for a lackluster gesture. They reminded me of the flowers my father often brings home—ones I truly despise.

Yet, she seemed sincere, her hazel eyes shimmering under the ballroom lights, exuding a palpable excitement. "Wish me good luck!" she repeated with a smile. In that moment, so many thoughts raced through my mind, but "Good luck" was far from the sentiments I wished to convey.

"You look radiant, even in black, like a simmering summer solstice."

"I admire your boldness in remaining true to yourself; only you could wear black to a ball about flowers and capture everyone's attention."

"I find myself thinking of you during every moment of stillness that fills the air."

"...I know it is entirely inappropriate to feel this way, but I wish to love you."

However, I was unable to articulate any of these sentiments. Instead, I resorted to a clumsy repetition of the words, "Good luck!" And then she was gone, lost to the ballroom, dancing with him, conversing with him, holding him closer than she ever held me—or ever would.

And I realized in that moment to be entirely consumed by something is how a person drowns.

Death becomes me in these tiny moments. Rejection after rejection. How many times can I be overlooked before I don’t wish to be seen at all? I don’t know.

She tried to speak to me afterwards. She called me cruel.

Madeliene said the same thing before she left.

If there is anything I have learned from the dead, slowly fading away is never a pleasant expirence.

Perhaps I am harsh when it comes to love; perhaps I am the source of my own troubles.

It is challenging to feel anything but despair when one is never loved in the manner desired.

Nonetheless, it matters little now. I genuinely believe I am finished this time. I understand why my father became solely focused on work after my mother’s passing. The heart can endure only so much heartbreak before it seeks to harden and retreat into solitude.

I will have family, and I will have friends. I’ll have a husband.

I won’t have love. Not in it’s entirety.

But I will have myself.

And I’ll become everything imaginable.

Maybe.

It’s easier written than done.