A White Room by Stephanie Carroll

strong like I had all the other times. I tried, but I just wanted to fall apart. My fortitude was gone—in a puddle on the floor. It was as if, when I let go for that one moment, when I unfettered my anchor, the end of the chain slipped away and I lost it.
    I was trying to keep my face from contorting and my eyes from bursting into tears when I noticed the rustling bushes again. What strange creature could throw such a tantrum? I envisioned a predator, like a wolf, but not the regular kind. I imagined it with matted fur and scarred skin, like charred red flesh. Its ears were square, as if someone had lopped the tops off. Its eyes were piercing, glowing.
    What a strange thing for me to think of. I had never seen such a beast. Why would I imagine that? I studied the thicket. What if it were that wolf? What if my imaginary creature were real? What if it were down there rattling the bushes, devouring a victim. No, it wasn’t real. It seemed so vivid, so real, though. Then I wondered if I pictured it clearly enough, could I make it appear?
    I closed my eyes and pictured it again, and then I looked down at the bushes and froze. There, two yellow eyes stared back at me. The face and body were hidden, but the eyes were there. I shot up but turned away, hiding myself from my creature. It wasn’t real. I had made it up. I was scaring myself. I cackled, unhinged. If I’d created it, I could just make it go away. If I looked, nothing would be there. I spun back around.
    Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes glared up at me. I squeezed my eyes shut again. If I had made it appear, I could make it disappear. Or was it real and I’d tricked myself into thinking I’d done it? I looked again. Still there. It was no ordinary being; it knew that it was seeing me and that I was seeing it. It knew my secret, it knew my sin, and it was there to punish me. Had I imagined that? No. I turned away. Was it real? Was it truly real?
    I whirled back—wait—gone. No eyes. What? I—did I?
    I threw myself at the window, my hands and face slammed against the glass as I tried to see more. Nothing. I pushed away. I lifted my hand to my cheek and quickly dashed back to try to catch the beast at its cruel game of hide-and-seek. Nothing. Not even a group of flowers or yellow leaves. I must have been tired. I sat back down in the chair and looked out again—still nothing. I stood up. Supper. It had just been my imagination.
    I put my back to the window. Then all the misery the creature had distracted me from came screaming back. Francis knew. Ida and Margaret knew. They could see it in me; they could see I was a failure. I absolutely hated this wretched house. It grew worse with every moment. The furniture taunted me. The walls closed in on me. The animated bric-a-brac and reptilian china snickered at me. All of it wanted me to know I was a failure. I couldn’t even get my husband to speak to me, let alone love me. He’d given up the chance to have a worthy wife for what reason? He’d felt sorry for me, or his parents had made him? All because my father had died. My father was dead, I was alone, and I’d failed him.
    I thought of the woman in the white room—she chose to sacrifice her freedom for the people who relied on her to survive, but how long could she possibly survive without freedom? How long could she last before choosing the alternative? How long could I? Damn the world and every sacrifice everyone wanted from me. I had made enough sacrifices. I couldn’t keep my promise or make my father proud because he was dead.

My dearest James,
Forgive me, James. I’ve given all I have to make this marriage work. Nothing could make this wretched existence tolerable. My husband is a cold, heartless man. He has made no effort to build affection between us. You said his quiet manner was better than an unpleasant disposition, but please believe me when I say this is worse.
Not only has he condemned this union, so has the place he chose for us to live. The house