Characters, written to do what they must, sometimes can have a mind of the their own. Widowe is sick of her Jane-Eyre-esque ranting portrayal. She becomes the head of a revolutionary group, big plans for them on her mind. But what is a character without a plot?
“You don’t understand, do you? It’s been a while for us, standing face to face. Perhaps we’ve lost the technique of talking at each other. I won’t blame our lives, the rushing around and around, busy, but there were circumstances that took us from each other; and you were no aid to remove them, strutting your feathers to the world, bouncing yourself from district to district without batting an eyelid about my own feelings. I was there. Didn’t you notice me, a shadow in the corners of your pupils? I stood up for you, looked after you, all the time waiting for a reply to my heart’s request. I watched, expectant, as your eyes found the spot of nothingness that occupied the world above my head. Oh, little me. How you would dare to belittle me.
“The last time I saw you like this was in that blaze of fury, my dire fury indeed, when depression hit me as surely as the snowstorm that had been brewing outside. Winter, two years ago. Do you remember the bitter words we exchanged, two silhouettes against the tube-neons? The words, they refuse to leave my mind. I made a pact after that day, never to say again that I hate anything, regardless of its condition, living or inanimate.
“Ha! You were smart that day, as always, Oxford Street clothing and unscuffed shoes. I didn’t know of any of your plans, those plans that chill me, even to this day. Sure, my own plans for us had been made in secret, but I wouldn’t ever deny them to you…even if I’m still a mess of cotton-coloured hair against your order. I can be quiet, that’s what you cannot see. I am not chaos when I am a quiet falling dusk
“If you won’t say another word, I’ll still admit it- though I’d like to deny the shame throughout my entire life: you were everything. You still are. Oh, it was so long ago, yes, those days of woollen jumpers in a dusty room, but my love has not shifted from the smooth contours of your face, expressions of bemusement where dimples once lay. Now, don’t laugh! This is still the truth, I tell you, and you should learn to believe my tears. It might be too late, but I don’t want to see you falling into the trap of my parentage. I can try to mend our broken glass-house…
“And now, are you going? You won’t even say goodbye…”
Livia slammed the chic-lit novel shut. Like that was ever going to happen in real-life! What a piece of nonsense drama!