She speaks to me sometimes, trying to tell me that everything is fine, and though I love her, I cannot believe her. It was only I who saw what they were doing to her, that they were leeching away her very life; she quite believed that they cared for her, that it was right to be with them, but she admits now that she was wrong, that she did not see or understand. I have forgiven her, of course, for what else could I do, but I shall never be rid of the resentment for them.
She was taken from me, taken by people who claimed to know her, to love her. What did they know of her? I, and I alone, understand her, understand the kind of love she needs, the life she lives. 'Marry me, Rebecca, live with me at Manderley', they said, 'Meet me in London, Rebecca. Run away with me, Rebecca.' They only wanted to use her for their own gain, to further themselves, to satisfy some need they had. And now their greed, their pathetic desires, have taken her from me. I find the marks of my anguish all over, when I dress, when I glance into the mirror, and I despise them. They are a map of the direction our lives could have taken, they are the scars of loneliness, of loss.
