A Woman of About Thirty-Six

Last night I dreamt I went to Aigen again.

Everything was the same, yet different. I could see the circular gravel drive ahead of me as it lead towards the front of that cheerfully painted yellow house. It seemed to me that it was both day and night, for I could feel the warm sun on my face despite being able to see the full moon hanging in the sky. I could even see the stars, bright and shining - like diamonds dropped by God himself that had skittered across the expanse of midnight sky. I didn't question this though, it seemed right. Those kind of things always seem right in dreams.

Once I had crossed the drive and entered the house, it was then that I realised what was different. There was no music to be heard, nor the joyful sounds of children laughing as they played. I could see not a person in sight. The empty hall seemed to delight in the sound of my lonely footsteps, loud and obtrusive in this still house. It was as though the very presence of a living soul fed it, kept it alive. It felt like the walls watched me with every single step I took. But I kept my head high, not wanting to let the emptiness get to me. I headed for a door down the left hand side of the marbled foyer, the door was the same as all the others but I headed for it with a bounce in my step, as though I was walking up to greet an old friend I hadn't seen in years. The chandeliers sparkled from above as I passed by paintings, bouquets of fresh flowers and the carefully placed piece of furniture. Every item in the grand foyer was perfect, carefully chosen and strategically placed to create an airy and inviting space. I didn't stop to marvel at any of this, instead I let my hand close upon the cold handle of the door I had practically skipped to and entered.

In this room there were no vases full of blooming flowers or dainty furniture. No, this room was dark and decadent - nothing like the hall I had just left. It reminded me of a story I had read to the children once, where the young heroine passes through the looking glass and finds herself in a whole new world. For there was not an inch of that perfectly ordinary cream coloured paint in this room, the walls were all covered in bookshelves made of dark wood. And if there were paintings, they were of large ships battling through an unrelenting ocean, of sirens luring sailors to their deaths. There were no chandeliers, just single lamps that bathed the room with a soft glow. Or when it grew colder, I knew the large fireplace would be lit and the flames would dance upon the dark walls and make the paintings appear to move.

I paid no attention to any of this, however. I didn't care about the books in those shelves, or the expensive looking gramophone that sat dusty and unused in one corner. No, all I cared about was the man sitting behind the large desk. His brow slightly furrowed as his hand scribbled across a page, the lamp on his desk casting a warm glow on his patrician face and illuminating the stubble that was slowly growing back on that sharp jaw. My fingers itched, wanting to know what it felt like to touch that face. I wanted to know what it felt like to hold that face in my small hands, to feel that stubble gently scratch against my cheek as my lips went to seek his. All these thoughts seared into my brain, feeling vivid and real and far too hot. Making my face burn with embarrassment and something else I dared not name. I shouldn't have thought such a thing. He was not mine to hold. Nor mine to kiss. I shouldn't have thought anything of the sort.

I didn't know I was dreaming. I thought it was really that long ago summer, that I had somehow found my way back and there I now stood. Waiting, hoping, for him to notice me; for the creased line of his brow to disappear and instead his face would stretch into that of a welcoming quirk of the lips. The barest flicker of contentment would be in those eyes at seeing me - and bare it may be, but I would see it and cling to it. I would keep it close and treasure it in that silly manner reminiscent of a child with their favourite soft toy.

I didn't understand what I was feeling, I had never experienced the rollercoaster of emotions my mind, and heart, were going through. Back then I had no idea what it was like to go on a rollercoaster, had no clue what it was like to reach the peak of the ride and then plummet down along the tracks with the wind rushing against my face, my hands sweating as I gripped the safety rail while I screamed with both joy and terror. The first time I went on one was at Coney Island, and I remember Gretl taking my hand and insisting we go on just one - just one. I told myself I wasn't scared, but I was - yet, I couldn't deny how much I wanted to go on it.

And then, after that first ride, I wanted to go again and again. That rush of adrenaline was addicting. And it made me remember just how I'd felt all those years ago, in that house during the summer of 1938. It was just like that rollercoaster.

The same feeling of my stomach dropping, the incredible rush, the terror, the giddy excitement of surviving it all. It was how I had felt after every single encounter I had had with the man I now called my husband. Who was now dear to me, who could compliment me without my face turning the same shade as summer strawberries. Of course, he still could whisper a few chosen words in my ear and then my face would flush. It would burn my cheeks and he'd smirk as I stammered as if I was twenty-two all over again.

Now, he was mine, my darling Georg. But then, back in that cheerful house with its long corridors, sprawling gardens and that lake with its water so still it was like a sheet of glass, he wasn't mine. Nor was he Georg. No, to me he was Captain von Trapp and the very thought of calling him anything other than that was enough to make my mind halt.

But I used to treasure every time I went into that study. I didn't know it then - I didn't know very much at all, it seemed - that I was climbing to a height I'd never reached before. With every day that passed, my little dreams became a little brighter, a little more exciting - exhilarating. I didn't think I would fall, I had no idea how to. In the back of my mind there was a voice telling me to stop, that I was going to fall - that everything that goes up must come down. But I ignored it, I told it I wouldn't fall. I couldn't fall. I was reaching up to Heaven and God would give me wings, so even if I did trip, I wouldn't fall. I'd float down gently.

I was wrong. I reached out to God and he shut the gates on my dreams. And I fell, with no wings, all the way back down.

In the end, it didn't matter. For Heaven was not what I was looking for - though I had believed it was. I, in my youth, had thought the closer I could be to God, the happier I would be. My devotion knew no bounds, and in the end it nearly tore me apart. The me in my dream didn't know this though; she was young, idealistic, naive. She sang songs and rode down bannisters without a care in the world.

So she stayed in that room, and delighted in the smile the man behind the desk gave her. But then I woke, startled by the cold morning breeze blowing through an open window. It had been so warm in the imagination of my mind, and so I turned over - reaching out as I did - for the warmth that I craved. And I felt stubble graze against my cheek and a strong hand work its way around my waist before pulling me in tighter, back into the warm cocoon I had been in before I woke. There was a deep rumbling question from the man holding me, asking if I was all right. And I simply nodded against the chest my head was now curled into. Yes, everything was fine.

I remember that house with fondness - at least I try to. I remember that study where we would sit and talk. I could so easily see my cup of tea sitting on a piece of that dark wood - the dainty china looking so out of place in that room. I suppose if I could have seen myself, I would have been just like that cup of tea - except not as dainty and certainly not as refined. I could even close my eyes and remember the smell of the leather couches, of the cigar he'd have held in one hand on some nights. And I remembered those hands, the same ones that held me now, and how I would think about them idly throughout the day and then make myself turn scarlet.

I dream of it often, that house in Aigen. I do not tell him about my dreams, for he gets a look in his eyes - a faraway look - if I ever do. It makes me feel like he won't ever come back to me. So, I do not speak of it. For it is ours no longer, it doesn't belong to us. But to the past. And there it shall stay.

A/N So, in case you didn't notice already, this story was inspired (a lot, a lot) by Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I also wanted to attempt the April prompt, which was to write a story in first person - something I have never done before. And if you are not familiar with the book, it is written in first person from the perspective of a second wife.

It's very different to how I normally write and so I apologise if it isn't the greatest but I am quite happy with myself for doing something different and out of my comfort zone. It has been nearly a year since I started writing and this is my 20th story - hot diggity damn. And I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has either reviewed, favourited or followed any of my stories. It really means a lot - especially reviews (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

To anyone reading them, I am working on my two multi-chapter stories. I'm just (still) struggling with writer's block which is why a lot - okay, practically everything - I have published recently has been inspired by another book or film. Though, I do hope you all have enjoyed them anyway.

I own nothing, tra-la-la.