Chapter 13 - Wickham's Monologue
A/N I've beaten my record - the time now is 1am. But I am a little worried about this chapter - to me and my tired brain, something just doesn't ring true. What do you think, readers?
What is wrong with him?! Ever since that bloody dinner party with that half- wit blond, he has been getting far too cosy with him for my liking - corresponding every week, Darcy even stayed *overnight* at his townhouse once! He does not feel at all uncomfortable in my presence any longer, or as uncomfortable as one would feel when in close proximity to a toad. Not like before, that one beautiful night two and a half years ago...
Look what he has reduced me to! I have lost interest in all other sexual prospects - nothing satisfies me, no matter how adventurous I am. Am I mentally unbalanced? I have been thinking about him every night since I was 16 - surely this is a sign of insanity? No, I am merely a victim of unrequited love...yet why does it hurt *so* much? I swear he delights in pain, denying me and himself of what we have...what we had...
I hate him - more often than not I have drowned my sorrows in the hope that I might be even marginally happy, but *no*, that stupid, *stupid* part of my heart still beats for him. He does not care, he has never cared - never cared that I have devoted myself to him all these years. I hate him, hate him, need him, love him...
No! Never again! If the bastard thinks that he can just sweep me aside like a piece of lint, he does not know me. So what if he has riches, noble connections, beauty, everything that I have longed for? He does not deserve to wear the clothes he dons each morning. That should me. *Me!* I at least have self-worth, I am not cold-hearted and cruel, devoid of every proper feeling. We barely exchange two words in a day, despite the fact that we share *chambers*.
Every time I catch his eye, I can still find a trace of regret buried within all the hate that veritably radiates from his countenance. But you see?! He still wishes that things were as they had been that one night. Ha! But they never will be - I will not allow it! It will hurt me for the rest of my days, but I swear I will make him miserable. Someday, somehow, I will make him experience such great pain that he will be sorry he ever messed with George Wickham. Let him feel what it is to love unguardedly and then have his love thrown back in his face...
A/N I've beaten my record - the time now is 1am. But I am a little worried about this chapter - to me and my tired brain, something just doesn't ring true. What do you think, readers?
What is wrong with him?! Ever since that bloody dinner party with that half- wit blond, he has been getting far too cosy with him for my liking - corresponding every week, Darcy even stayed *overnight* at his townhouse once! He does not feel at all uncomfortable in my presence any longer, or as uncomfortable as one would feel when in close proximity to a toad. Not like before, that one beautiful night two and a half years ago...
Look what he has reduced me to! I have lost interest in all other sexual prospects - nothing satisfies me, no matter how adventurous I am. Am I mentally unbalanced? I have been thinking about him every night since I was 16 - surely this is a sign of insanity? No, I am merely a victim of unrequited love...yet why does it hurt *so* much? I swear he delights in pain, denying me and himself of what we have...what we had...
I hate him - more often than not I have drowned my sorrows in the hope that I might be even marginally happy, but *no*, that stupid, *stupid* part of my heart still beats for him. He does not care, he has never cared - never cared that I have devoted myself to him all these years. I hate him, hate him, need him, love him...
No! Never again! If the bastard thinks that he can just sweep me aside like a piece of lint, he does not know me. So what if he has riches, noble connections, beauty, everything that I have longed for? He does not deserve to wear the clothes he dons each morning. That should me. *Me!* I at least have self-worth, I am not cold-hearted and cruel, devoid of every proper feeling. We barely exchange two words in a day, despite the fact that we share *chambers*.
Every time I catch his eye, I can still find a trace of regret buried within all the hate that veritably radiates from his countenance. But you see?! He still wishes that things were as they had been that one night. Ha! But they never will be - I will not allow it! It will hurt me for the rest of my days, but I swear I will make him miserable. Someday, somehow, I will make him experience such great pain that he will be sorry he ever messed with George Wickham. Let him feel what it is to love unguardedly and then have his love thrown back in his face...