Posted in Stories, Writing

My Own Yellow Walls

Author’s note: My homage to The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Her writing is what I aspire to.

Dear Tom,

I got to go for a walk this morning. It was beautifully serene. The gardens here are lovely. I saw others, weaving through the carved paths, like me. It was nice not to feel alone. I wish I could come out here every morning, but they say that’s too much excitement.

Although I wish I were at home with you and the baby, I suppose I’ve gotten used to my daily routines here. I didn’t like my room at first. It smelt odd, and there were strange rings bolted to the wall. Perhaps they mean to hang portraits from those haggard rings, although some are rather low to the ground. I prefer not to go near them, for the wallpaper there has long fingerlike tears in it, in such a tragic, unappealing kind of way. It all seems very…yellow, and lord knows what a detestable thought that is. Yellow is not that far from the dark, despite the light it’s meant to bring, because it’s sickly. Here, yellow sickens the mind; everything is slanted. But I shan’t complain, sweet Tom, for I know you think it’s what’s best.

I do wish you’d come visit more often. Or do you, and they just turn you away, saying I’m not rested? Next time that happens, don’t listen to them. I’m rested. Please bring Katie back to me – unless she goes on crying much, then you’d better not. Before, the crying was difficult and it made me…but I suppose you know that very well. She was just so loud, a shock of frightful noise gushing out of her mouth and eyes, coming at me, wanting to chase me down and hurt me! But I suppose you know that very well too.

I must go now. The woman who tends to me, dear soul, she says I mustn’t fatigue myself in writing too much, that it isn’t right for a lady’s mind, but I’ll write to you again when I get the chance, I promise.

All my love,

Libby

P.S – I didn’t mean to leave her in the dark. I just needed the crying to stop.

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