Creative Surgery by Clelia Farris

Author:Clelia Farris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rosarium Publishing
Published: 2020-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

REBECCA

Last night I dreamed I destroyed Manderley.

I was sitting at the dressing table, combing my hair and looking at myself in the mirror. Suddenly I realized that there was someone behind me. I smiled, thinking it was Max. He loved to comb my hair; he could make it glossy just working with a brush and his fingers. Those fingers were so delicate in my locks that they melted the knots as he massaged them between his thumb and index finger slowly, gently.

It wasn’t Max. I glimpsed a skirt in the mirror.

“Is that you, Danny?”

Sometimes Danvers combed my hair. She wasn’t as good as Max, her software didn’t have a hairdressing program, but I had trained her to learn by observation.

Instead of turning around, I kept looking in the mirror. An invisible force kept me from moving my eyes away from its polished surface and allowed me to observe the unknown presence only through its reflection.

The intruder wore my red wool skirt and my cream-colored silk blouse, the one with the bows on the cuffs.

She came out of the dressing room, showing me her back, stomping her heels, headed straight to the door, her right arm stretched out to grab the handle. No! You can’t leave! You mustn’t leave!

I opened my mouth, but the sounds stuck in my throat. I could only watch the scene that took place behind me and my image in the mirror, paralyzed, my mouth open, terror in my eyes.

The scene repeated itself in the dream an infinite number of times: the woman coming out of the dressing room, walking toward the door, extending her arm, and at that moment I stiffen, try shouting to stop her, try raising myself up by fighting against the constraint that crushes my shoulders, forced to stay seated in front of the mirror.

Finally, my anger at being treated like part of the furniture overcomes my anguish; I can turn around, and in the moment in which the unknown person opens the door, crossing the threshold with a triumphal step, happy to leave Manderley behind, I open my eyes.

I’m in my bed, head on the fragrant, clean linen pillowcase, the blanket folded back on the side, the sheets crumpled by my hands during the dream. The shutters are closed, but sunlight filters through the interstices, accompanied by the loud cries of seagulls and the distant murmur of the undertow.

I’m still here. I’m always here.

“Ma’am?” Danvers whispers apprehensively from the wall intercom. Her flexible arms reach out to touch me delicately. “You were complaining in your sleep.”

“No complaints, Danny. Draw me a bath.”

I jump off the bed, and in bare feet I approach the door to the room. I stare at the polished brass handle. The dream woman opened it without difficulty and was leaving wearing my clothes. I force myself to put two fingers on the handle, then I hold it with my whole hand, the left, because, unlike the unknown woman, I’m left-handed. I slowly lower the handle, pulling the door toward me and meet the resistance of the bolt.

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