Clio

I made a reluctant return to Hauteville House after a brief walk out of doors, knowing I was due to take up my post at Papa's bedside again. "Good morning, Papa," I said as I sat down on the straight-backed chair beside him. His lids flickered but my greeting evoked no more response than that. He lay stiff and still as a log, his eyes open but empty of expression; half-closed, they lay under his bony brow like faded blue marbles. I folded my hands in my lap and fixed my gaze on them. In a few minutes, Papa's breath slowed and deepened as he slept and I let my mind wander as it had for all the long days I had spent on watch at this bedside. For fifteen years I had been a slave to this mysterious affliction he endured, waiting, watching, while my youth drained away and my joie de vivre faded into ashes. I hated him, I hated this life, I hated this house. I was continually struck by the irony that only a slight mispronunciation of its name made it "Hateful House." But so far I had carefully masked my feelings under civility and good manners. Nothing ever seemed to change but change was about to occur. For better or worse, I couldn't predict.