I'm your Bertha...

In one PC game there's a great cunning trick for the battle... It's called "The Divine Strike"... You point to your fighting gryphon the future target and lift him up in the air... He disappears... The battle continues... The Unsuspecting target is doing his own little fighting, knowing nothing about that he's already have your 'black spot'... He's unworried thinking that fully controls the marked place representing a specific threat, and at the most wrong time the Retribution falls upon him...
Nothing else matters... nor the previously settled small or big strategic objectives... the life plans for tomorrow... The enemy is dead because he allowed himself to be unaware that all this time somewhere high above was waiting for the right moment the instrument almost indifferent to his future act... Today's mistake is keeping in itself a payment of this indefinite period of time... One can call that God’s punishment, but for him it's the deed unworthy of attention... not that scale... The saddest thing that it is you who broke your personal space, and small cracks already widen in different directions, and like Divine Strike of fighting gryphon in the most unsuitable moment they will slap the ears from two sides and then leave you lying stunned and useless even for yourself for it could hardly be anything more disappointing than conclusion you can come to this minute: "Made an idiot of myself"...

Just imagine, dear grown up boy, that you ever gave someone a word... no matter where it was and to whom... this could be church... and maybe a small nearest pub with usual table in the cozy corner... this can be man, woman, a friend, a priest or just a person to whom for some reason you trust at the moment... "And now that's done," – said Blind Pew... One can hear like somewhere slammed the cover of box, and the first crooked nail is hammering in...

The weeks, months, years are passing... All is well... And then someone brings you the black spot of execution... all is like in children's fairy tale... in your adult life... there's so much of space behind, but nowhere to retreat, and you fulfill your own verdict just because you've been an honest man all this time... I love you for this with all my might, and my heart shrinks from pain like a silk ribbon under the iron of an amateur ironer, because it is the indifferent wings of brainless angel's gryphons already beating and splashing your cheeks... and words and people are falling down on your world... the mornings with ruthless day and evening events... from right and left... front and back... to all your vulnerabilities that you never going to show this beautiful nasty world...

This happened to me… You know?.. This happened to you... I know... I'm sitting in your huge cold house squeezed by corset and your suffering... beautiful miserable despot... churl who is used to slap in the face of young and old... a man with exaggerated self-esteem and a huge hole of lack of love... Oh God, Eddie, what happened to us?.. How we managed to get into this deafening shit and what should we do with our rabid selfishness and erased ability to think about anything except our own offences unforgiven to anyone... The hero of my first children's erotic dreams... The first whom I was saving in funny floral-ribboned thoughts... We are getting older?.. Yes... We have become smarter?.. I hope not... We have almost lost faith... And I see you now the way you were showed to me "being just"... "giving you your due" as I hear it...
You remind the Byronic hero indeed... Child Harold-like in some way, long and pointless story about whom so many times was driving me mad and setting my teeth on edge and whom I was never able to either chew or bite through... But I still love you, Edward... You have such a HIS dear face... it interferes with a ruthless objectivity with which one I usually get at the spleen and liver like a joyful eagle destined for Prometheus... you have such a HIS eyes... and I believe them again... and feel sorry again... and justify... and gladly put your own blame on those who dared to offend... to hurt...

Sorry, there's a helluva lot of me here... Damn streak of "inability to abstract away from the subject of discussion"... Diagnosis which had long been made and signed by the most merciless judge for myself... by me...

I'm sitting here... In this very room where the best hated-by-you friend Richard Mason was touchingly afraid you have by all means a secret desire to poison him... Wall carpet is breathing... I don't need to go to it to know that she's there... your Bertha... It's so cold and bare there... you have removed all her bedding... She wanted to tear it into strips and tying them into the long-long rope go down from the window?.. wanted to hang herself?.. came up with something else?.. Then, of course, it's better to remove... And the cozy diamond-shaped glass in the window casement there's no too... with they she could harm herself... you... Grace Poole... Well, then, of course, the wood boards are much better... Of cockroaches and smells that are surrounding her I'm trying not to think with all my strength... to close my eyes just that simple and not to think the same way you learned to do this... and know how to do this even at night... to not wake up in cold sweat from the pangs of conscience when she looks at you from the nervous drowse... How such thing like 'Bertha Mason' can matter when in your life is unfolding beautiful and sad story between you and young governess of your more youthful ward (daughter?.. no?.. but we didn't get to it yet, my deprived Byronic knight)...

I'm seeing thousands... hundreds of thousands of pairs of women's eyes closed on your small dark deeds... Mine are closed too, you can be sure... we ALL feel sorry for you and amazing clever-girl Jane with all the stubbornness and passion that nature gave us... and wishing you happiness on body of slowly rotten in the attic Bertha...

It's hard to say what humane ideas Charlotte Bronte carried in her eternal novel... Perhaps, it was long Journey of Formation of Feminine Personality... or Story of Journey of Feminine Personality to Herself... In a word, of something Feminine in a name of which one the brains of horny alcoholic Bertha Fairfax Rochester have been splashed on the stone flags of Thornfield Hall...

So many women's friendships were lost because of these so daring thoughts... How good it was to lose them... In life there's no need to turn a blind eye to bad things even in the name of formation of best feminine personality... but for local formation of ambitions even more... But nothing is loved by us such as they are... we read... we watch... we cry... we touched and we silent about what is shameful... and we scratch the old novel over and over to find one more grain of Eternal Love and pour shrunken heart with fertilizers [that smell the way they should be – differently] in the hope to grow the beautiful flower of Faith that He will surely come to your sad after-work homecoming... will stop the absent-minded TV button pressing, interrupt a lone indifferent 'having-a-snack' and say: "I need you... I was searching for you my whole damn lame life... accept me on the shield... revive and forgive... I know you're the only one who can do this to me... My only love..."

Bertha was different... she loved to break the laces of corset and show her breasts to the air... she was blunt, natural in her passions and that's why she was beautiful... no?.. yes... as long as she loved you... until she broke a hole of love's and self-confidence's deficit of Australia-size in your soul... after that you did plod on your way through life with this deficit trying to fill it in all cities around the world opened for your visit... Actresses... Singers... Dancers... Whores (for those times it sounds so synonymous)... No?.. Who else?.. it's hard to score the most leaky bag with the biggest and most passionate love... especially if it has no bottom at all...

And you thought it's possible to get the cure of this disease, even if in the peak moments of body's delight the soul felt like someone again and again is dancing on your grave with barefoot dirty feet?.. Rat-tat-tat... stomp-stomp-stomp... This is me... Your Bertha...

I'm your Devine Strike... Your Bertha... If you, at first, loved my body and then just locked me up in the attic with gigantic cockroaches and stony cold of draughts, maybe I would have found a good use for my stinking nightshirt torn into stripes and bound in a very strong rope... Maybe this would have been your throat... and at that night your Jane was very lucky...

to be continued...