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 Papas 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 Papas 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 couldnt predict.