CONTINUUM

"Top Withens"...believed to be the inspiration for Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.


Who could be Heathcliff incarnate? Only you.
Cathy? Only me.
It's how we were. Yes, quintessentially us,
from the very first reading. Our lives
playing out in the printed pages,
chapter by chapter.
Eavesdropping on parallel lives
that never were: just reflections
of us, mirror images. My passion
was demanding too much, an impossible ideal:
the Soulmate that never existed. Beelzebub
prodded me night and day.
The furious clashes were our nature.
Beelzebub was our master.
Both of us were driven
to dominate, to be top dog.
And both failed miserably.
The wild moors and crags
symbolized all we were: wild,
obsessive and half-crazed.
We fed off each other's paranoia.
My jealousy, your greed
terrified us both, like Emily's fear
of her own creations.

So who, then, was Isabella? Any one
of many: anyone young, blonde, blue-eyed -
naive, yet appealing. Oh I despised
as much as you lusted. You had
that power over me, could drag me
into the pit of self-loathing.
So I sought Edgar, to staunch
the bleeding of the deep wounds
you so carelessly inflicted. Nelly Dean,
alias my best friend, attempted
to make me see sense. Whose novel
were we living out? Too late to go back
and reread. Wuthering Heights in ruins,
a gaunt shell. Your rejection,
a shocking revelation
of shallowness. The mocking laughter
of Hindley became raging winds,
a destructive tornado. I hurled
the truth at you.
A molten thunderbolt, an avalanche.
The full moon's face
bleached the moor. I watched your features
distorting, fading into silver nothingness -
or were they mine?
Mine. It was I who was fading
and I blamed you.
But the true culprit was the pen - Emily's pen -
speeding across the page,
that had long ago sealed my fate.