Déjà lu.

He's my husband, so I know he knows best.

We headed up here yesterday, and I underestimated how long it would take to pack. Luckily, Sebastian managed to pack some of my things once his bag was ready.

It was an awfully long trip to get here; I attempted to lighten the conversation and said that our drive was reminiscent of Odysseus' journey. He did not find this amusing, and told me not to speak about literature that I did not understand. I was pleasantly surprised to see that he had at least brought my embroidery work, and I rested, knowing that my growing discomfort in the carseat could at least be channeled later into fierce needlework.

Today I finally got a good look at the room I collapsed in. Last night I was able to unpack my clothes, undress, and then I only remember the texture of the bedsheets. It's an ugly room, with mismatched shams and sheets, with a small vase holding wilted flowers. There's only a small window here, one that's nearly part of the ceiling, so there's no chance of me peering out of it or even reaching it with my longest finger. Wait, my luggage is gone. I am only in my shift, so I cannot make it out very far if there is anyone else in the house. Also, where is Sebastian? There is no other imprint on the bed, so I must have slept alone. I shove and kick the bedsheets off of myself and stagger out of bed. I get a better look at the wallpaper–I'd never noticed it before. It is a ghastly shade of yellow; one might say it looks like the ugly stepsister to marigold. I reach out and stroke it, and bits of the paper flake off. Old glue and bits of mold now skip about in my palm. I shivver and rub it onto the bedsheets. Now to find Sebastian. I scour the room one more time. A bed–a bed most peculiar!–it has only round edges! And it's nailed to the floor! And the vase is stuck, or glued I should think, to the dreary dresser. There is not even a pitcher or basin for me to refresh myself. I guess at the very least, I will wash my face if I cannot find Sebastian. He must have gone out for a walk. He mentioned plans to go walking or hunting today. I must have overslept. I reach for the door.

I said, I reach for the door.

Why isn't the door opening? Pangs of fear are rising in my belly. This is precisely what Sebastian wanted to come here for–I've been having night terrors and attacks of 'hysteria,' or so the doctor said. The plan was for me to come here, relax, and go home in four days. Let me reach for the door one last time, and I'll dry my hand first in case it was moist and slipped about on the handle.

Nope. That door is shut. And now I think I've begun to understand why the room is sparsely furnished, and why I have no other clothes besides a nightdress to cover me. I swear I see something in the corner of my eye. I want to think nothing of it, but I think it was a girl. A girl...in the nasty wallpaper. Lord help me, and Lord, while you do that, I hope you present my husband with some version of chloroform today.

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@nijahwrites #feministliterature #theyellowwallpaper #basicallyafanfic #shortstory

Context:

This is based off of the novella "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, but I put a little spin on it. I loved that novel, as it deals with how men used the concept of 'hysteria' to control and castigate women. Think late 1920's cars, long gowns, and controlling husbands. (Also, 'déjà lu' in French means 'already read' so I alluded to this being a rewriting of the story anyway) Thanks for such a fun challenge!