Unreliable narration

As I lay dying in the dimly lit extensive chamber with towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting a long black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place, blood spurted out of my body in torrents, streaming over the marbled floor in this once-spectacular-secret-chamber of my master and his venerable ancestor.

Even though I deem dying for my master as a greatest of all honors, I cannot help mourning my end. It’s awful. As you may see, the poisonous fang of Basilisk, the great green serpent of my master’s venerable ancestor with bright colored yellow eyes that could kill the victim the moment he/she/it looks at it (unfortunately, it managed to kill only one mad Myrtle girl fifty years ago and all other so-called victims of this useless Basilisk are just petrified, much to my master’s dismay), had punctured my heart with its venom making a sizzling hole in the middle of my chest not only slaughtering me but also my master, who writhed in unbearable agony and died by disappearing into mist, which I had to confess with an unendurable torment.

I was overwhelmed when I saw my master screaming out of pain seeing the Potter boy plunging the fang straight into my torso, causing me and my master a great deal of misery. I was always proud of containing and concealing my master’s memory that too for fifty years but when I came to know that I’m one of the seven Horcruxes, in the sixth part of the Harry Potter collection: The Half Blood Prince, (I heard about Horcruxes when I was laying in the Dumbledore’s table in his beautifully illuminated office alongside the Gryffindor Sword and some burned broken stone.

The Head Master pointed out to me and the inglorious stone with his half blackened left hand and told the Potter boy about my master splitting his esteemed soul to attain immortality and stowed in seven peculiar powerful objects) I was hurt. But still I was pleased to know I’m the first Horcrux. But I don’t go boosting about it. You know that.
You may even think I’m less significant comparing the other things that made a Horcrux, as the objects except me are precious on its own, like the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw which is said to be the key of powerful knowledge and wisdom, the Locket of Slytherin household, The Resurrection Stone in the Marvolo Gaunt’s Ring, one of the Deathly Hallows, unknown to my master, who made it a Horcrux due to his lack of knowledge, the Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup and his supposed favorite Nagini, the Snake (which was to die ashamedly by the hands of silly Neville Longbottom at the last chapter of the last part of the Novel), and the seventh Horcrux, that even my master never knew till his death, is the Potter boy himself, but even though I’m not valuable like them I’m so special for my master as not only I’m offered with his soul but also with the memories he admired a lot, which other Horcruxes deprived of.

Now I was left all alone in this chamber to bereave my death myself. The only sound in the chamber is the drip drip of the ink still oozing out of my pierced diary pages. Beside me lying dead is the giant serpent Basilisk whose body coiled, his eyes poked and punctured by the singing phoenix bird Fawkes and killed by the potter boy who drove the Gryffindor Sword to the hilt right into the roof of the serpent’s mouth.

Wait! Wait! I hope you haven’t read the Second part: Harry Potter and the Chamber of the Secrets because the muggle-born Rowling might mislead you by weaving a tale of me having stuffed into the old filthy sock and presented to Mr. Lucius Malfoy just to free the traitor Dobby, an elf, much to my apprehension, which I consider to be a greatest disgrace for a well-regarded pure-blood Horcrux like me.

PS: Excuse me for not telling my master’s name as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

MAD WOMAN IN THE ATTIC

1st December, 2018

This should have been my second nuptial night. We should be laughing, giggling and had had a wonderful time of our life. Now, I’m all alone in this dark room, turning off every decorative lamp that I meticulously bought and set up different light in different places that would create a perfect ambience for romantic actions and fierce love-making. I planned to make a chiaroscuro of your naked body by setting up a light in a place which will illuminate your full naked body half-naked because you may feel shy for the first time. How it would have been to be in the warmth of each other in this freezing December cold? I have been also longing for the warmth of love for a long time. But, It’s pitch dark now here, baby. I don’t even want to see myself. Everything is dark now: this room and my life without you; you, like the lights I scrupulously bought, not only illuminated my life but also adorned it aesthetically like the chiaroscuro I planned: illuminated my positives and darkened my flaws. The only wrong I did was concealing the truth about my first marriage. That fellow, Mr. Mason is a gull. He gulled me by getting his mad sister married to me. How I begged you not to believe that fraud. My Lolita, do you not love me as I love you so dearly. You know how ashamed I was? I was in no intention to deceive you. I really love you! Even after planning to marry you I thought I would look after my mad first wife too. You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her. She could not give me what a wife should give her husband. Nevertheless, I took good care of her. Only after meeting you and fell in love with you, I forgot all my sufferings and thought of dedicating all my life to you, baby. Now, tell me baby did I cheat you? Did I cheat you???

I overheard Rochester’s ranting to his lovely Jane, his Lolita on phone through a peep hole in door of his now-dark room. Oops! I forgot to add a double quotation. So what? Why care about quotation when a big full stop is awaiting soon. That Bastard—how dare he is to call me mad? O how was that, how was that? He did not get what a husband should get from a wife? You know he fucked me to all the satisfaction of his fantasy. Fetish fucker. I, like Anastasia, succumbed to all the desire of this Bastard of a Grey. Now he is bored so goes lusting after other women like a dog. Manacle rings for me and wedding ring for her? I’ll never let that happen. He was too worried about his room being dark and cold, right? I’ll make it brighter and more warmer. And how was that? How was that? “You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her”. I’ll permanently escape you from the torments of life. I’ll show who this Bertha Mason is! Bertha Mason, a specialist ARSONIST!

“My sister really had a psychological condition” confessed Mr. Mason, Bertha’s Brother as I sat near his death bed and read the above paras in Bertha Mason’s diary. “This entry is the last one she wrote before she burned Rochester and herself that night I stopped your marriage” he said and died. With Bertha’s diary in my hand in the gloomy room of Mr. Mason I’m sitting alone overwhelmed with tears. My poor Rochester!