For an assignment, we have to rewrite a scene from the perspective of another character.
I chose to rewrite the moment that Mr.Rochester leads Jane to the attic and reveals his true wife from the perspective of his confined, former bride.
It's not done yet, but I was just wondering what people think of it so far:
"I heard the clank of the key rattling in the hole, preceded by a sudden scramble of footsteps rushing to the door. These wretched footsteps; foul pitter-patters that haunt the chambers of my mind. They tread lightly, they tread fast, they shuffle, scrape and drag. And here I pace, listening to the rhythm of each step, ringing through my mind like a siren, clicking through my soul like devil hooves. I endeavour to escape this prison cell. This tiny room built above a mansion vexed by ghosts below. Spirits roam each room. Oh, paltry phantoms they be! For I have seen them with mine own eyes! Like waking in the night, with cold sweat dewy above one’s brow, as the eye realizes the beast in the corner of a room is nothing more than fragmented shadows cast from an oak tree conspiring against one with the moon. But no; oh, what relief would be granted I if the shadows at Thornfield were but mere oaks! I remain locked in a forest of the truest, most gruesome demons ever known to man.
Their arms branch out and grow increasingly tight around my throat, as their roots plant deeper and cement me further in this dungeon. At times their whispers, like whiskers, tickle and scratch my cheeks as they escape through the floorboards beneath my feet. Hushed murmurs interrupted by sinking ‘s’s, like a serpent’s hiss. Yet I know not what they confess for they speak in tongues, ones that I imagine to be forked, no less. Oh, to be free of this nightmare. To shake myself so thoroughly that these invisible shackles slip off and wake me from such terror. I have had but a sip from this yearning of mine, and as such, thirst for more.
For you see, reader, I have escaped on several occasions—only to be returned to this room after every pitiful attempt. If every stanza is a room, then here lies the saddest poem; brief and utterly without context. Is this confinement my sanctuary or mine own Hell? Though I am barred like a bird, it is so my feathers are not plucked by the predators that lurk beyond my gilded cage. I have witnessed such creatures; two quite recently.
One night, I laboured to breakout, wielding as my only defence a knife that appeared to me by the foot of my bed. Were it left behind by the apparitions that plagued me or resigned to me by God’s mercy? I cared not. I ventured through one door to a room where my eyes were met with a sight so ghastly, every morsel of my body shrieked. There in a bed lay a dark figure. Its body heaved hard and heavily with every breath it drew. Its eyes glowed like the very coals beneath Satan’s foot. I knew It would lunge for my jugular if I left It one more moment to spare. Thus, before It attacked me, I lunged for It, instead. How I toiled with this fiend as It let out the most chilling, blood-curdling screams. “Rochester! Rochester!” It called. The word echoed through my ears like a sharp, piercing note. “Rochester” I had heard many a times. He, yes he was responsible for every last drop of misery and misfortune I endured. He kept me here, by force, by supernatural persuasion, and by the witchcraft he invoked to stir the spirits that kept my soul restless. He ascended those stairs, like so many times before, and I looked upon his face once more. Such an ugly creature he was. Foul in both looks and disposition, and yet, beneath the surface of all my hatred towards this man, this Rochester, resided within me but a sliver of tenderness. Something so slight but moving enough to make me question at times if I willingly submitted to my own captivity. "
Any insight would be greatly appreciated (and rewarded) thank you!
I chose to rewrite the moment that Mr.Rochester leads Jane to the attic and reveals his true wife from the perspective of his confined, former bride.
It's not done yet, but I was just wondering what people think of it so far:
"I heard the clank of the key rattling in the hole, preceded by a sudden scramble of footsteps rushing to the door. These wretched footsteps; foul pitter-patters that haunt the chambers of my mind. They tread lightly, they tread fast, they shuffle, scrape and drag. And here I pace, listening to the rhythm of each step, ringing through my mind like a siren, clicking through my soul like devil hooves. I endeavour to escape this prison cell. This tiny room built above a mansion vexed by ghosts below. Spirits roam each room. Oh, paltry phantoms they be! For I have seen them with mine own eyes! Like waking in the night, with cold sweat dewy above one’s brow, as the eye realizes the beast in the corner of a room is nothing more than fragmented shadows cast from an oak tree conspiring against one with the moon. But no; oh, what relief would be granted I if the shadows at Thornfield were but mere oaks! I remain locked in a forest of the truest, most gruesome demons ever known to man.
Their arms branch out and grow increasingly tight around my throat, as their roots plant deeper and cement me further in this dungeon. At times their whispers, like whiskers, tickle and scratch my cheeks as they escape through the floorboards beneath my feet. Hushed murmurs interrupted by sinking ‘s’s, like a serpent’s hiss. Yet I know not what they confess for they speak in tongues, ones that I imagine to be forked, no less. Oh, to be free of this nightmare. To shake myself so thoroughly that these invisible shackles slip off and wake me from such terror. I have had but a sip from this yearning of mine, and as such, thirst for more.
For you see, reader, I have escaped on several occasions—only to be returned to this room after every pitiful attempt. If every stanza is a room, then here lies the saddest poem; brief and utterly without context. Is this confinement my sanctuary or mine own Hell? Though I am barred like a bird, it is so my feathers are not plucked by the predators that lurk beyond my gilded cage. I have witnessed such creatures; two quite recently.
One night, I laboured to breakout, wielding as my only defence a knife that appeared to me by the foot of my bed. Were it left behind by the apparitions that plagued me or resigned to me by God’s mercy? I cared not. I ventured through one door to a room where my eyes were met with a sight so ghastly, every morsel of my body shrieked. There in a bed lay a dark figure. Its body heaved hard and heavily with every breath it drew. Its eyes glowed like the very coals beneath Satan’s foot. I knew It would lunge for my jugular if I left It one more moment to spare. Thus, before It attacked me, I lunged for It, instead. How I toiled with this fiend as It let out the most chilling, blood-curdling screams. “Rochester! Rochester!” It called. The word echoed through my ears like a sharp, piercing note. “Rochester” I had heard many a times. He, yes he was responsible for every last drop of misery and misfortune I endured. He kept me here, by force, by supernatural persuasion, and by the witchcraft he invoked to stir the spirits that kept my soul restless. He ascended those stairs, like so many times before, and I looked upon his face once more. Such an ugly creature he was. Foul in both looks and disposition, and yet, beneath the surface of all my hatred towards this man, this Rochester, resided within me but a sliver of tenderness. Something so slight but moving enough to make me question at times if I willingly submitted to my own captivity. "
Any insight would be greatly appreciated (and rewarded) thank you!