I have been wracking my brains for the direction to take in a little Victorian novella that I have been toying with.
I think I have it... a rather sturdy, prosperous, apparently contented middle aged couple hide secrets. She most of all.
There have been some disturbances in their quiet little village. the husband is full of admiration for his wife's steadiness through these alarming happenings. He is a good man, and loves his wife and daughters dearly. There are things he doesn't know...things that no-one could be expected to know.
here is the introduction. Please tell me what you think.
My name is Wrath.
I am a poison of the spirit, peculiarly female. I am a dark smoke that rises in the heart of the woman ill used. Not a child, mind you; I speak not here of the abused child, for those unformed minds have not the shadowy imagination to spawn me. I am a bitter hunger for bloody revenge and I rise, inexorably, in many lives. Lives of violence, of humiliation... Betrayal of trust...these lives are like tinder awaiting the spark.
For many, I am confined. My choking tendrils touch only their creator. Long, long lives are lived while a woman holds close my sinister power. Most die with me creaking in their heart... a bleak, unwanted lodger.
But some...some – oh! The sinew, the bared snarl of those few! When my spark ignites those lives and I can burst through; implacable, black – the beast unleashed. Bloody murder I wreak, with a fearsome scream of hard anguish. Not often... no – not very often... What has the power to strip back the heavy cloak of passivity, of gentle forbearance?
I tell you this – all those who would use their position – their long tradition of power to saturate a woman’s life with grief. Let me give you a warning.
Remember, that I am wrath – I am the one, the smoke, the hunger.
Harm not her child.