“I will haunt you” said Cathy to Heathcliff.
Cathy from Emily Bronte like Rebecca in Daphne Du Maurier’s novel and Hitchcock’s movie are the worse role model a girl can have, annihilators, but their departure brought these stories a new dimension, the haunted one. Both novel become fascinating only after the aftermath of their death. They are the real femmes fatales of my childhood. I disliked them so much. Cathy and her superficiality, Rebecca and her sickening need of power showed me Love is something you can’t control or choose. Their story always echoed in me as their ghosts. This is when hatred dances with love, a slow Machiavellic waltz, this is when sometimes love is a travesty of power.
We all do it, dance with darkness, dance with death, young or old, from far or much closer. We all see the sand-glass of time passing and feel the burn of the earth transforming into dust. We bend, accept what we are deeply built to refuse. We scream and cry, we mourn in deep silence, we evaporate into the cave of our fear or we act without any.
It makes us hate and it makes us love, but most of all it makes us exist as a contrast.