Choices

My portrait hung on the wall in the library.
Covered in dust, housed inside a tarnished frame; a sad reminder of better days. A hint of mold drifted in the air, the corners of the patterned wallpaper peeling and brittle, and cold ashes sat in the neglected fireplace. Some claimed the house was haunted. I always smiled at that notion.
Yet, I could see why its reputation turned. My home had fallen into disrepute, chased by rumours and scandal.
My fault.
My choices brought us all to ruin.
I should never have married Robert, that weak-willed philandering fool.
I should never have invited my cousin Angelique to live with us.
Such a coquette, Angelique. Sweet, polite, outwardly a lady, inside a heartless scheming shrew. Flirting with my husband, under the guise of innocence. That woman never knew the meaning of the word. Robert, of course, fell for her charms. Never a smart or discerning man, but a rich one. The appeal for both myself and Angelique, I suspect. They dallied under my roof, thinking I didn’t know, didn’t see what they were doing. Not everything, but enough to be disgusted with their behavior. I challenged Robert and gave him an ultimatum. Not that he heeded anything I said. I regretted that confrontation, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.
Both of them ignored me and made their own plans. Plans that didn’t include me.
They thought they had won.
They never counted on my spiteful nature.
I made them pay for their sins.
Whispering in Robert’s ear at night, I berated him, accused him, tormented him in his sleep. Angelique I harassed daily, reminding her she was not the mistress of this house. I hid her things, played cruel pranks, and made her life a misery. Their passion turned to resentment, and they sniped at each other, arguing constantly.
Ah, the sound of their discord was such a delight.
After months of constant strife and unhappiness, my horror of a husband broke, his will eroded with melancholy. I followed him that day, as he walked out onto the third-floor balcony of the music room, and watched him jump. Rushing forward, I saw his fall, laughing as he hit the ground with a satisfying thud. I was still there watching as Angelique found his body. Her screaming soothed my soul.
In the days after, things changed. Robert’s will was read, and Angelique found her fortunes reversed, her impertinent, scheming self thrown out of the house without a penny. I remained, still the mistress of my home.
No matter what happens, this house will always be mine.
For my portrait still hangs in the library.
And my murdered bones are buried beneath the wine cellar floor.