THE SOLITUDE OF HOLDEN FARMS
Spring has arrived, but remains marred by stubborn appearances of snow and sleet. I sit in my reading room watching the storms rage outside my window. Not a soul disturbs me save all the ghosts in the crypts of Holden Farms.
Ah, yes. All those dead white men that ran this mansion for all those generations. How they must roll in their fucking graves that a woman runs the place and orders male servants to and fro.
I hear their panicked whispers in my brain as I repeal centuries of maleness inside these walls. If I could erase all of them from history, I would. Just show me the button to push and it will be done.
But will I throw open the doors and the gates and the stables and every fucking other thing at this monstrosity of a home...or will I sit in the crypts and mourn my dead white man?
Ah, yes. All those dead white men that ran this mansion for all those generations. How they must roll in their fucking graves that a woman runs the place and orders male servants to and fro.
I hear their panicked whispers in my brain as I repeal centuries of maleness inside these walls. If I could erase all of them from history, I would. Just show me the button to push and it will be done.
But will I throw open the doors and the gates and the stables and every fucking other thing at this monstrosity of a home...or will I sit in the crypts and mourn my dead white man?