Jane Eyre aka Lucy @Soberistas

Ok, I haven’t lost the plot, or started drinking again. The following post is my effort for this week’s DP Challenge – to write in the style of your favourite author. The book that first touched me in the way that only a great book can, was Jane Eyre – here then, is an account of the night I met my wonderful fiancé, written in the style of Charlotte Bronte. Let me know what you think – I loved writing it!

I cannot begin to imagine what I was thinking when, as I was wont to do in those days, I entered the drinking establishment and requested yet another vessel of wine from the surly gentleman behind the bar. It must have been my sixth or seventh of the evening and my thoughts no longer belonged to me; it is true to say that I was beyond personal cognisance. My companion and I had frequented several inns that evening, and had arrived at the conclusion that we should indeed venture forth to our own abodes, as the night had drawn in and we were feeling fatigued and somewhat histrionic as a result of the excessive palliative liquid that we had imbibed.

Instead of departing for home, however, we made the decision to embark upon the short journey to what would become our penultimate destination; a dark but tolerably jovial inn, warm and invigorating after our short walk through the algid gloom outside. After purchasing our beverages, we sought to discover available chairs – the parlour room toward the rear of the hostel was packed full of revellers, and Reader, I must confess to staggering and lurching, owing to my drunken state. Finally, we almost fell upon a wooden bench alongside two ladies of fair countenance, and a gentleman who was swarthy and brooding.

My recollection of the conversation is a little vague, now that so many months have passed, although I can summon up the first words that that gentleman spoke to me – “Perhaps you do not recall, but we met some time ago, one evening last summer. You remarked upon my apparel – a shirt illustrated with an album cover of the musical four piece, The Smiths, of which you expressed your approval.” As melodic as pealing bells, my heart leapt as we reacquainted ourselves and despite my addled mind, I felt as though I had arrived home, that I had reached my destiny.

Our conversation was not blighted with awkward silences, nor did we encounter difficulties in happening upon subjects that we held in common. I am no professed harlot, but so drawn to this man was I – as well as being intoxicated by the potency of the alcohol – that I found myself inching toward him, my hand reaching out to fondle his near thigh. He did not profess to bother – indeed his gentlemanly persuasions led him to grasp my palm, caressing it in his as though we had been lovers for decades.

He showed himself to be a courteous and honourable man, a friend from the beginning, and the man who led me to the much longed for road to sobriety. That night represented the twinkling threshold of a wonderful chapter in my life – the unparalleled existence of living without the blur of alcohol; the birth of a redefined version of my self, originated by leaving the wine behind on that cold, January night.

 Reader, I became engaged to him.