I sit by the closed window, all alone by myself and look through it; the glass window pane acts as a barrier between me and the outside world. I think I’ve been caged for years inside these four walls, I know not since when; I know every pattern of the cemented bricks, as if someone’s scars got painted on it. It’s not unchallenging for me to remember dates, days or events; this is what the man in the white attire says to my caretaker. There’s a numbness flowing all over my body, from head to toe; I barely speak, all I do is gaze through the window, perceive the outside world with my naked eyes. Every single day I’ve got a visitor; the visitor rushes hurriedly, gushes the water from the stream, leaving a whirlpool of death; blows away the dead leaves from the cemetery, tearing apart the heart of the lonely moors into two and knocks at my window whining in pain and says, “Let me in!”. I wonder who the visitor is, whether it’s the lonely soul of Catherine or Heathcliff!
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