Author: Max Brown PM
We've heard bits and pieces about what happened to Rebecca on the night that she was killed. But what really happened? Rebecca's POV of her last day alive. From the book Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. One-shot.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Drama/Suspense - Words: 1,258 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 07-15-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4398186
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This is just a one-shot that I wrote for fun after reading the book, Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier. It is told from Rebecca's point of view on the night that she was killed.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Daphne Du Maurier. Not me.
I looked in my date book to see what was planned for the day. I knew already, but I always liked to double-check just in case. Just as I had thought, I was to see Doctor Baker. The pains were getting worse; I could feel it. After I got dressed I went to sit in the East Wing.
"Danny," I called out, "Bring me my tea please."
"Of course, immediately, Mrs. de Winter," she replied eagerly. As I drank my tea I sorted through my mail. Nothing particularly interesting caught my eye, so I filed each one into the appropriate mail slot: letters unanswered, estate, or miscellaneous. I liked things to be organized; it made me anxious when they were not.
I glanced at the clock as I finished my tea. It was time to go if I was to be on time. I was not really nervous; I just wanted to know what was wrong with me. I did not like being in the dark, especially when it was about my health. Maxim had left to see relatives, so he wouldn't know I had left the house.
When I arrived at Doctor Baker's house I parked the car and knocked on the door. The doctor opened it.
"Mrs. Danvers?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, giving my fake name.
"I have the results of your x-rays," he began cautiously, as if wanting to keep information from me.
"I want to know the truth," I interjected, "I don't want soft words and a bedside manner. If I'm in for it you can tell me right away." I didn't have time for this. Today was going to be a busy day, especially if I was going to see Favell. He took a deep breath.
"You have a fairly uncommon type of cancer and a malformation of the uterus, which means that you can never have children," he told me calmly.
"Would an operation be of any use?" I asked.
"No. The pain will increase and in a few months you'll have to be under morphia. There's nothing we can do but wait."
"Thank you," I replied, "That's all I needed to know." I paid my fee and left.
Cancer. I had expected no less. I thought about what I was going to do in the time I had left as I drove. There were several possibilities. I could kill myself to end it sooner and avoid all the rest of the pain, but I quickly ruled that out. That would look cowardly, trying to avoid pain.
Then it occurred to me: Max had been on edge recently. I had the feeling he was getting close to taking some sort of action against me. I didn't know what, but I might be able to speed it up. It couldn't hurt; I was already going to die. I knew one thing for sure; I was not going to tell him.
Suddenly I realized what I had to do. Favell deserved to know. I turned the car around, heading for his house. When I got there I rang the doorbell several times impatiently. A servant answered the door.
"Is Favell home?" I demanded.
"No, he's out fishing now. Shall I tell him you came by?" she asked timidly.
"I'll leave a note for him," I replied. I went into the house and got a pen and paper.
"I'll spend the night at the cottage, and leave the door open for you. I've got something to tell you and I want to see you as soon as possible. Rebecca."
I folded the paper into fourths and left it on his desk. This was inconvenient. Now I'd have to slip out at night when Max was there. I'd say I was out sailing; that would be inconspicuous enough.
I drove back to Manderley, admiring the primroses and syringia. I was proud of my renovations of Manderley; it looked much more orderly and tasteful than the dingy, archaic place it had once been. I walked up the driveway and wished Favell was home. It didn't really matter; I just wanted his input on how he thought I should proceed. I didn't care whether I lived or died. My legacy would live on; I would not be forgotten, and I knew that. That's all I really cared about. The beautiful Rebecca, the smart and funny Rebecca, the courteous and elegant Rebecca, that's how people would always think of me. Even Max would not be able to change that.
I sat down and began to answer some of the letters from earlier that morning. Jasper came up by the side of the armchair and I pet him as I assessed the room. I decided it needed new flowers so I went into the garden to find some that would look nice.
Max came home late. He began to talk some nonsense about divorce. I reminded him that it would be next to impossible.
"All our friends, even the servants, believe our marriage to be a success." I laughed. I knew I had trapped him; he couldn't argue with my logic. "I could get Danny, me personal maid, to swear anything I asked her to swear, in a court of law." Of course, she would be only too eager to help me with anything. That would make her happier than almost anything else she's done for me.
"If I had a child, Max," I began. This was fun. I could seriously worry him and he would never catch my bluff. "Neither you, nor anyone in the world, would ever prove that it was not yours. It would grow up here in Manderley, bearing your name. There would be nothing you could do. And when you died, Manderley would be his." I could tell that he completely believed me and he could see that I was right. He was thinking hard to try to find a way out of it. It looked very funny. I started to laugh. This confused him, but I kept on laughing. I could do whatever I wanted, say whatever I wanted now, and it wouldn't matter. "I'll be the perfect mother, Max, like I've been the perfect wife. And none of them will ever guess, none of them will ever know."
I turned to face him. He was holding a gun aimed at me. I smiled slowly. This was perfect. He was going to kill me. He thought he was hurting me. He didn't know that in killing me he was saving me a great deal of pain, plus the trouble of killing myself which could ruin people's idea of me. He could kill me, but I would not die. Rebecca would live on, and he would never be able to escape from the memory of me. This would be quick, almost painless, as opposed to the weeks of torturous pain and suffering I had been anticipating. He had no idea that he was doing the opposite of what he intended. He was doing me a favor. I watched the tense, strained expression on his face, and then I saw no more.