The moon waned with Catherine Earnshaw's happiness on the night when Edgar Linton proposed. Not due to any real aversion towards him, of course. He was tolerable, and nice enough, and loved Cathy well, she knew. It was more an aversion to what she knew it might mean: accepting that her name would never waver to match her darling Heathcliff's.

It were his coal black eyes that inhabited the dog she sought comfort from after realizing her old playmate's departure. The hurt she found within them wrenched her heart wickedly, and she, for a moment, found it impossible to extract herself from the claws of pain in her Heathcliff's heart.

"Do not you look at me with such disdain, my darling!," she begged the hound, mad with grief. "I have done that which might protect you! I remain faithful in soul still, if not in body also!" Her chest heaved with sobs, and the fire that burned through her eyes parted to reveal to her her only true listener: a simple hound that knew of neither the love nor regret that she spoke of. "Look at me," she finally spat bitterly, more to herself now that she realized the bitch before her would not respond. "I remain half-mad with love, despite my most genuine efforts to be not so! If a man such as Linton cannot sway my mind and heart, then how shall I ever be released from my sweet lover's grasp? 'Tis a matter of time alone that I shall die from regret. For I do, I do, regret leading my playmate to Grange, and consenting to live there while my sore ankle healed. It was a folly to ever speak to Edgar. My disloyalty to Heathcliff has now rendered me dead, and in turn erected a new person, one which walks, and talks, and looks as I do, but one that must wrestle with insanity all of it's days! Oh, how I long to be young again! Oh, how I might run with Heathcliff, perhaps so far that it would be impossible to return to Wuthering Heights for twenty years, and all this would be avoided."

The thought distracted her from the present misfortune, and brought tantalizing images of a small cottage to her mind. Cherubic pictures of a child danced through the picturesque garden, and her breath caught when a man that only she could possibly recognize as Heathcliff chased after the babe. Her sanity was sliding through her fingers, she realized reluctantly, desperate to attain the utopia in her mind. Bursts of tears pushed her to the cold stone stoop outside of her mansion, and she took no care to see that the cement would not bruise her fragile bones. The shawl that Nelly had piteously thrust about Cathy's shoulders slipped, revealing her shaking form to the furious rain. Still she remained in her lowly position, listening for the thunder of a horse's feet that she knew would not come.

Joseph himself, who considered the lady a devilish coquette for playing with the hearts of men so carelessly, enticed her to come inside and warm herself by a roaring fire. But no voice other than Heathcliff's could calm the quaking of her shoulders as she waited desperately, clawing at the final shreds of reason that fluttered about in her head. Vicious thoughts sprang to her, tempting her to be cruel. If her temper was fiery before her love's flight, it burned hotter than the pits of hell now, and she raged to herself in the garden, scolding even the littlest cuckoo for singing on such a night. It took only a few hours for the vexations she encountered to swarm her mind, and finally, completely rob her of the gift called sanity.

On the moor, she claimed to spy a ghostly carriage, barreling towards her in a furious haze. There, she said, was Edgar, driving the noble horses like a madman, whipping them constantly, and viciously. She continued to intimate to anyone who would listen how she could hear herself cry in the back of the hansom, sobbing to be free of the vows she had made.

"Oh, dark omen!," she raved. "Tempt me not to take my own life, as you do now, by sending me visions of an unhappy future! At least, if I am to have no moments of happiness in my new life, leave me now, for I cannot bear to see it! Grief for my friend poisons my heart already, let alone your vicious taunts. Return to your home in Hell, ghoul! Greet me again only when I am on the brink of death, and must join you and sinful Lucifer! Please!" Her skirt trailed in mud as she ran down the pathway to the gait. "Please!," she sighed, voice breaking. Later, Nelly might remark that it was the only time Cathy had ever used manners when asking something of someone else.

Blood traced the curves of her cheeks as she banged her head against the harsh iron gate. Her breath became labored, as if fading away into a final death. Alas, as much as she prayed this was so, she continued to feel the pain Heathcliff had inflicted upon her, or perhaps she upon him. She could no longer know where she stopped and he began.

Strong arms wrapped under her flailing arms, and she struggled in vain to call off whichever man-servant had been sent to retrieve her. Howling, she kicked deft blows against her oppressor's sturdy legs, searching for some way to free herself. She vaguely registered the bleary landscape of the moors transforming into a warm household, and even then she fought. Would she never be free of this raging insanity? She knew the answer.

No, for she would never be free of Heathcliff.

A/N: Not as good as I planned. Review please!