He’s cast a spell on me, and now I’m his for life. Wholly and completely dedicated to him, I’m at his beck and call.
There was a time when I didn’t believe in spells either. But sometimes I sit back and reflect upon my own behaviour, and I am so embarrassed to admit it, but all the signs are there.
When the morning alarm rings, and the choice between jumping out of bed with a spring in your step, or hitting the snooze button, is dictated not by how soundly you’ve slept but by whether lunch needs to be packed, right there you can tell that somethings not quite right.
If a single cry of pain or a simple tear can have a more debilitating effect on you than eight hours of slogging in an office or a burning high fever, that’s another sign that something is amiss.
The day a pout or a frantic flapping of hands becomes more persuasive than a logical treatise, you know you’re in trouble.
And most certainly, after waiting on someone hand and foot (with little acknowledgement and even less appreciation), if you find that instead of your self-worth being undermined, you instead feel a surge of satisfaction and pride, then that is conclusive proof that you are under a spell.
I am an educated, independent, self-aware woman. This kind of illogical selflessness, subservience, emotional unreasonableness, should simply not be possible. So, as the wise Mr. Sherlock Holmes said, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Most definitely I am under his spell.
Not any ordinary spell. I fear I’m in his thrall.
But spells can be broken, can’t they? Maybe graduation, moving out, getting married, having his own family, or some such even will undo it? Maybe!
And then I think back to the last call for help I made to my own mother, and how she dropped everything to come to my aid, and I realise – Nah. Some spells cannot be broken.