From Ireland to France

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I became aware, though meditation, and flashes of the past, the Ellanna was not of French extraction, by any stretch of the imagination. For some reason that I could not imagine, she had come to France from Ireland. I got the strong sense that what she was looking for there was first anonymity, and then, for the same reason, fame. Though I felt determination in her purpose, I could tell that it was not determination to become an Operatic Diva. She had more important things on her mind. I reached to find out what, and I simply got that she had come from Spain. Yes, Spain.

I saw her standing in a bathroom brushing her hair, or rather, I should say, I saw her reflection in the mirror. I was staring at myself in defiance. A man intruded, and stood behind me. I hated him. I couldn't see his face at all; he was just a loathsome figure that I feared, and would not look at. He was my husband. A flood of perverse and twisted images filled my mind, things he had done to Ellanna that I will not put in print, because I wish to forget them, and have no desire to subject any reader to such graphic mental images. This was the moment that I decided that I was going to leave. I was very kind to him that day, and obedient. I packed up everything he had given me, dresses mostly, and jewelry. Then, I left.
I wanted to know why Ellanna had married this man. How had she gotten herself into this predicament? I could only assume that her circumstances must have been desperate. I thought perhaps what had happened was that she was starving and faced with a choice between prostitution, and marriage to a strange gentleman. Where was her family in all of this? Had she come to Spain alone? How did she wind up there to begin with? I had to believe that I was not the most gullible and foolish woman on the planet. Ellanna seemed more shrewd than that, somehow.

From Spain to France, I discovered, was not her first flight in terror. Before she lived in Spain, she lived in England. What happened to her there was a blur of beige and angry faces against a grey sky. What made her decide to escape to Spain, other than the proximity of the English Channel, I couldn't imagine. I couldn't even get a name or face for this man she was married to. No matter how hard I tried, his name was a muffled slur, and his face was a wash of white. I named him Don Carlos, for the sake of my own mental reference.