500 Days - The Letter

Today's story takes us back to Amy and her mother and father.  When we last left her, Amy was still stuck in the attic of the Dew Drop Inn (which is actually a brothel).  Her mother and father received a letter she had miraculously mailed and they had come to rescue her.  However, the rescue did not go well and Amy's mother and father went to the church for help.  At the church, they met Pastor Steadman.  Pastor Steadman is based on a historical figure and Reverend D.S. Steadman who was a gun slinging church leader.  This segment of the story is what Steadman does once he has heard Amy's mother tell the story of Amy's kidnapping. Hope you enjoy!
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Veronica: Everything Seems to Break at Once

With Pastor Steadman standing in front of me, in front of my broken husband who is bent over, covered in his own blood, his eyes swollen shut, everything seems to break in me a once.  I am beside myself in racking sobs.  “Oh Pastor Steadman,” I wail.  “I know we do not know each other, but I am in desperate fear of what those animals will do to my child.”  I can see Steadman's eye twitch with these words and at once know he, too, is a father.  I have spent the last hour telling him the story of Amy, right up to the last few hours we've spent fighting to rescue her from the brothel where we assume she is being held captive.

“If what you say is true,” he says, “and I believe by your reaction it must be, there is nothing to be done but act.” 

With these words he strides swiftly out the back of the church to a door in the back.  I'm left to calm myself, to soothe William.  A few moments later, Pastor Steadman strides in with a 12 gauge shot gun thrown over his shoulder and I am surprised by how little his gun shocks and frightens me.  Steadman is the type of Pastor who preaches in a town where guns are the law, not God.  He looks me straight on and says, “it's probably best ma'am if you stay here. This rescue might get ugly.”  With these words, he turns on his heel and strides out of the door. 

But, I have no choice but to follow.  I cannot sit by as someone else goes to rescue my daughter.  I tell William I'll be right back, but he has fallen unconscious.  Quickly, I follow a few steps behind the Pastor as he strides confidently down the street towards the brothel. 

With one swift kick he open the already broken door.  “I'm here for the girl,” I hear him shout with force.  Then, I hear a loud snarl from the strong man. 

“What the hell you talking about Steadman.” 

“I said, I'm here for the girl.  The one you and Kate have locked up in your attic.  Her mother just came up to the church and told me the whole story.  Now, I don't usually mind your business, but this time, you've gone too far.” Steadman says.

From the street, I can see how he is looking at the strong man straight on.  “I don't know what the hell you talking about,” says Ben.

“Alright, if that's the way it's going to be, I'll shoot my way in.”  With these words, he sets his shotgun on his shoulder, releases the safety, and sets the site directly on the Strongman.

“Well, wait here just a second,” says Ben.  “I don't want to cause any trouble.  She's up there.”  He says, pointing to the stairs I'd tried to climb just an hour ago.  For what seems like an eternity, I hear him climb the stairs then nothing.  Just the beat of my heart thundering in my ears. 

500 Days - The Girls Who Would Be Birds

Today, we skip ahead a few days.  Emmy, Diana and Amy have been working hard getting the oil out of the well and shooing off suitors who want to marry them for their wealth.  Amy (whose backstory you will hear about tomorrow) and Diana have been given the money they need to buy themselves out of prostitution from Emmy sharing the wealth from the oil.  In this segment, Amy go to see Big Ben and French Kate in hopes of buying their freedom.  Hope you enjoy!
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Diana - Out of the Ashes

The story I read last night, the last one I read before I fell asleep, was about a bird.  A bird that flies so fast it turns into bright burning flames, then, crumbles to ash.  Unbelievably, from that scattering of ashes rises a new bird.  “A phoenix” the book called it.  Emmy loaned me her book, it’s the one I first started to read after the fire.  She called it Metamorphosis.  Said it was a collection of tales they used to tell long ago.  The tales are magical, like the fairy tales my Momma used to read to me each night before I fell asleep.  The book had been a gift from her father.  He’d brought it from Germany.   My favorite had always been the story of the miller’s daughter: the girl who weaves straw into gold but who’s almost tricked by that arrogant troll. She survives because she doesn’t give up and she listens.

Yesterday, after we’d sat with Emmy and made our plan, Jane and I left while Emmy did her paperwork and got her laundry accounts settled.  We took a walk back to the Chase hotel.  I hadn’t been back since the night it burned down.  Since the night I walked into my own darkness and then back out.  It still stood, black ember boards covered in grey ash.  There wasn’t much left and by the looks of it (ashy foot prints everywhere) many have already picked over anything that was left unscathed.  I thought I would feel sad looking back at this place, but instead it is a nothingness that fills me.  Not the darkness that threatened to let me walk into the flames, but a nothingness of no regret of not feeling anything for this place.

Jane and I walk on past the ruins of the hotel.  She is nervously biting her nails.  I loop my arm in hers as we walk down the tight streets. She’s worried she’ll run into Big Ben.  That he’ll see her and make her come back.  But, I assure her that whatever the cost Emmy can buy her out now, that we safe.  We gettin’ out.  But, she still bites her nails and looks at the ground as we walk.  All the joy that had been slowly washing back into her face has washed right back out.

When we walk past the hotel where Jane once worked, I can feel her arm start to shake in fear.  “It’s okay,” I say. “ I got the paper.  We gonna be okay.”  But she still shakes.

Strange thing is when we walk up we find the door kicked in.  Ben is in the parlor.  But he don’t look so tough.  He’s got a bloody lip and he’s pacing back and forth on the floor. 

“What the hell do you whores want?”  He say as we walk up.

“We are here to buy ourselves out.”  I say trying to look tall as I can. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He says. “ Kate!”  He yells.  “We got another runner.”

By the look of Ben, by the sound of these words, I know that something bad has happened.  Kate steps slowly down the wood staircase in her high heeled boots.  She is (like always) dressed to the nines.  Her body is held tight in a red velvet bodice.  Her breasts spilling out of the top.  Her hair is swept up and her face is painted like a china dolls. 

When she gets to the bottom of the stairs she says.  “Well, well, well, what we got here.  Another transformed whore?  We were wondering where you went off to Diana after the fire.  And Jane you take care of your problem?  Or, you need another visit from Big Ben’s fists?”  With these words I can feel Jane shrink to half her size. 

“No ma’am.  We here to buy back ourselves.”

“You ain’t got that kind of cash.”  Kate cuts back.

“Oh yes Ma’am we do. Just after the fire, Widow Ricketts struck oil.  She’s offered to buy us out.  I’ve got her letter here.”

“I don’t care you got a signature from President Lincoln himself.  You two is my whores and we got some men who want your services so you get your pretty little selves cleaned up so we can make some money.”

“I don’t think you understand.  We got the money.  We want out.”

“I don’t think you understand.  I got a business to run.”

Two days ago, before the fire, before I’d seen what would happen if I’d stay, I would have backed down.  I would have dropped my eyes and said a quiet, yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am.  But not now, not today.  Anger bloomed in me hot as the fire I’d escaped.

“We not here to negotiate.”  I say, handing Kate the folded paper Emmy had written out.

“Ben, Ben you believe this one?” She say

But Ben don’t look himself.  He still cursing under his breath and blood is streaming down his face. “I don’t give a fuck what them ladies want Kate.  I need a fucking drink”  And with these words he strolled right out the door.

“Well, I never!”  Kate says under her breath, her face flushing.  She opens the parchment and looks down.  I see her reaction real quick before she can fix it.  She looked surprised by the numbers Emmy has given her for us.  But she a good business woman and she correct herself real quick. 

“Well, we’ll have to see if this figure will work.  You girls get out of here now before I change my mind.  You’re lucky I have one hell of a headache this afternoon.”  And with these words she folds the paper into a tiny, tight note and stuffs it into her huge bosom.

I grab Jane’s arm too tight and spin her out of that place fast.  We walk as quickly as we can down the street back to the far edge of town where Emmy lives.  As we walk I can feel the air around me grow lighter and lighter.  As if a cool breeze had suddenly picked up and washed over us.  We walked through that wind, arms linked, feeling lighter than air, the dust swirling in the air, the ash of the burnt hotel back to the shade of them hemlocks on Emmy’s property where she sitting and shouting out to us,  “Well? How’d it go? You free yet?  Cause we got us some work cut out for us today!”

500 Days - The Girls Who Would be Birds Continued

Yesterday, I had a bit of an a-ha moment in regards to my story.  For the past year and a half, as I've been working on this hybrid manuscript, I've been trying to figure out what is missing.  But yesterday when a friend asked me why I didn't have any sections in the voices of the male characters I realized what it was.  The men.  I need to add in the back stories of Ben, Pastor Steadman, Crocus.  I even thought of adding a chorus (Greek style, not Broadway style) of the hollow boys - a lyric voice of the young boys who work in the derricks. It was a wonderful, inspiring inspiration.  Today though, you are hearing from a woman.  In this section, Widow Ricketts continues the story.  She's just awoken from her reoccuring nightmare where she recalls her husband's death.  Hope you enjoy!
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Widow Ricketts – Aubade

This morning, dawn struck the sky dumb with amazing colors.  I was so startled when I walked outside in the dawn light that I almost forgot the nightmare I’d just been immersed in.  The one that I can’t ever shake – the one where Henry kisses me one last time on the lips then walks across the street to the dock, steps gingerly into his wooden boat and pushes off into the grey deep that will be his grave. 

Each time I dream it, I know at the second our lips touch that he will die, but something happens to me: my legs freeze, or they feel glued to the floor.  Or, a glass wall descends and holds me back so my screams of stop, don’t get in the boat, or you’ll die, never carry across. Or, a ghost descends, a tattered grey of a shade that billows around me holding my wrists and ankles, covering my mouth with the cool grey gauze of its form so that my words become nothing but lost air.

But today the stain of dawn washes away that grey dream, the gray waters that would wash him farther and farther away.  The dawn washes it away with the hope of the sight of the well directly in front of me.  A well that has become a fountain of oil.  What luck!  Who would have ever believed that was possible. 

I step back inside and look into the front room where the girls are curled up on pallets on the floor.  Diana, her hair swept out around her head like a golden wave of fire, her face pinched in worry that never seems to wash away even with sleep.  Then, right next to her, the new girl Jane, who sleeps tightly bound like a field mouse.  Her brown hair pulled tight into a braid down her back.  They are floating in their own worlds now.  Worlds that are tangled in a web of stories I’ll never know.  In a few minutes, I’ll wake them and their faces will melt into the daily masks they wear.  No trace of history will pass across.  Only the face of the daily, the everyday.  I know it is only a survival, as mine is, but how I wish we could all just open our mouths and let our stories pour out, like clear, clean water. 

The pink begins to fade from the sky and a sort of yellow glow starts to grow. The shift in color reminds me that we got a lot to do today.  Yesterday afternoon the girls and I sat at my round oak table and made our plans.  We gonna get as much oil out of that well as we can.  We worked out shifts and a system for selling our oil in town.  Then, we made ourselves a pact.  At the end of all of this we are going to ride this big dark wave of oil and leave.  We are going to leave this dust and these hollow boys.  We are going to get in my wagon and ride all the way down the hill to Oil City where we'll catch trains out of here.  I don't know where the girls are going, don't even imagine they'll be telling me, our friendship here is just too tied up in their awful present.  A present I don't reckon they want to go telling their families and friends about.  No, I'm not going to be anything but the lady who helped get them out of this place. 

Me, I don't know yet where I will go, somewhere green and lush, somewhere far away from here.  My sister lives up in Maine.  I haven't seen her in so many years, but she writes me letters every few months about the ocean and the way the air smells heavy with salt.  The way she describes it, Maine sounds like a clean place.  It sounds like a good place for a fresh start.  Hell, I was only in Franklin because of Henry.  Now, what good is it to stay around here?  Especially, now that all has changed.  Especially, now that this dark black wave is going to wash under us and carry us out of this place.

I put the coffee on, then I walk over to the girls to wake them up.  I give Diana's shoulder a shake.  Then, Jane’s.  “Time to rise and shine,” I say. 

And they awaken.  Diana flutters awake like a small bird.  Jane sits bolt upright, a look of terror across her face.

 

500 Days - The Girls Who Would be Birds Continued

Diana’s Pigeon

There aren’t many animals in these streets except for the hairless horses that hall the heavy loads through town.  The dust and soot must choke them out.  Every once in a while a bird, like a pigeon, will swoop in and land.  How strange a bird like this looks in this universe!  Yesterday, as I was walking to the creek, I saw one swoop down from the hemlocks.  There he sat, gray and feathered on the muddy ground, his head jutting from side to side, as if to question what sort of place he had landed in.

“Poor bird,” I think, “you got no idea what you got yourself into.”  Of course I’m not really talking to the bird, I’m talking to myself. I’m talking to all the girls who fly in here unawares and don’t know what they’ve gotten themselves into. 

When she walks up the path, her eyes are down cast toward the ground.  As if she is walking very carefully.  As if she is afraid she will step on the wrong stone.  I see her coming up the path from the house.  I’m still smiling when I see her, smiling from that poor fool who tried to propose to Emmy Ricketts once he realized she’d struck oil.  She sure showed him!  Don’t think he’ll be coming round again unless it’s to fill her orders for equipment.  Something tells me he ain’t the last one that’ll be botherin us either.  That’s one thing men can smell around here, oil.  They always looking for it.  Hell if there’s a woman who’s got it, she start to look like a real attractive woman, alright.

When I see her walking up the path though, my smile fades. I know that’s not the way to greet her.  She a shy girl.  She had it hard.  We got to ease her back.  Funny thing is, I can’t remember the last time I smiled before today. Seems like that fire gone and burned away all the darkness I thought was swallowing me.  Burn it off into the dark night. 

I walk down the path to meet her.  “Glad you decided to come,” I say.  “You know Widow Rickets?” 

“I heard of her.”  She says in her quiet voice, almost a whisper.

“You looking for work?” I ask.

“Yes, I am now”. 

“My name’s Diana, what you called?”

“My names Jane.” 

“Nice to meet you” I say.  “I’ll bring you up to the house to meet Emmy”

I don’t ask a lot of questions because I know she don’t want me to.  It’s one thing to talk about your life here, but the life you left, or the one you lost before you got here, that is private and something that is unspoken around here.  The unspoken rule is you don’t ask questions you don’t want somebody asking you.

When we walk up to the white-washed house, Widow Rickets is bent over the well, arms slick with oil to the elbows.  “Get over her,” she hollers, and we rush over fast.  “Can you girls help me set up this line?  We spilling oil all over the place.  We might as well tearing up bank notes at this rate.”

So, before I can even introduce Jane we jump in and help her set the line to collect the oil.  Once it’s set, the pump rises and falls like a heartbeat.  “Let’s go in and get cleaned up,” she says.  “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” she says, extending her arm to Jane and then looking at it covered in oil, thinking better of it. 

“Hi,” Jane says quietly.  “It’s nice to meet you.  My name is Jane.  Diana here said you was looking for girls to help you work.  I’m looking for work.”

“Well you’re in luck because I’m just about up to my ears in oil!  Let’s go on into the house and get some lunch and talk about how we gonna set up this operation.”

With that, we follow Emmy into the house.  Just as I reach to close the door, I see the pigeon rise up into the air and take flight.  He gone.  Smarter bird then I thought! I think and smile to myself.

500 Days - The Girls Who Would Be Birds ...

Today, in another installment from 500 days, word begins to leak in Pithole about Widow Rickett's discovery of oil.  And, the consequences of this "leak" are surprising.
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Widow Ricketts: “Exit, pursued by a bear." - William Shakespeare

The oil just keeps rising like a dream.  We can't seem to fill buckets fast enough.  I tried to keep the laundry going, but now, I'm giving up.  Diana and I need to focus on the oil that is coming out in a steady flow.  It's day two and already every single tub has been filled with oil.  Laundry is piled from ceiling to floor all over the house.  We need to get proper equipment now.  So what that means is the word will have to get out.  So, yesterday I went into town to the general store and asked if I could purchase an oil drum.  You should have seen the look on Mr. Stokes face. 

“A what?”  He said.  “What you gonna do, wash laundry in it?”

 I just politely answered, yes, I was thinking about it, trying to suppress the smile blooming across my face. 

“There something you want to tell me about Widow Ricketts?”  He asked and I just smiled and said. 

“Yes, Mr. Stokes, you know how we had that fire night before last?  Well, we used my well to put it out.  In fact, we used it until it went dry.  Funny thing is next morning when I went out to check to see if it had refilled, it had, but not with water, it had refilled with oil.” 

“Well I'll be goddamned,” he said.  “The Widow Ricketts has struck it rich.  Who would have ever thought to drill right under the washer ladies house?”  I just smiled and cleared my throat.

“So, about that drum, do you know where I could get one, say later today?  We are in a real hurry as you might imagine.”

Just then, his eyes start to sparkle and he says.  “You bet ma'am.  I'll bring one over later today.”

“Thank you.” I said before I turned and walked away.

It was only a few hours later when Mr. Stokes and two other men arrived carrying a large drum on a wagon.  All three men quickly dismounted and got to work setting it with a line to the well before Diana or I could say a word.  While we were looking on, Mr. Stokes walks over stroking the shiny part of his sweating head with a handkerchief. 

“There is something I've been meaning to ask you Widow Ricketts.  Do you think we could have a private word?” He says, clearing his throat. 

I can see his discomfort and the way the sun is punishing him so I say, “yes, why don't we sit down over here in the shade.” 

“Thank you ma'am” he says.  And we sit under the Hemlocks. 

“Ma'am,” he says, “you know we both alone and this here project with the oil and all will likely be more than you and an old prostitute can handle.  I was thinking, out of your protection, you might want to give me your hand in marriage?  I 'll bet we could go down to the Methodist church and have Pastor Steadman perform the service tonight if you was so inclined.”  He said almost out of breath by the end from all of the words he had forced out of his mouth.

I was so shocked by his proposal, the only thing I could think to do was stand and the only thing  I could think to say was to quote Shakespeare,"I suggest you exit, Mr.Stokes unless you wish to be pursued by a bear!"

Well, you should have seen that man’s face.  He turned beat red, huffed and turned fast on his heel together up his men.  I just laughed and walked back to Diana.

“What was that about?”  She says.

“Oh Lordy, I say, I have a feeling me and you are gonna have us a lot of new suitors once word gets out.” I say, laughing to myself. 

500 Days - The Girls Who Would Be Birds, Part 4

It's difficult to tell such a twisting story as 500 Days, but hopefully, some of you are able to follow these narratives as they weave in and out.  Today, the story switches from Amy and her mother and father back to Diana and Widow Ricketts. 

Diana, the Water Carrier

The trail from Widow Ricketts house to the creek is stony and wet. I've walked its course six or seven times today. It's not a far way to go and we need the water to do the wash. If we don't keep the wash going folks will start to suspect. Folks will start to ask questions. Widow Ricketts, I mean, Emmy, wants to keep up the charade at least for today. At least until she can figure out a plan.  The sun beats down on the stones in the path making them sparkle clean in the sun and I’m so intrigued by their beauty I startle when I see the girl crouched at the creek. She's bent over, her shoulders shaking.

So as not to scare her I say real loud. “Nice weather we having ain't we?”  Then, she looks up. Her eyes are blackened, her lip swollen and bloody, likely by the hand of Big Ben or some other pimp. Worse yet, it coulda been a John.

“Hi,” she say real low so as I couldn't hear her more than a whisper.

“Don't mean to pry but are you alright? You need some help?” I say in return. 

“No, it done.” She say, real empty and right then I know what it she talking about.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”  I say, keeping my eyes low.  Knowing she don’t want to talk anymore about the baby she’s just taken out of herself.  She just nods. 

As I fill up the water jugs, I turn to her and say.  “You know, my friend Emmy, you probably know her as Widow Ricketts?  Well, the strangest thing happened to her today and we are real busy with work because of it.  I’ll bet if you come on up to the house with me, she’d have some work for you?  You interested?  No need to decide now.  Just stop on by Widow Ricketts house if you want.  She’s just right up there on the ridge under them hemlocks trees.  You see it?”

She looked at me uncertainly and gave a slight nod.  I know she can’t just leave her job.  But, I hope she’ll come by.  With that, I scoop up my load of water, place it on my back and hurry up the trail to the house.  Wait until Widow…Emmy hears this story.

The Letter, Part 3: French Kate

Today is the final segment in Amy's section "The Letter" before we turn back to Diana and Widow Ricketts to see how the discovery of oil has changed their lives for the better. Hope you enjoy!
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French Kate: Revenge

I have no idea how that bitch found us.  That dumb girl must have told her family where she was going and somehow figured it out.  Well she ain’t getting that girl.  Not now.  If I was smart, I’d just have Ben go up there and finish her off.  She’s so green, we’ll have to break her.  She’s a fighter, but that don’t matter.  I can break any girl down.  Ben will want to kill her.  I can tell just by looking at him as he stands looking out the broken glass, clutching his bruised knuckles.  But, I don’t kill the girls.  It’s not worth it. I am many things, but not a murderer.

Instead, I’ll just let him go upstairs and get rough with her.  That way, when they come back, if they come back (I’ll bet they’ll be afraid to come), they’ll see our work here is done.  She ain’t coming back anymore.  She’s a changed girl. 

 

Exciting News and 500 Days, The Letter, Continued ...

I've just recieved my publication schedule for my new chapbook that will be coming out from Finishing Line Press in June 2013. My chapbook is called The Flying Trolley and is about my experience teaching writing at Goldwater Hospital in New York City.  While I was teaching, I was hit by car and left unable to walk.  The book chronicles my how the long term care residents at Goldwater Hospital taughted me how to live with my bodies limitations.  I hope the work acts as a celebration of the gift they gave me (for which I will always be grateful).  I'll post news once you can pre-order The Flying Trolley early next year.

Today, in 500 Days, Amy's mother and father leave The Dew-Drop Inn without Amy in search of help.  Hope you enjoy! :
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Veronica: From a High Steeple

I have no idea what to do but run.  William is doubled over in pain.  When I look up the street, at its peak I see, like a miracle, a white, wooden church.  It looks to be only 100 yards away.  I can carry William that far and so I do.  I carry his crumbled, bloody body up the dusty street to where the church stands.  There are people staring at us as we stumble on our way.  No one asks us if we are all alright.  They just see us, then, look down to the ground.  It’s as if we are passing through a sea of nothing.

William is able to half-walk, half-shuffle.  He’s beaten badly.  Blood is pouring out from above his right eye.  His left is swollen shut and his nose is pouring blood.  The way he’s bent over I assume he’s hurt his ribs too.  I’m only bruised up from the fall and the kick to my stomach.  I can feel blood tricking down my forehead from a gash where I must have clipped the balustrade as I fell. William moans in pain: a low animal moan that I’ve never heard from his lips before.  It is like the sound a woman makes when she is hard in labor and the baby is pressing against her, but her body won’t yet give.  I’d never heard that sound from a man.   When I try the church door, I’m not surprised to find it open.  I push us through the threshold and set William gingerly inside a pew near the door.  Then I call out. 

“Help!  Please, someone help us! We need help!” as loud as I can possibly yell. 

Almost immediately a man rushes into the room. 

“What’s the matter?”  He asks.  Then, he looks us over.  “You aren’t from around here are you?”  He asks.  “What’s happened?” 

“They have our daughter.”  I say.  “We tried to rescue her.  We came all the way from New York, but they wouldn’t let us in.”

“Where is she?  And how do you know she’s there?” He asks.

“She sent us a letter. I got it in the mail just two days ago.”  I pant.  I’m red-faced and filled with a rage I’ve never known before.  I can taste it’s coppery taste at the back of my throat.  I feel as if the whole church glowing with the singe of my anger.  The pastor sees my face and he walks over and gently sets me down in a pew. 

“I think,” he says, “I’d like to hear this story from the beginning.” 

The Letter, Part 3, Continued 4

Today, more from Amy in her captivity as her situation gets worse.
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Amy: The Problem with Puzzles

The problem with puzzles is if you don't solve them, they never leave your head.  They linger and remain until you can find an answer. I've always had a mind for puzzles. But here in this dark attic, I am in one I can't seem to puzzle myself out.  Yesterday, when the man came to bring my bread he didn't ask if I was ready to begin my new job.  He cocked a shotgun and threw me down onto the wooden floor and pointed the two barrels at my head.  I could feel the cold steel pressing into my flesh.  Then with the weight of his whole body he threw himself into me and growled,  “You gonna fuck whether you like it or not.  You gonna take your first customer tonight, or I’m going to find the little town you are from and kill everyone you love one by one.  You hear me?  Now, I want you to fuck me like I’m paying for it.”

I have never felt as small as I did in that moment.  I begged and begged.  “Please, I screamed.  Please let me be.  Not this way.  Please!” 

But he didn't hear my words.  I was like an animal he was there to break.  I was nothing more.  I scratched his arms.  I bit him.  I did everything in what little power I had to stop him.  But it was all to no avail.  With one arm, he pressed me the barrel of the shotgun down on to me.  And with the other, he pulled up my skirts.  Pain ripped me as he entered me and I felt a darkness wash over me as his he grunted above me. 

When I woke up, I was alone again.  Lying on the pile of blankets he'd taken me on with my skirts pulled up.  I couldn't move but smoothed my skirts down.  Oh what have they made me? What have I become?

The puzzle has started to unwind in my mind. I am at its center, a dark, dark knot and I am unable to get out.  Will he come again?  When will my first customer visit me?  As the night passes and the dawn comes.  The days are no longer seamed.  Instead, they blur together. I fear the passage of time.  Every creak the house dares me that it might be him, or worse, another stranger that will rape me.  Reminds me that I am not safe.  I am trapped in a monkey’s fist.  I am at its center and the labyrinth I’d need to travel to get out is un-mappable.  I cannot see in the dark. 

I feel like I have walked through a door. On one side was before -- my life in Millerton, the sunlight pitching through trees, the quiet whiny of my horse. And on the other is the dark universe I now inhabit. It feels as if I am wearing new skin that is no longer my own. The sun has sunk low enough to dim the light, to let it into the room from the high windows. So, this is my new life, this is what I've become.