By the Light of the Moon...
I had the nightmare again.
It hadn't come to me in so long. I'd thought to myself that it was gone and was glad for it. But it crept upon me, after all this time, and now I can't get back to sleep.
I dare not light a candle. If Sully wakes, she'll throw a fuss and likely wake Martin. Then it'll be wages docked again and I can't bear that. So the moon makes a decent light for my writing.
I used to love the moon. Martin has always scolded that I'm not to sit in the window and that passerby seeing one of the Master's maids making a cake of herself in the sill is not to be borne. But I never listened...
Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have seen what I did that one night.
I'm looking down on the street, right now, as I write, at that exact spot. If I imagined hard enough, I could still see that kind-faced gentleman lying there, broken and bleeding. I think I see him now...
Now I'm cold, so cold. Like I was that night. One moment warm and wrapped in my shawl, the next my skin crawling with ice and my throat burning from holding in the screams. I know that I've seen things and many that a woman, not even a maid, shouldn't, but nothing like that.
Why do I sit here and even think about it? Why do I let my mind revisit it over and over and over? I feel horrified, frightened, sickened and disgusted by what I saw that night. And yet I am sickened most over the fact that I sat, still as a statue, in the windowsill of my little room, and watched and couldn't look away.
Never before have I written this...or told another soul. And I know that this little notebook and pen will keep my secrets. No one expects a scullery maid to know proper reading and writing. But that secret is this:
I never fainted.
I lied. Because the shame was too great that I simply sat there and watched.
I feel disgusted now at myself.
And scared.
Had he seen me? Did he know that I bore witness to the death of that sweet-faced old gentleman?
I don't know.
Sully's rolling over and mumbling in her sleep. I'd best go before she starts making those ugly faces at me and telling me to get my silly arse to bed.
Keep my secrets, journal, as insignificant as they are.
It hadn't come to me in so long. I'd thought to myself that it was gone and was glad for it. But it crept upon me, after all this time, and now I can't get back to sleep.
I dare not light a candle. If Sully wakes, she'll throw a fuss and likely wake Martin. Then it'll be wages docked again and I can't bear that. So the moon makes a decent light for my writing.
I used to love the moon. Martin has always scolded that I'm not to sit in the window and that passerby seeing one of the Master's maids making a cake of herself in the sill is not to be borne. But I never listened...
Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have seen what I did that one night.
I'm looking down on the street, right now, as I write, at that exact spot. If I imagined hard enough, I could still see that kind-faced gentleman lying there, broken and bleeding. I think I see him now...
Now I'm cold, so cold. Like I was that night. One moment warm and wrapped in my shawl, the next my skin crawling with ice and my throat burning from holding in the screams. I know that I've seen things and many that a woman, not even a maid, shouldn't, but nothing like that.
Why do I sit here and even think about it? Why do I let my mind revisit it over and over and over? I feel horrified, frightened, sickened and disgusted by what I saw that night. And yet I am sickened most over the fact that I sat, still as a statue, in the windowsill of my little room, and watched and couldn't look away.
Never before have I written this...or told another soul. And I know that this little notebook and pen will keep my secrets. No one expects a scullery maid to know proper reading and writing. But that secret is this:
I never fainted.
I lied. Because the shame was too great that I simply sat there and watched.
I feel disgusted now at myself.
And scared.
Had he seen me? Did he know that I bore witness to the death of that sweet-faced old gentleman?
I don't know.
Sully's rolling over and mumbling in her sleep. I'd best go before she starts making those ugly faces at me and telling me to get my silly arse to bed.
Keep my secrets, journal, as insignificant as they are.