Things I can't tell

The counselors, and the lawyers, said I should write everything down. Everything I can remember.

I don't want to.

I've squashed things down. You know how when you squish an object down, you know how it just looks like something flat, but then you stretch it back out again, and you can see the details, the ones that were squished inside?

If I write things, they become un-squished. I'll remember more.

I don't want to write how the thing my father beat me with was the same plumbing line that they use to hook up the carbonation tanks to a soda fountain. Then I'll remember the day he took my sister and I to a softball game, and seeing that line, and how I couldn't even remember what happened during the ball game. All I could see was that plumbers line, and I can remember how it felt and how many welts I had from it.

I don't want to write these things. It's more real when it's written down.

It's bad enough that I'm disfigured and I probably won't be able to have kids even if I wanted them now.

I don't need this stuff to be more real.

But I have to do it so that he gets properly punished. I've started to write but I have to stop a lot. I've never been allowed to write things down for myself so it's weird, too.

Oh, and I go back to school Monday.

Martha was in the bathroom, throwing up. She never did eat much for dinner, and this was why.

She could never be sure when she'd throw up after Father left her room. Not that he cared much either way.

Martha kept hoping that if she got skinnier, she wouldn't be nearly as attractive to him, but it had become quite clear that he wasn't seeing her anymore, not really. She wondered, sometimes, if he still saw her as his daughter or as his wife, or as just a thing.

Lately, he'd been talking about moving, which made Martha nervous. It was bad enough being here, she certainly didn't want to go anywhere else with him. And she certainly didn't want Mary in any danger.

She sat on the floor after flushing the toilet and rested while her thoughts chased themselves round and around her head. She wished she could figure out a way for them both to escape. But she couldn't think of any way. Father kept such close watch on them, even when he wasn't home. He counted change, looked at receipts, he inspected their bookbags and bedrooms. Martha couldn't have one private thought written down, not a card or a diary or a phone number. He inquired about the doodles in the corners of her English notes.

Martha pulled herself off the floor. Every part of her body ached as if she'd been bludgeoned. She supposed that was accurate, in a way. She shivered, starting to tremble with reaction now that her heart rate had slowed and her stomach was empty. She really hated sleeping in her bed after her father had been there, but there was nothing else for it. She made her way quietly back to her bed, pulling the folded quilt around herself, wrapping herself up tight for sleep. At least she knew that he wouldn't be back for her tonight.

Six in the morning would come early.

Mary woke up at the same time many nights, about two hours after she went to bed. She knew this because the light up dial of her alarm clock always read about 10 PM.

She wasn't entirely sure what would wake her. Sometimes there were noises coming out of the room next to hers, her sister's room. And sometimes, she would hear crying. Sometimes, Mary thought it was Father crying.

But sometimes, she knew it was Martha.

Mary loved her sister. But she was afraid to get out of bed and go to comfort her. So she lay there, unmoving, listening.

Eventually, there would be footsteps and usually she could hear Martha in the bathroom, calming down after crying. Sometimes, he could hear Father speaking to her in the next room, though she couldn't understand what he was saying to her.

Martha usually didn't speak.

Eventually, things would go quiet and Mary would sleep again. And in the morning, Martha would be waking her up with a hug and a kiss, and Mary wouldn't think about what had disturbed her in the night for a while.

But it bothered her, and she wasn't quite sure why.

Ilse and Martha drove along the road to the artists' colony. Ilse used the buggy often for deliveries, and was quite good at driving it. And today, she used it because 'we must keep Martha strong enough for marrying,' which made Martha blush, but it was true, she still wasn't completely as strong as she'd been before the miscarriage.

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Moritz had a nosebleed in gym the other day.

I'm so very worried for him. I wish I could help in some way. But...then he'd get embarrassed and I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable, either.

And Ernst fainted. I hope he's all right too.



They're watching me so closely now. I wish I could just run away. It's so warm, I'd love to wear short sleeves, but...the welts would show now. I look as if I've run into a pot of purple dye, there are so many.

I'm very tired. Thea has been good company. Wendla and Anna are...preoccupied with boys.

It must be a nice thing.

I miss Ilse. I think that perhaps I shall go to the artists' colony on Saturday to see if I can find her.

Maybe I'll stay there. Ilse can be my Mama.

Then maybe I can sleep at night. Maybe I won't have welts all over me anymore.


Maybe Moritz will come with me and we can both make things better.




And maybe I will die dreaming.