The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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I found this journal wrapped in tattered brown paper adorned with the most beautifully painted depiction of a white dove – Compliments of my dear friend, Johanna. She had shoved this, and yesterday's post, underneath the dying pot of begonias in the corner. Since no one cared to water the poor thing, no one would then notice the small package and envelope stuffed below it. I cannot help but feel slightly despicable for having orchestrated such a deceitful deed.
You see I'm not permitted to receive mail that has not been vetted for death threats and crude commentary. Even after three years, my tormentors have yet to exhaust themselves. I am of the opinion that they should find new hobbies, but my opinion is rarely one of importance.
Usually Sister Florence or Nurse Franklin would do the deed, but in recent months I have grown tired of being protected from the outside world, I now wish to know what I am facing. If I ever want to escape this room I must be willing to look my past directly in it's fiery eyes. The fretful thirteen-year-old girl I once was has since died and left a very exhausted and world-weary seventeen-year-old in her place.
In order to receive my mail without my jailors getting their sterile hands on them I needed to do a bit of scheming with Johanna. I usually call her Hanny, a name I gave her back when I first arrive at this home and we became friends. I suppose I will continue to call her that within these pages, I believe it suits her. She is the sweetest most wonderful person. Her only fault is that she is a nun, something that makes her quite bland whenever she is under the watchful eyes of her sisters. Hanny is far too wonderful to have this be a mark against her, and so she has revived my opinion of the nun population.
Our scheme mostly consists of Hanny swiping what letters she can and bringing them straight to my room, rather then giving them to someone else first. As far as anyone else knows, I have not received a letter in months. Poor me. I have, in fact, received many letters over my time at St. Agatha's Home. Hanny will be burning all save the one folded in the front of this journal.
The others are dirty things, outlining exactly what should be done to a murdering nasty child like myself. I do receive correspondence from family friends, but those often find their way to the fire as well. Although our scheme causes me a bit more heartache, I feel empowered by the knowledge I find in reading them. We have also effectively cut out the middle woman and cut down on the workloads of our superiors—or at least this is how I phrased it to Hanny to get her to help.
I am a wicked girl, I know because I have often been reminded by Sisters Florence and Alberta, two reverent souls whom I trust to cast judgment upon me. They never miss an opportunity to tally up the sins for which I will answer. Dearest journal, the nuns are so hasty to remind me of judgment day—as if dying and being set before my maker is my only escape from this place. Perhaps it is.
They speak of God with reverence and awe; I try not to speak of Him unless forced to at Sunday service. We are friends, He and I, but I tend to keep my words with Him brief and direct. This is not to say that I do not pray, for I do and fervently, but I chose to keep my relationship with Him tucked away from the prying and ever judging eyes of the nuns here. This too I will probably answer for.
