🥀|| ❝𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝❞ ||
Sooner or later, it was going to happen. Sooner or later, she would pay the price f...
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April 1, 1931.
By now I should be in my bed, but it is already well known that inspiration comes to me late at night, so I will continue to write.
My ribs ache because of the corset and my feet are blistered. As I explained in my previous entry, the night of March 31 would be the gala dinner of Ada's magazine. It took place at the house of one of her brothers, on the outskirts of Birmingham, and what happened tonight left a mark on my body and soul.
I've always had a tendency to exaggerate and over-dramatize things, and my friends have reminded me this whenever they could. Ada has been one of them and for that, I'm eternally grateful. Without her advice and scolding, I would never have attended the gala: I was too nervous and expected the worst. After all, it would be the first time I read one of my poems in public. I was terrified of the guests, all men of culture, hearing the uninhibited poetry of a woman of my class.
My fears came true thanks to a certain man, but on the other hand I had the pleasure of being admired by my friend and her strange family, in particular by one of her brothers.
His name is Thomas, and I saw him for the first time during the reception.
I was stunned by the luxuries that surrounded me and was clutched at Ada's arm like a little boy clings to his mother's skirts. The cognac was swaying in the crystal glass because of my nervous pulse when two men and a woman approached us. The woman gave off an aroma of french perfume so strong that for a moment I felt more intoxicated by it than by the drink I was forcing myself to drink. Despite her age, she wore a beautiful red dress with a plunging cleavage and a necklace of pearls decorated her fine neck. One of the men was quite tall and slender and, behind the thick mustache, he looked as nervous as I did; the other one, however, had serenity painted on his angular face and, when he put his blue eyes on me, a chill ran through my body.
"Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?" The woman asked before raising the cigarette holder to her lips.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intimidated by the presence of those three. There was something particular about them, a certain attitude that did not correspond to the social class they were trying to represent. I knew that, like me, Ada had belonged to the working class before her family's business began to work extremely well, but that had been many years ago and, knowing the type of woman Ada is, I was struck that her family still had behaviors from the proletariat.
"Her name is Olivia Westerling, she's a poet, and we met in London," my friend introduced me. "Olivia, this is part of my family. She's my Aunt Polly and she's like a mother to me".
The woman reached out her gloved hand and shook mine with some haughtiness.
"Elizabeth Gray", she introduced herself. I understood then that the nickname 'Polly' was only for the close ones.
