3.4.10

May 4, 1842
Now I write by candlelight. If I get caught, Mary will scold. She will tell me how the curtain can catch the flame and cause the whole house to go aflame. But I am careful. Mary will not catch me, and my candle is far from where my curtain resides.
Still, I wonder about my predicament. Mother’s death came as a shock to all of us, especially me. I was there; I should have felt the change in her atmosphere. The doctors don’t know what caused the death. I don’t think they have a clue, though they say they’re getting closer to solving the mystery. She is being buried tomorrow morning in the center of London. It was father’s idea, and I don’t approve. London is far too public. I don’t want my mother buried there.
But my predicament resides in my heart, as well as in my head. James has asked for my hand in marriage yesterday. I don’t know what to say. He knelt to the ground and said “Elizabeth Kingsley, will you be my wife?” in front of a whole party. I told him that I needed time to think, and I would give him an answer the next time I saw him. Unfortunately, that time would be tomorrow at the funeral. I really hope that he doesn’t expect me to answer his question in front of people mourning my mother’s death. I have to say that it would be wrong. James’ family isn’t poor, not at all. Father would have never given his consent for the proposal had it not been for the Bennett’s wealthy background. Sure, they were not kin to the King and Queen, but they were wealthy, and James Bennett was the son of the lord, James Bennett Senior.
I don’t know if I will marry him. I’ve tried to consult Mary, because she knows what it’s like to be married, but every situation is different. She has tried to tell me that being married is the best; that I’ll be able to buy more clothes, have children, and go to fabulous parties and all that goes along with being the wife of a lord. But I don’t know if I want that. I may just want to be myself for a bit longer, to be Elizabeth Kingsley until I have to become Elizabeth Bennett. I’m not sure that one person can exist inside the other.
Father is no help either. I’ve yet to discuss my predicament with him, because I know that his choice would be for me to marry James. Still, I want that feeling. I want to be in love when I get married, and, even though I don’t know what love feels like, I do know that I am not in love with James. James is great, he’s amusing, and he’s quirky, but I just don’t know if he’s the guy for me. I’m not sure that I’m ready to submit myself to a husband that I don’t love. It just doesn’t seem right for me.
Someone is coming down the hall.
I’ve checked, it was just Jane, our housekeeper. She’s a sweet lady. Maybe I should consult her about the proposal, though I don’t think that she’s been married, or even proposed to. Jane is the kind of woman who will work until she is dead, and I have to say, I kind of respect her for that. I’m sure that she thinks about what would have happened if she had gotten married, and sometimes I wonder if she regrets not getting married. Of course, there’s nothing she can do about it. It isn’t her fault she was born into peasantry.
I think the person that I most need to talk to is my mother. She would know exactly what to say, what advice to give. She would know whether I should marry James or not. She would tell me to weigh my options. Do I love James? Do I love someone else besides James? Would I be happy with James? I know the kinds of questions she would ask. I just don’t know how to ask myself these same questions.
Perhaps the person that I should consult is James. Maybe we should talk about whether or not we want to be married, or whether it’s just convenient. I know it’s convenient for him; he gets to marry a girl who is about sixteen, who will have a long life, who has money behind her, and will hopefully produce beautiful children for him. It’s convenient for me; I get to marry a very kind, humorous man who would take care of me and treat me right. He would never do anything to hurt me, or anything that I wouldn’t approve of. He does love me, and maybe I do love him. I’m so unsure right now. I do wish that I could speak to him, right this second. It would make life so much easier. I don’t know if I can go to sleep tonight, knowing that I have to answer him in the morning, as well as be attentive at mother’s funeral. It seems like a lot for a girl of sixteen.
But this is the life I was born into. London has never looked more beautiful than it does tonight, even with enormous decisions and weight hanging on my shoulders. I feel almost at ease, even knowing that I have a huge decision to make, one that could alter the way my life works. Do I want to be married at sixteen? Do I want to be married at all? I do need my mother. I do need James. Good Lord, I think I’ve realized it. I think I do love James. He’s the right man for me, and he most definitely loves me, otherwise he would not have been so keen to let me take my time with my decision. Mature, amusing, good looking, and otherwise supplied with money, he seems to be the choice for me.

3.3.10

Understandable. I didn’t even remember the last thing that I had seen. It was so long ago. They were going to eat me. I was going to die, and to be honest, I was kind of okay with that. Who needed to live? Life was pain. Get up in the morning, eat something, school, work, go home. It was all one endless cycle that could only be stopped by the ending of a life. The ending of my life. I hated to live. But still, a part of me wanted to live. To survive and get away from this horrible place. I didn’t want to die anymore. I wanted to see my parents, my sister, my dog. I loved my dog. He was really cute. But most of all, I wanted to see the sun again before I died. I wanted to see what it looked like, after all of these years. Would I remember it? Would it remember me? Would my parents remember me? I doubted they would recognize me… I doubted I looked the same. Ten years in a prison cell with no windows would do that to you. I figured that I had gone blind in processing, but I doubted that I even cared. I didn’t really care. I didn’t care at all. They had taken me at the age of five. I didn’t know how long they had me, but they had me for a while. Long enough for me to become a woman. I didn’t speak anymore. I didn’t need to. They said everything for me. “Alice is hungry. Alice would like some water.” All I had to do was nod, and I didn’t even do that too often now. What did they want from me? I had no clue. But I hadn’t moved in days. I stretched my fingers, allowing the blood to soak back into them. I bent my knees, my elbows, moved my neck, opened and closed my jaw, remind myself how each individual muscle of my being worked. I stretched my shoulders, and then used them to push myself up onto my knees, and then my feet. I stretched again and tried to notice something about my surroundings. It was all black. I felt the sarcasm on my tongue. That was new. I hadn’t felt that in a while. I felt around for the wall where they usually entered. I couldn’t see a door. I felt around for a crack, and finally found one. I dug my fingers into it, felt the rocks give away. There was light. I could see it. I could see. I pulled more of the rocks out of the way, letting more of the light hit my skin. It was filthy. I didn’t recognize myself. I pulled more and more away. Why had I never seen this light before? I crawled out of the cell. My dress tore on a nail on the side of the tunnel. I stood up, and noticed that it was blue. I walked away from the cell, noticing hundreds more lining the walls. Were there more people in here? I walked over to one opposite mine and pulled the rocks away. “Hello?” I asked. There was nothing. “Hello?” I asked again. “Hello?” came a response. I pulled more rocks away, letting the light hit the face of a boy, around my age, or what I guessed my age to be. He crawled out to meet me. “Are you… one of them?” He asked me. I shook my head and pointed to my cell. “I lived in there.” I told him. “Where are we?” He asked me. I shook my head again. He grabbed my hand and we walked down the hallway, afraid of where we were going. There was a large steel door at the end of the hallway. He pulled me closer to it and opened it. Sunlight glorified where I stood. I was overjoyed at the feeling of sun on my skin. I just wanted to stand here, but the boy made me move. “They’re coming!” He said. How did he know? I ran with him, down the street. It looked different. There were more buildings, stretching out higher and higher. I didn’t recognize this place. I wasn’t even sure that it was Earth. We kept running, ducking into an alleyway and behind what we later found out was a dumpster. They didn’t follow us down the alleyway. We were free. “What’s your name?” I asked him. “William.” He answered. “What’s yours?” He asked. “Alice.” I told him. William and I spent the next two years trying to find out what had happened. He had gotten a job in a bank, and I worked in a restaurant. I didn’t mind. I liked being able to use my hands, and I was afraid that if I stayed still too long, I would end up back in that cell. William and I have broken into the place with the cells four times. We’ve rescued twelve children all together. But it seems like they keep bringing in more. The children live with us, on the corner of Madison Avenue and Broadway in New York City. I’m still looking for my parents. They have yet to turn up, or call. No phone book can tell me of my mother, sister or brother. I doubt that my dog is still alive, though I do miss him greatly. William and I plan to break into that place again tomorrow. I’ll rescue more kids, he’ll go and find out more about it. They don’t chase us anymore. They just let us go. But they bring in more kids every time. Some of the kids live with William and I, because they have no other place to go. The older ones, around our age, choose to get apartments close by. We all stick together. We’re the only friends we have. William and I seem to be getting more romantic lately. But we’ll never have children. They might get trapped as we were.

3.2.10

“Coming, Cora?” Arlene rested her head on the locker next to Cora’s. Cora’s gaze was distracted, but Arlene didn’t mind. She focused her eyes to see what Cora was watching. “Patrick’s so hot.” She said. Cora seemed to wake up, hurriedly forcing books into her backpack, and slamming her locker closed.

“Let’s go.” She said finally. She picked her backpack further onto her shoulders and then started walking down the hall with Arlene.

“Cara?” Someone behind her asked. Cora turned around. “You dropped this.” It was Patrick. Tall, dark skin, deep voice like velvet. It made you want to curl up and take a nap. She almost fainted.

“It’s Cora.” She corrected silently, taking the hairbrush that had fallen out of her backpack and heading away from Patrick without a thank you or a hello.

Stupid! She told herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! What the heck? Why can’t I talk to him like I talk to everyone else? He’s sooooooooooooo hot! She shook away her thoughts and kept walking with Arlene to her next class, hopeful that Patrick would skip class like he did nearly every day. She couldn’t focus when he was in class, and Mrs. Benson seemed to notice that.

“What was your answer, Miss Clarke?” She’d ask. Cora would shake her head as she came back into focus on the square root of five hundred. She wouldn’t answer. I don’t see why she feels the need to pick on me on days that he’s there. It’s not like I participate more when he isn’t. She growled to herself, grinding her teeth. Math is dumb. She concluded.

Arlene and Cora stepped into the classroom. Cora looked around for Franny and A-Ray, her two best friends in the whole world. Which was stupid. Franny was in the hospital, and A-Ray was probably cutting class. I wonder if A-Ray and Patrick ever cut class together. Cora vowed to kill A-Ray should she find out that they were together. Not that A-Ray would ever dream of going out with Patrick. He wasn’t her type.

He entered the room right as Cora was about to put her books on her desk. Instead she dropped them on Mrs. Benson’s foot.

“Already hurting people, Miss Clarke?” She asked.

“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Benson. I… just dropped my book.” Cora stared at the ground. Debating whether or not she should even bother to pick them up. She bent down and picked them up, smacking her head on the corner of her desk. She cursed loudly.

“One more word out of you and it’s a detention, Miss Clarke!” Mrs. Benson turned around, flipping her dyed blonde hair to face the chalk board. Cora sighed and sat down in her seat. She hated math. She let her mind wander away from the boring world of fractions and exponents, into the marvelous land of Patrick Joseph. Half of her wondered what it would be like to date him, to kiss him, to hold him, to—

“What was the answer, Cora?” Mrs. Benson said. Cora looked up at her, big blue eyes flaming with hatred. “Do you know it, or don’t you?”

Cora didn’t answer. She remained still. Any movement could be marked as a threat. She felt like an animal, the kind you see fighting on Animal Planet. Mrs. Benson was the tiger, she was the unfortunate antelope. But she held her ground, not saying anything, not even blinking.

“Miss Clarke, the answer please?” Mrs. Benson’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Benson, but you said if I spoke you would give me a detention, I’m confused about which order I’m supposed to follow, unless the detention is going to make its way to me anyway.” Cora heard several gasps. The antelope had stood up and bit the tiger, and, even though it was an herbivore, it liked the taste of blood on its tongue.

“You’re right about one thing, Miss Clarke. This detention is going to give itself to you right now.” She picked up the orange slip of paper, filled it out and handed it to Cora. Cora stared at the paper, eyes widened, hatred flaring as she stood up and spoke.

“I’m not going to detention.” She crumpled the paper up and threw it into the garbage across the room. “I don’t deserve a detention. I was following your orders. I’m just fifteen, we all are. We’re here to learn math, not to become a victim of a dictatorship.” She sat back down. Mrs. Benson’s nose flared with anger and hatred. A student had never dared to try and defy her before. It made her feel weak and powerless. She brought out the pad of paper for in school suspension, wrote down Cora’s name, and left the room to submit it to the office.

Cora sighed as Mrs. Benson left. At least the suspension would be a day that she wouldn’t have math. Bittersweet, she packed up her books and waited for Mrs. Benson to return and scurry her to in school suspension. Patrick walked over to her desk.

“You were kinda brave, Clarke.” He said. Cora rolled her eyes.

“I’m sick of her crap. I didn’t even do anything. Crumpling up a detention slip? I didn’t do anything to deserve a detention, or an ISS. I’m going to fight this one, because I know I’m right, and there’s nothing that she can do, to make me stay in that stupid little room for seven hours.” Patrick smiled, and picked Cora’s chin up.

“You’re pretty brave girl, Cora.” He leaned down to kiss her. She responded. Mrs. Benson entered the room, the vein in her forehead was pulsing with anger as she saw Patrick with his hands on Cora.

“Go to in school suspension.” Mrs. Benson said.

“No.” Cora answered, “But I am leaving. Coming, Patrick?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick packed up his things and left the room holding Cora’s hand. As soon as they were off the floor they ran for the gyms. Cora leaned with her back against the back wall of the large gym. Patrick put one hand on the wall, the other caressing her skin. He kissed her gently, and for a moment, Cora felt brave.

3.1.10

One hour. I've got one hour. One hour to write this stupid essay... Which I know nothing about. Why don't I study? Why don't I ever study? Not just sometimes, everytime. This is why I'm in resource. I never study. I should, but I don't. I've got one hour to write this stupid essay... What was the topic again? Something about England? France? Africa? Oh I give up. I'll never write this stupid essay on Napoleon. Napoleon! The essay is on Napoleon! Where's he from? South America, right? Maybe? No? Okay, focus. I've got one hour to write this stupid essay on Napoleon from France. That's right, he's from France! Awesome? But... what did he do? Why am I even writing this stupid essay? I don't care about Napoleon! He killed off the dinosoars or something... I don't know! This is why I'm in resource. I never study, and I don't know anything about this. I should study. I should, but I don't. Why do I do this to myself? Who am I kidding? I'll never be able to finish this stupid essay on Napoleon from France. Never. Why do I even bother? I belong in resource. I can't finish this stupid essay in just an hour. An hour isn't long enough to finish an essay. Not long enough at all. I've got fifty minutes to write this thing? Are you kidding? Ten minutes have gone by, and still I sit here, staring at this stupid piece of paper, trying to write an essay on Napoleon. I'll never be able to write this essay. It's not physically possible. Sure, she's almost halfway down the first page, and he--hey! She's halfay down the first page? How long is her essay going to be? She's writing it? How can she remember all of the details? How can she possibly remember that Napoleon led France in the 1800's? How can she sit there, writing about this essay. What was the question again? I belong in resource. I can't even remember the question to this stupid essay that I'm supposed to write. I belong in resource because I don't study, because I don't know anything about this, and because I can't remember anything. Nothing makes sense. I have to write this essay. I can't just sit here and stare at this piece of paper. That's not going to get me anywhere. This stupid essay has to get written. I can't write this essay. I can't do it. I can't sit here and write an essay for fifty minutes. It's not nearly enough time. Not nearly enough time to write an essay. This is why I'm in resource. I never give myself enough time to finish my essay. Not nearly enough time to write an essay. Forty minutes? That's what I have left? I have to write this stupid essay. I can do it. I have enough time. France? Napoleon? What else? Something about Egypt. And Russia. Something happened in Russia during the French Revolution. The French Revolution! That's supposed to be in this essay. I can do this. I can write this essay. But I can't in only forty minutes. That's not enough time. Not nearly enough time I barely have time to think in forty minutes! This is why I'm in resource. It takes me too long to think. I belong in resource because I don't study, because I don't know anything about this, because I can't remember anything, because I never give myself time to finish my essay, and because it takes me too long to think. Resource is right for me. But maybe I can get out. If only I could finish my essay. Finish, start. Same thing. I can do this, I can finish my essay. I just need to get started. I have thirty minutes? Thirty minutes to finish my essay? I can't do this. I can't finish my essay in thirty minutes. I can't start my essay in thirty minutes. No way. Not possible. Nothing is possible for me. This is why I'm in resource. Nothing is possible for me. I belong in resource because I don't study, because I don't know anything about this, because I can't remember anything, because I never give myself time to finish my essay, because it takes me too long to think, and because nothing it possible for me. No way can I do this. I have to do this. I have to start and finish my essay in thirty minutes. Have to. Have to. I can do this. I have twenty minutes? How am I supposed to finish my essay in twenty minutes? How am I supposed to start my essay in twenty minutes. I can't do this. I can't sit here and talk about Napoleon in France in the 1800's when he invaded Egypt to gain control of the canal that controlled most of England's trade, and he invaded Russia for more European land. I can't mention how he united the Germanic states to form what is now Germany. None of this is important to me. This is why I'm in resource. Because none of this is important. I belong in resource because I don't study, because I don't know anything about this, because I can't remember anything, because I never give myself time to finish my essay, because it takes me too long to think, because nothing is possible, and because none of this is important to me. I don't care how amazing Napoleon was. But I have to write my essay. Writing my essay will get me out of resource. I have to start my essay. I have ten minutes? Ten minutes is nothing! The girl next to me is on her fifth page of writing? How can she possibly write so much about how the French economy was failing and the system of Monarchy never really worked for the people of France, past, present, or future. I don't know what I'm supposed to talk about with the civil war between the French and the three estates, and how each estate recieved only one vote, and the first estate had most of the land, didn't pay taxes and always voted in favor of themselves because they were the wealthiest. I don't know how to mention that the second estate always voted with the first estate because they wanted to remain where they were, not paying taxes and having a good amount of land. I don't know how it's relevent that the third estate payed all the taxes even though they were the poorest estate and had all the peasants. I don't know. This is why I'm in resource. I don't know anything about anything about anything. I belong in resource because I don't study, because I don't know anything about this, because I can't remember anything, because I never give myself time to finish my essay, because it takes me too long to think, because nothing is posisble, because none of this is important and because I don't know anything about anything about anything. I have no more time? Zero minutes? But... I didn't write my essay. This is why I belong in resource.