whatever I could to make sure he never had to serve as my whipping boy again.
It didn’t work. Every few months, at the slightest provocation, Mother would order Helper to beat his son while I watched. I close my eyes now and take a deep, shuddering breath as I remember the scars that cross Arthur’s back, the scars that exist because of me.
Arthur is out of my sight now, and I look back out at the moors, hesitating. But only for a moment.
I break into a sprint, running in the direction he pointed to, breathing in the clean scent of the rain as the heather tries to cling to my bare legs. The land is one of hills and valleys and mud that threatens to pull me down. The sky is a dark mass of clouds, gray and swirling. The rain grows harder, pelting into me. I can’t see. All I can hear is the deep roar of the rain and the growl of thunder. The day has turned dark, and everything is in confusion.
I run until I feel like something is stabbing my lungs, until my clothes feel ten pounds heavier, until I feel like I’m free from the school and everyone in it. I’m alone. I bend down, trying to catch my breath as the rain pours over me.
I look up to see something solid in front of me. I run to it and find a small, broken-down building of soaked wood, with one lopsided chimney stretching out of it. When I open the door and step inside, the rain can’t find me.
It’s something from another century, this one-room cottage. Someone’s humble home, perhaps. There isn’t any furniture, but there is a hearthside. The roof has caved in at the center, and the rain pours through to form a deep puddle underneath the gaping hole, so I step around the edges to reach the hearth. I sit before its slate stones and pretend there is a fire there to warm me. My shivering stops.
A flash of something white in the fireplace catches my eye. It sticks out of the soot, and I reach out to grab it.
After brushing the dirt and soot off, I realize what it is: part of an old photograph. I see a girl’s body dressed in a faded Madigan uniform. The other half of the picture and her head are torn away, but there’s writing on the back. I have to trace my finger over the letters as if I’m writing them myself to figure out what it says. “Me and him.” This photograph meant something to someone once. I prop it against the wall and promise to tape it up the next time I come. It feels like an appropriate way to honor this place’s history, its story before me.
I stretch out, lying on the packed dirt of the floor, and finally let myself think the thought that has been clamoring for attention since I woke up: I’m eighteen today. When I was little, I learned that most girls celebrate birthdays with big parties and presents and cake. They create a day that’s all about them. It’s a strange custom, but still, I like the idea of it. I decide that this cottage is my birthday present.
The only presents Mother ever gave me were meant to make me more seductive: makeup, clothing, or jewelry—anything that would make me noticeable and irresistible. She once devoted an entire week to showing me how to put on eye makeup for every occasion and every outfit. The week after that, she taught me how to flutter my eyelashes, how to peer through them enticingly, how to use the expressiveness of my eyes to feign remorse or fear or any other emotion I would need. “Eyes are the most important tool you have,” she told me. “You have to control them at all times, or they will give you away.”
Like the mother of the Venetian courtesan and poet Veronica Franco, Mother taught me everything she knew about how to attract a man. Franco’s mother was a courtesan as well, and she trained her daughter to be a captivating, powerful, eloquent woman. She was utterly irresistible, just as I am meant to be.
I fall asleep thinking of Veronica as the rain softens outside. When I wake, the day has grown even darker. It’s dusk, and I don’t know how to get back to campus,
It didn’t work. Every few months, at the slightest provocation, Mother would order Helper to beat his son while I watched. I close my eyes now and take a deep, shuddering breath as I remember the scars that cross Arthur’s back, the scars that exist because of me.
Arthur is out of my sight now, and I look back out at the moors, hesitating. But only for a moment.
I break into a sprint, running in the direction he pointed to, breathing in the clean scent of the rain as the heather tries to cling to my bare legs. The land is one of hills and valleys and mud that threatens to pull me down. The sky is a dark mass of clouds, gray and swirling. The rain grows harder, pelting into me. I can’t see. All I can hear is the deep roar of the rain and the growl of thunder. The day has turned dark, and everything is in confusion.
I run until I feel like something is stabbing my lungs, until my clothes feel ten pounds heavier, until I feel like I’m free from the school and everyone in it. I’m alone. I bend down, trying to catch my breath as the rain pours over me.
I look up to see something solid in front of me. I run to it and find a small, broken-down building of soaked wood, with one lopsided chimney stretching out of it. When I open the door and step inside, the rain can’t find me.
It’s something from another century, this one-room cottage. Someone’s humble home, perhaps. There isn’t any furniture, but there is a hearthside. The roof has caved in at the center, and the rain pours through to form a deep puddle underneath the gaping hole, so I step around the edges to reach the hearth. I sit before its slate stones and pretend there is a fire there to warm me. My shivering stops.
A flash of something white in the fireplace catches my eye. It sticks out of the soot, and I reach out to grab it.
After brushing the dirt and soot off, I realize what it is: part of an old photograph. I see a girl’s body dressed in a faded Madigan uniform. The other half of the picture and her head are torn away, but there’s writing on the back. I have to trace my finger over the letters as if I’m writing them myself to figure out what it says. “Me and him.” This photograph meant something to someone once. I prop it against the wall and promise to tape it up the next time I come. It feels like an appropriate way to honor this place’s history, its story before me.
I stretch out, lying on the packed dirt of the floor, and finally let myself think the thought that has been clamoring for attention since I woke up: I’m eighteen today. When I was little, I learned that most girls celebrate birthdays with big parties and presents and cake. They create a day that’s all about them. It’s a strange custom, but still, I like the idea of it. I decide that this cottage is my birthday present.
The only presents Mother ever gave me were meant to make me more seductive: makeup, clothing, or jewelry—anything that would make me noticeable and irresistible. She once devoted an entire week to showing me how to put on eye makeup for every occasion and every outfit. The week after that, she taught me how to flutter my eyelashes, how to peer through them enticingly, how to use the expressiveness of my eyes to feign remorse or fear or any other emotion I would need. “Eyes are the most important tool you have,” she told me. “You have to control them at all times, or they will give you away.”
Like the mother of the Venetian courtesan and poet Veronica Franco, Mother taught me everything she knew about how to attract a man. Franco’s mother was a courtesan as well, and she trained her daughter to be a captivating, powerful, eloquent woman. She was utterly irresistible, just as I am meant to be.
I fall asleep thinking of Veronica as the rain softens outside. When I wake, the day has grown even darker. It’s dusk, and I don’t know how to get back to campus,
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