"MAMA!" I scream at the top of my lungs as I'm pulled into the living room of this strange man's house. No, I know this man. The town doctor, a gentle man, as far as I knew. He comes monthly to see if I will grow to be big and strong, like Mama. He always tells me to eat vegetables and plenty of meat, to make me grow well. He always treats me with such care and gentleness, almost lovingly. But not now. Not now. I beat and I scream with all my might but his iron grip keeps my wrist in firm place.
"Quiet, child, you'll wake the neighbors!" He pulls me over to a miniscule sofa and pushes on my shoulders so that I sit, but I'm as stiff as a rock.
"Where's my Mama?" I scream at him, tears already streaming down my cheeks as he waddles over to a table to inspect a kettle. "What's happening? Why am I here?"
"Be quiet like I said, child!" He says turning, now with a steaming cup, which he thrusts at me. "Here, drink this, It'll make you feel better. I'll give you some time to calm down."
I take the cup, but I don't drink it, something tells me not to. Instead, I hold it in my hands to warm them and relax the uncontrollable shudders rippling through my body. It's cold in this house, definitely colder than mine. Mama always keeps a warm fire going. But I don't think that it's the cold of the room that is making me shudder. I hold the cup in my hand, trying to bring the warmth into the rest of my body.
I held that cup in my hands for what must have been hours while the doctor bustled around the room. While he prepared whatever was going to happen, I get a good look around the room. It's plain, with a stove on one end, a sofa in the middle and a low table covered in tools on the other. In the corner of the wall, the only splash of color in the room. A butterfly.
It would be awful sweet to be a little butterfly. Just to fly wherever I please, never have to be anywhere or do anything for anyone. Maybe that's what I'll be when I die. A butterfly. A simple butterfly. I don't believe I'll go to Heaven anymore. I have done so many sinful things, it's impossible to list them and even if you could, I don't know what to call them so it's impossible to know. Anyway, Melchi told me that religion is something that the grown-ups try and make you believe and that if there really was a God, and he loved his people, why would there be all the suffering in this world? I said this to my Sunday School but Father told me off for it, said that it was a sin to speak ill of God. So I suppose that could be added to my list of sins. If it is a sin to speak ill of God, I must have so many. Melchi and I spent days by the stream, lying in the grass, talking. About everything. About nothing.
Melchior. What I did with him must have been a sin. Mama told me many times that it was, and that I was a wicked girl and would go straight to Hell. But it felt so right, and I felt something with him that I can't describe. Completeness and a sense of security, like I was sure that he would never hurt me. Every time I thought of him since then, I have felt an aching in my chest, like someone's ripped a part out of it. And the child. Our child.
It must have come from that. There's no other way that it could have happened. If I had know at the time, I would haveā¦
I don't know. My head is a rainstorm of emotions and thoughts, it's so bad that I feel like screaming. I can't think straight. I keep seeing and feeling different things. Exasperation, when my Mama lied to me. Horror when I saw Martha's injuries. The bitter sting, when I was beaten. The indescribable pain with Melchior, neither bad nor good. The feeling when I saw Melchior at Moritz Stiefel's funeral. Oh, Moritz. We had been such good friends as children. When we played pirates, with Ilse and Melchior. I wonder if any of them remember it. I think about it every day. It's one happy memory. One happy, out of millions of lost ones. Perhaps this could all be a game of pirates, an innocent child's play.
I grip onto the cup, I feel as if I'm falling and the handle of the cup is the only thing that keeps me up. My shaking has stopped but in it's place, a feeling of dread creeping into my stomach.
I have to leave. Now.
"Wendla? I'm ready for you, please come here." I turn and see the doctor with his right hand outstretched towards me. In his left, a long, thin tool with a blade on the end of it. A deadly weapon. Something that could hurt me. Something that will hurt me, if I stay longer.
I stand up and force myself to take two steps towards him. But my unconscious mind gets the better of me and I turn, swing open the door and sprint for my life.
I don't know where I'm going, all I can see are shadows hitting me in the face and and his voice calling to me.
"Wendla! Wendla come back here!"
But I can't go back. He'll kill me and my child. I have to keep running.
I wonder if I have already died. After all, I'm running free and wild, like a butterfly.
So there you go! this is my first attempt and you know the drill, give me some feedback!
