Every time my future is crushed, I am better at repairing my soul.
My mother told me I would be a great lady. The stiff crinolines that crackled under my skirts foreshadowed lavish balls that swirled deep into the dark morning, twirling gowns and bright dresses, elegant gentlemen holding my gloved hand, a sighing violin accompanying our heady exhilaration.
That was my first dream. It was snatched away in a single moment.
I did not notice how few customers we had had of late. I waited patiently for Maman to buy me a new dress to replace the patched old thing I still wore. I helped with the chores happily. But then Papa sold the lovely old tavern, and we closed the door on its spacious wooden rooms for the last time, the wide floors I had played on since I was an infant, the plush bed from which I had dreamed of fortune.
The further the wagon got from the inn, the quieter the violins played in my head. We made a sudden turn, and the old building disappeared behind a patch of trees. The music stopped with no ceremony. I have not heard it since.
I wept through every soundless night for almost a year, angry until I could hardly remember why. The ballroom had long ago been emptied, cobwebs gathering in the murky corners, color and sound faded from memory.
This broken dream still prods at me, uncomfortable as a pebble in my shoe. Years have passed.
My future was uncertain for a time. Whatever it was, I detested it. I wanted my old life. I hated my father for letting it slip away from me.
But I met up with Lady Hope again. She came to me as a man, a handsome young man who must love me, or why would he touch me so? A beautiful dandy who, though rough with me, returned for me and kissed me. Remembering those early days, the time before he finally spoke the truth with me—spoke it at me, snarled at me, hit me—makes me cringe. Because I would be his wife, wouldn't I? I thought such things in innocence. I was so proud of him, proud to be seen with him, or as seen as we ever were, considering he only came to me in the night. But certainly the sweat and passion, the touch of his skin on mine, surely these could only be a sign of love!
How could I have known then that I was ugly? I had not seen my reflection since we had sold the old looking glass before the inn had closed. I remembered being pretty. I didn't know how much I had changed. But he explained it to me, loudly, his drunken laugh filling my poor cold ears, his fingers digging into my chin as he studied my face with cruel eyes. I had been childish. I did not mean to ask him if his parents knew about me. After that, he kept away for a while. And when he came back, he never kissed me.
That was the second future that died, though it had never been as splendidly clear and detailed as the first. That one died slowly, fading away as realization slowly dawned, cementing itself at last in oblivion.
It was only a matter of months before I could scoff at myself then. The prick of my first dreams still stung the corners of my eyes.
So this time, this time I will be certain to make my future happen. He will not marry me, so he will not marry her. We will be together.
We will be together.
We will be together.
We will be together, but I will not watch him die. I will not watch his blood spill into the dirt, taking with it his life. I will not give him the hope of the letter that rustles against my skin, an echo of my old dresses, an echo of my dead dream. I will die, and he will follow me.
The girl will recover. The girl will find someone else. The girl is pretty. She will find someone else. She is a great lady.
I am not a great lady. I am not pretty. There is no man who lies awake at night with thoughts of me, only to surrender to sleep and dream of me. I have no one, so I will bring him along with me into my loneliness. We can be alone together. Without. Without dreams of a future. Because this is our future. A bullet is our future.
And this is the only future I can count on.