A/N: This is my take on what was going on in Wendla's head. I at first felt the need to write it because my friend told me he lost all respect for Wendla when she told Melchior to beat her. I felt the need to explain how I felt on the subject. I hope I did it justice; it's not about affording the pain. It's about needing it.
Grief.
This was what Wendla felt for Martha. Grief. Loss. Of what, she did not know. Rather, it was loss for Martha. Her innocence. Something.
And she felt pain.
Not the pain Martha must be feeling. More of a dull ache – a dull ache that consumed her in its power. It was the pain of impatience – compassion – the feeling of failure that she could not help Martha or even put herself in Martha's place.
She knew where to find Melchior. He was where she always found him, in his – their? – place. She approached him cautiously, spilling her interpretations of what she had learned to him. She could not get her words to mean what she meant. Language was so limiting when it came to expressing the power of what she was feeling.
She felt helpless – guilty. Guilty, for having such a good life while Martha was beaten nearly every night. Guilty, for her own naïve happiness.
She handed Melchior the switch. She needed something to alleviate this guilty. No, that was not what she felt. She needed something … to make her feel.
She told Melchior so, and saw his resolve melt. This was the best she could do to put this into words. Everything in her life seemed to trivial next to Martha's pain. Her impatience with her mother, her anxiety about her secret meetings with Melchior, her sadness over small disappointments. It was all minute compared with Martha's sadness.
She had never before been so down that she could barely get up. She had never felt any strong emotions.
Somehow, the face that she felt no pain while Martha's pain was a constant … it pained her.
Melchior lashed the back of her legs softly. She insisted that he hit harder. He did. She could feel the welt stinging, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she kept her voice steady as she told Melchior to hit harder.
If Martha went through this every night and it was real, Wendla wanted this small moment to feel real. She wanted it to feel.
Melchior hit her harder, and again. She cried out. He continued lashing her, over and over, opening welts across her thighs and calves.
It was nothing. It was nothing to Martha's pain. Wendla felt so stupid. This would solve nothing. This would not make her feel better; this would not make her feel anything. This was not real. She felt physical pain, but no fear. She knew it was only calm Melchior, hitting her because she asked him too and not because he had real power over her.
Was it – ?
The switch bore down on her harder than before. She heard Melchior scream at her. She felt him jump on top of her, turn her around, and raise his fist threateningly.
This was what Martha must feel. Fear. This was not Melchior – it was as if a monster had taken residence in his body. Wendla squeaked and shut her eyes tightly, afraid of what Melchior's blow would do to her. But no blow came. She opened her eyes to see Melchior looking at her with wide eyes.
She could hear his thoughts echoed in her own.
I am a monster.
Wendla just wanted to feel an ounce of pain, some way to know what Martha was going through. She did not want Martha to face the pain alone. She did not want life to be this unfair.
But she could feel her welts bleeding. She could see her abuser running away. She felt no better.
She felt monstrous.
Helpless, selfish, grieving, guilty.
She had done nothing to help Martha. Her act was extreme and irrational, though perhaps understandable.
In life Wendla was happy, carefree, and numb.
And she was a monster for it.
A/N: Please review.