I literally have no notes to offer you other than my rather amusing list of songs that inspired this chapter. It's only three songs, amusingly.

Chopin: Prelude in E minor

My Chemical Romance: I'm Not Okay

3oh3: Donttrustme

I'm laughing even more looking at the list than I was when I created a playlist for it. Moving on, enjoy this chapter, my wonderful lovelies!

Chapter 39

I have never desired running away before this moment. I can not do this. I do not want to do this. There should have been another way. I will bear this black mark on my reputation for all my days. I wish I knew if he still loved me.

If he still loved me...this would certainly be easier to bear. Perhaps that's selfish of me. Certainly he has no desire to marry without affection either. Else I am sure he would have married a long time ago. I can not do this to him. He doesn't deserve this life, a life suffering the scorn of having a fallen woman for a wife. He will be shunned, perhaps less so than I, but it remains. I will bring ridicule upon his character. His business will suffer, his prospects. How can I live with myself, knowing what it is I have done? How can I ever hope to make amends from this? I have nothing to offer him.

Dixon is in uproar. We should have left already. The next time I write, I will write as Margaret Thornton.

Apparently I have been ill. My original cold, which was truly awful, had progressed into pneumonia. I do not know what to do. The wedding was...not as horrible as I originally expected. I expected him to regard me with such distaste...I was not at all prepared for such tenderness. When he kissed me—I do not know how to describe it. It didn't seem to be the type of kiss I would have expected from a man who was indifferent to me. Not that I am experienced in such matters. Perhaps I am biased. I've never felt such a rush of feeling from something so small. I felt as though my soul caught fire.

How blind I must be, to realize only now that the source of my misery this past year is the fact that I am in love with John Thornton—

John sucked in a sharp breath. In his heart, he knew that Margaret loved him. But loving someone was not the same as being in love with them. To have it confirmed by her own hand...it was a lovely feeling indeed. The more cynical part of his mind began to whisper to him, planting a seed of doubt. She does not act as though she is still in love with you. This was true. He added this to the list of questions Margaret had graciously agreed to answer for him, before continuing.

I don't understand how I could not have realized it, but it's irrelevant, now. Rather ironic, is it not? I reject a man, finding his love offensive. I fall in love with him, he falls out of love with me, and then we are forced to marry. I can't tell if I'm seeing signs that he might still hold me in his heart, or if I am seeing what I so desperately hope to see. I don't even know if I can fully articulate how completely desperate I am to have him hold affection for me.

I wonder if this is how he felt when I rejected him?

Irony is cruel. It is twisted and warped, disturbed in its own bitter humor. I feel as though I can't trust my own instincts in the matter because I was so entirely wrong about him in every possible way before. I certainly understand now, when poets and novelists describe their heart being possessed by love. I always imagined it being something different; perhaps it was a small affection that grew into something larger, and at some point you made the decision to accept and love that person always. But that couldn't be further from the truth. It's all consuming, terrifyingly in control of you. I had no say in it whatsoever, I was not consulted, and it happened completely without my knowledge. I could not banish this feeling even if I tried. I feel as though the entire purpose of my existence is him.

How can a person lose themselves so completely to such an emotion, and yet still feel empty inside?

My suspicions are prickled, but for what I cannot tell. Why would Mr. Thornton, John, specifically hide that I had been unconscious and raging with fever for six days? I suppose it is possible that he either forgot, or that he did not want to speak on such things, but my instinct tells me it is something else. Fanny informed me quite on accident while she came to read to me today.

I believe I confirmed by suspicions that John was hiding the severity of my illness from me. Unfortunately I also succeeded in making myself more confused and flustered than ever. He came back from the Mill, and we quarreled briefly. But he has such a particular way of looking at me sometimes that makes me feel as though I've been set on fire. I do not believe he even understands the overwhelming effect he has on me just by entering the room. It is beyond profound. I cannot account for my reaction to him at all, but if this is continue, I fear I may suffer an apoplexy by the end of the week. I feel that not all hope is lost. I asked him if he would stay with me.

He said yes.

Today shall undoubtedly be the most glorious day I have had the pleasure of experiencing for some time now. Waking to find John in my bed will be something I shall have to grow accustomed to, but I will not say it is not an enjoyable experience. He looks so different, so peaceful and relaxed while sleeping. It seems to be an expression just for me; something no one other than myself will get to experience. Upon waking, John informed me that he would not force me to stay in bed this day. He will be taking me outside of the house on a walk, though I am not sure if he has a specific destination in mind. I am so excited I fear my words will hardly be legible from how quickly I am scribbling.

I do wonder about my wedding dress still laying about though. It seems rather odd for it to be laying there after so many days has passed. Perhaps I shall work up the courage to ask Martha.

I don't understand. Perhaps I did something wrong. I wanted to talk, I finally felt brave enough to perhaps broach the topic of my affection, perhaps even his as well.

He kissed me. It was so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. I did not know a person could even feel so much all at once. It was thrilling, gloriously terrifying even. He made me feel loved, desired, and cherished for the span of around five seconds. Then he was gone. He pushed me away. What did I do? He asked me to leave him be, to let him be with his thoughts. Now, consumed by my own thoughts, I cannot help but wonder that I am the cause. I wish I knew what to do or say. I wish I knew how to fix this.

Perhaps I could try to explain about Frederick. No, that is not the cause of whatever fresh problem exists now. I only wish I could understand what is upsetting him now. It would be easier to communicate with him, surely.

When John asked me to leave him with his thoughts I did not anticipate that it would take over a fortnight. This is unsupportable. I cannot bear to be ignored. Why is he avoiding me? I am trying my very best not to be angry with him, but each day that I see him walk through the door and lock himself away in his study, my anger grows. I find myself wanting to lash out, scream, throw things even; anything to get his attention.

But I won't. I made a promise to myself (and to him, though he knows nothing of it) on our wedding night, that I would be anything he needed me to be. I have put him through enough misery, and he desires to be left alone, then I shall.

Though I will say, I find my resolve is crumbling.

John is not himself. There is nothing else for it. He is changed, though I do not see what happened to cause it. He destroyed the bedroom, smashed every delicate item to pieces. He was terrifying. The way he looked at me… I do not think I could even describe it. A part of me worried that he would turn his anger onto me, and as much as I have replayed it in my mind, I do not know what I would have done. Many husbands are known for raising a hand to their wife. The law allows it. I never in a hundred years would have suspected him of being capable of doing it. Now I am not so sure. I should have left him alone as he asked me to. I should not have pushed him. I am at war with myself, for I know (even logically) that my argument was valid. His actions alone refuse to give me any alternative. He will not speak to me in any matter, save for when I force him to, which morphs into anger of the cruelest kind.

It has now been a month since John has spoken to me. He told me to leave him alone, well I have done exactly that. I find myself curiously torn between wanting to be angry, and knowing that I deserve such treatment from him. I knew he did not want to marry me. I should not have let myself hope. My pride alone destroyed any chance we may have had at felicity. I am to bear the brunt of this burden, for it is of my own making.

What I don't understand however, is why he still shares my bed at night. He never retires with me, it is always much later when he comes to bed. But he always comes. He has never slept apart from me since we were married.

Why?

I wonder what I should do with myself, or my thoughts had Edith not planted the idea of keeping a journal all that time ago. Perhaps it is pride that refuses to allow me to speak on such matters to anyone. It matters not. I do not think I could bear the looks I would receive from anyone should I bring the topic to fruition. Undoubtedly it would either be pity, or worse the look of justification. That others might confirm my belief that I am deserving of this wretched abandonment. I am starting to believe it myself.

What I would give to have him look at me with any emotion other than hatred and disdain. Even if we could just live as indifferent acquaintances, it would be easier to bear. I visit Princeton as often as I can, but I've found that even that is tainted with the same disdain as everything else in my life. For all his honor, John's reputation did nothing at all for mine, though he remains completely unscathed. It is a bitter circumstance indeed.

I have decided that it is easier to bear visiting the Princeton district if I dress myself down for it. I even went so far as to make a few simple work dresses from a far less expensive fabric than what I normally wear. Combined with a shawl about my head to cover most of my face, and I am nearly invisible to everyone. It is a wondrously free feeling, to be unnoticed by anyone. Well, nearly anyone. John always knows when I leave. For a man who wants nothing to do with me, he is acutely aware of when I leave home. I can practically feel his disapproving glare on my back when I depart the Mill yard. If he does not like me leaving, perhaps he should open his mouth and say something. Perhaps it offends him that I wander in the poorest districts of Milton dressed as though I belong there. I find that I do not care. I hope it offends him. I know he disagrees with it. The silence becomes far more profound each time I venture out, the glares more pronounced. Let him disapprove of me. I shall not quit the only good thing I have left. I cannot even visit comfortably with my father. He was so hopeful that my marriage to John would bring me peace, respectability at the very least. It has given me nothing, save for a larger home to feel the loneliness that much more strongly. If my countenance should fail me, I would me unable to conceal anything from Papa. I fear the heartbreak he would feel, the guilt. He knows I only agreed to the marriage because he asked it of me. I fear it would destroy him to know that I have suffered more misery now, than I did when my reputation fell into pieces.

I feel as though my entries are bordering on self pity. I wonder now, if I really do feel sorry for myself, or if I have become bitter. I never imagined I would allow myself to become so, but I feel this may be the case. I can physically feel the silence pressing down around me. I feel the weight of John's disapproval, the sharp pain that pierces me with each disgusted look he gives me. I wish I knew what to do. At this point, I believe I would even lower myself to ask Mrs. Thornton for advice, I have become so desperate. If she were here, that is. I have not seen her privately since the wedding itself, as it seems she suddenly moved in with Fanny upon hearing the news of John's engagement to me. It seems as though her hatred of me must rival that of her son, for her to be separated from him for this long. Save the monthly dinner, of course, but she has never spoken to me except what propriety demands.

I don't know how much longer I can do this. The only thing keeping me from begging Edith to take me in, is that John would suffer horribly. His business would fail, and I would truly have destroyed him in every manner. I promised I would stand by him; I promised I would do whatever it took to make our union comfortable. I must make myself go on, for John's sake if for no one else.

I believe Nicholas knows something of my misery, try as I might to suppress it (even from myself). The man is disturbingly observant. He never speak of John, or of the Mill. The absence of words says more than enough. Nicholas often spoke of Mill matters, even of John before we were married, then abruptly stopped. I do not remember exactly when, but he must suspect something. I can't be sure if I'm more relieved or more terrified at the idea. Whatever the reason, or my feelings on the matter, I am glad he does not talk about John. Every modicum of my being exists for that man. Sometimes, I quite need a break.

I hate him. I hate him so much that I feel nauseated at the mere thought of seeing him. I hate him for making me love him. I hate him for leaving me alone. It's been eight months now.

Eight. Months.

I have never felt so angry at anything in my life as I am with him. He swore to me once that e never knew what love was. That he knew now, and he would continue to love me, nothing I could say would stop it. What a miserable lie it was. And to think, I was stupid enough to believe it. Every time I see his face, two things occupy my thoughts (aside from the profound desire to vomit): the memory of his profoundly passionate declaration of love, and the memory of the way he looked when he kissed me on our wedding day.

I hate him for giving me such memories. I think I would have preferred knowing nothing of the man I was to marry than this. I wish he would just let me go. Let me be free of him so I could breathe again. Even in my sleep I get no relief, he is still there. Eight months later and this man I hate that I am still in love with will not deign to sleep separate from me. I have glimpses of how it could be if we were happy. I wake sometimes, entangled in his arms, and my idiotic heart betrays me by forcing me to lay still and pretend its real. But it's not real. Why can he not leave me be? I will gladly give him all the space he desires, no matter how difficult.

I hate myself for hating him.

He seeks me out now, seemingly for no other reason than to remind me that I am a disappointment. It's as though he walks towards me, stares at me with contempt to remind himself why he dislikes me in the first place, before abruptly turning and quitting the room. Today was no different than all the others.

He came to me as I returned from Princeton, wearing my shabby work dress, like a furious windstorm blowing wildly through the Mill doors. Across the yard he swept, up onto the porch and into direct line of sight with me. There was such a disgusted fury in his eyes as he gazed at me, that I don't think I could have helped the tears that formed. I hate crying in front of him nearly as much as I hate him. I could not bring myself to see that look upon his face any longer, so I walked away from him that I might cry in privacy.

I was proud of myself. I have not cried over him for nearly a week until today. He ruined it for me. I wanted to be happy that I managed to go so long without weeping, but I felt nothing. I fear the only emotions left to me are anger and hatred.

Why does he insist on sharing a bed with me still? He has not even attempted to consummate our marriage once. Am I wrong to think that is usually the reason a husband shares a bed with his wife? Not even Edith and Captain Lennox share a bed every night, and they are deeply in love with one another? Perhaps it is the difference in our upbringing, but I am tired of the tension and wondering. I would never dream of turning him away, though I am certain the return to such silence after the intensity of intimacy would crush me. Perhaps if I became with child he would no longer be able to ignore me. Perhaps, I would not be so abysmally lonely.

I could not bear to ask it of him though. I would be perpetually mortified were he to say no.

Normally, I would not write two entries in the same day, nor usually in the same month. However Papa has gone to Oxford to visit with Mr. Bell, and while I am immensely pleased that he has finally relented to doing something that will bring him joy, I can find no real joy in it for myself. The monthly dinner is in a few days, and I will be left to tread water among a sea of Thornton's. Though I must admit, Fanny is not so bad. In fact, she has surprisingly become one of my more favorite people, for no other reason than that she has no scruples over scolding John to pieces for his abominable behavior.

I believe I must truly be alone now. Everyone I have loved are turned into dust. First Bessy, then Mama, John might as well be dead for all the desolation I feel, and now my sweet Papa. I am alone in the world, forgotten and never to be loved as I was. I cannot do this, this tumultuous swing of life, struggling to break through the water and breath simply to be forced back under before my lungs had even filled. Everyone I cared for has gone now. When John came to me earlier… I don't know what I expected, I don't even know fully how I felt. I did not want him to be there, I knew it would make it worse. It made it so much worse to have him there with me. I could not look at him at first, but he spoke to me. He actually spoke to me of his own free will. I thought he had come to mock me once more. Perhaps he had come to look at me contemptuously, as is his usual way. I asked him why he was doing such a thing to me, and he apologized. It wasn't right though, and now my mind turns towards an even darker suggestion. I believe there is something wrong with John, some sort of sickness of the mind. He tried, he tried so hard to speak to me, but it was though he could not make his voice function.

I turned away from him, and he actually took my face into his hands and made me look at him. His hands were shaking horribly, but he was so gentle, so kind… everything I could not have even wished for. There was affection and understanding in his eyes, and for the life of me I could not move away from him. My bitterness screamed at me, demanding that I rebuke him for taking such liberties after forcing me through such despondency. I have no idea why I did not move away from him. Whatever clarity had come quickly passed, and I don't know how long he stayed knelt in front of me. He cried for what seemed like hours, his hands fisted into his hair, and his face buried in my skirt. I have no idea how I could have comforted him.

In the deepest recesses of my mind I have suspected him of illness of the mind. I have always been too afraid to let myself think on it for long. I know what happens when people are declared insane. The demonic practices that doctors pass of as treatment. I could not do that to him, could not watch him be subjected to such torture. It would be easier to commit to ending my own life than to witness it. It is why I cold never bring myself to think about it. But I fear it is unavoidable now. There is no denying it no matter how much I wish, there is something catastrophically wrong with John.

And in the blink of an eye my world is shattered once again. My self-loathing, my despair suddenly seems worth it for no explainable reason. But I cannot help but feel mollified by the fact that perhaps these months of misery were not of his own design, or even wished for. It makes perfect sense of everything. I know I should feel guilty, but I cannot. I can find a way around this, and help him. I can help him get better. I am filled with determination to see the man I fell in love with restored to himself once more. And if he cannot be restored, than I will remain his faithful companion. I will not allow him to be alone, for surely he is far more miserable than I could ever be.

I must not tell anyone of my suspicions. Not even his mother. I refuse to allow him to be stolen from me, no matter what anyone says on the matter. I've lost my father, I cannot lose John too.

I hardly know what to think. John managed to have a conversation with me again. Granted, it was in the dead of night, and the darkness so heavy I could not make out his features. He said it helped him talk to me, not being able to see me. It makes absolutely no sense, but I believe him. After all, what purpose would he have in making a falsehood of it? It gives me something to focus on however, something that is not the loss of Papa. I more grieved than I thought possible by losing him, but strangely I have found a sense of peace with it. Papa was never able to recover fully from the loss of his wife, and I have found a sort of relief at imagining them dancing together once more, free of pain and sorrow. Never to be separated again. The thought of it makes me smile, even though they have been lost to me. It is hard, knowing I have lost both parents in so short a time. Knowing that John is here for me, brings me comfort beyond understanding. Even if he can't show it yet, he wishes to. And that is worth more to me at the moment than anything else.

I must away to Crampton shortly. Today Dixon and I should be finished with the remainder of Papa's belongings, after which she has decided to spend a month or so with her sister. I offered her a place with me, but for the moment she is unsure whether she will stay with me in Milton, or go to my Aunt Shaw in London. I will always think of her fondly, but I know what a true friend she was to Mama, and I believe she might choose London to remember the happy days of their youth.

John could no longer continue, despite the fact that he had no desire to stop reading. His vision was blurred beyond helping, and he was only mildly surprised to realize his face was damp. This was why she did not want to speak of their past. This was what she meant when she said that there were parts of their past that were painful. He had abused her, abominably so it seemed, although supposedly unintentional. This explained everything.

This was why she was surprised at affection.

This was why he was terrified of her.

This was why they had no children.

This was too much information to take in at one time. He needed time to process this, but he was impatient to finish. How much more was there before the accident? He quickly calculated. Nicholas had told him they'd been married for just over a year, and one of Margaret's entries said eight months. It must be close. But did he want to go that far before he could process his feelings on everything else? No, he shouldn't; it would not be wise.

He could not understand why he was at the point where he could not even speak to her when, for the most part, he could speak with her just fine now. But that was not entirely true, was it? Maybe he was simply more able to deal with it because he had no memory of how he was before. Was he insane? He didn't feel insane. He felt perfectly normal. So not insane, but not whole? His head was starting to hurt.

How could he have let it go so far that he would be able to watch Margaret go through such misery? What was going on in his mind where he could shun her to such an extend that made her believe that he hated her? He made Margaret hate him, too. That was exceedingly painful to read. Even now, he could feel the sharp piercing pain just remembering it. Seeing the anger she bore for him in the indentations on the paper, the way the ink had splattered, making some words difficult to discern. Her anger and bitter disappointment with him were nearly tangible on paper. The words she chose to describe her anguish were crafted perfectly, as was the love she bore him. A thrill of pleasure hummed through him.

She loved him! Even through the pain, misery, and turmoil she had loved him. Was it so impossible to think that she may still love him now? John did not know for sure, but he would find out. The best course of action, was to finish reading.

I hardly know where to begin. Everything has happened so quickly that the days seemed to have slowed down to hours, as though this week has merely been the longest day of my life. I can't sleep. I close my eyes and I can see them burning, screaming in agony.

Was this it? Was this the accident? John continued, reading the words almost faster than his mind could comprehend.

The Mill is almost completely destroyed, and John… I do not know if he will live through it. He looks so very bad, and he lost so much blood. The sight of him so broken and bleeding when Nicholas carried him out… I could not even think, let alone breathe. I know if should offer Nicholas an apology. I should apologize to many people. I screamed, I raged, I hit people like a spoiled child. I do not regret it, nor do I feel any shame. John means more to me than life itself, and to see him every day laying in our bed unable to wake… what do I do? What happens if he never wakes up? He breathes normally, I can force broth and water down his throat, but he does not live. How long do I give him to recover, how long will the doctor give him to recover, before he orders us to let him die?

Quite shockingly, I have found a new mother and friend in Hannah Thornton. I suppose sometimes all it takes to change someones opinion of you, is to save their life. We have bonded over our love of John, so quickly that it's very nearly laughable. It seems we have developed the ability not only to communicate without speaking, but also to lean on one another for support.

I have needed such support. I am not strong enough for this on my own. The night of the fire was the longest night of my life. Hundreds of people injured, many dead instantly, more died in agony later. I watched it, helped with it, held children as they took their last breath. All while praying, begging God that Nicholas would not come down those stairs and tell me John had also gone. He made it through, barely. But for myself I find the comatose state he is in more frightening than anything else. At any given moment he could slip away, and it could take time for anyone to notice. He might suddenly wake, and he could banish me from his sight once again. That would be utterly deplorable. I have spent more time with him since he was injured than I have in the entire time I have known him. None of us know, even now if he will survive. All we can do is push through one day at a time, I suppose. While I wait for John, I have decided to jump start the process of rebuilding the Mill. I don't know yet how well I will be received, but I must try. Even if John woke right now, he would be completely unable to do anything business wise for some time. I am the Mill Master's wife. I will work in his stead.

As though I didn't have enough strange events happening, apparently everyone else in my immediate acquaintance knows that John is ill in the mind. It was a rather bizarre conversation when I was accosted by the doctor, Hannah, and Mr. Bell all in one sitting. I'm not ashamed to admit that I lost my temper quite severely. I also discovered that Papa knew as well, and his trip to Oxford was solely to work with Mr. Bell on determining what could be done for John, if anything at all. Unfortunately, the doctor has come to the conclusion that his overload of anxiety, the fear that drove him away from me for so long, was caused in short by me. My cruelty toward him, and the misery I put him through was triggered when I myself was so very ill at the beginning of our marriage. Of course, I wasn't aware, but it matters not now. I cannot explain it nearly as well as it was explained to me, but it makes sense. I find it exceedingly important to live and learn, but with God as my witness I wish there could have been another way for me to learn empathy towards the feelings of a man. I will carry this burden forever. I must carry this. John suffered more than any person should every suffer at the hands of another. I must learn how to live with the knowledge that I had such a profound effect on someone. I must learn to live with the knowledge that John's love for me was so fierce, that I could single handedly drive him to brink of insanity with my actions.

What a wretched individual I have been.

I may now be in danger of falling to insanity. I don't understand why he would have kept this from me. I don't understand how he expected to keep it hidden from me but it is plain to anyone that he very dearly tried. How could he not expect me find out that we have absolutely no money?

I've tried speaking to the bank about such matters, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I was not welcome.

I already told Watson I would sooner face the blazing Mill before I let him take control of it from John.

The Police have now officially accused me of setting fire to the Mill, as a roundabout way of attempting to murder my husband.

I might be tried for murder, we have no money whatsoever, my husband is dead to the world.

Mr. Bell has vanished, seemingly overnight to South America off all places.

What can I even do? I can do nothing without John, because society dictates that women are too delicate to handle such matters. I cannot rebuild the Mill in his stead, because the bank is refusing to allow me access of any kind to our personal finances, as I am now a suspect for murder and grand arson. That pompous bastard went so far as to tell me I could forward the bills for John's medical care to the bank and he would handle it. I have no idea how much money we have in the personal account, but John closed out his business ledger with a negative balance.

Why did he not tell me?

I have born many things these past two years, but this...there are hundreds of people who are dependent upon John, and by extension me. If I can't rebuild the Mill, they will be without work. We shall have to see everything and move- how could we even manage that with John to begin with? How will I be able to provide for him, even just to afford his medical needs? This is a disaster. I need my husband. I need John. I need him to come back to me, and tell me what to do.

John was always the strong one. Resourceful, respected, and unassailable.

John is awake. I want to be thrilled. I want to shout from the rooftops that he lived after all. I suppose it is the memory loss that affects me so. I am so torn. On the one hand, John is awake, healthy, recovering. On the other… well his memory is gone. He cannot remember his own name, or his mother, let alone me. I am further undecided on how I feel about this. Perhaps if he cannot remember me, his illness won't be such an obstacle (I am fully aware of how idiotic that sounds). It offers us the quite unique possibility of starting over again. But what happens if he suddenly remembers everything? What happens when he hates me again? What if it goes through stages where he has to relieve every moment in order from the beginning, and I get to be by his side when he remembers what an absolute cruel wretch I was to him?

Too many 'what if' scenarios. I cannot keep track of them all.

Doctor Donaldson has highly encouraged me to tell John essentially nothing of our history. Easier said than done, mind you. John is an absolute terror when he's curious. Not that it's his fault. He doesn't know any of us. He's counting on us for everything. I can't imagine what it must be like to suddenly know nothing of who you are, what you were, your name… nothing. I am not even allowed to tell him I am his wife. I understand, the doctor is taking every extra precaution because of the mental illness. An episode now would set him back both mentally and physically. He needs to focus on healing his body, before we fully tackle the obstacle of his mind.

I must say though, I never anticipated the heartrending and furious pain I would feel from looking into his eyes and seeing absolutely nothing. I even prepared myself extensively for the discomfort I knew I would feel at the first signs of his illness presenting itself, but it is absolutely NOTHING compared to how it actually feels. The man cannot even see me, and yet he still flinches when I touch him, or speak too closely to him. He doesn't even know what I look like, but his mind definitely remembers enough to fear my presence. I am at a loss, but surely if I have come this far, I can discover a way to get past this as well. Only time will tell.

John flipped through the remaining pages of the book just to make absolutely sure that this entry was the last. It appeared that Margaret did not spare any time for writing after he regained his sight. He honestly thought he understood her fully before, but he was wrong. These entries after the fire were important too. He found upon finishing their story, that he could no longer be upset at her in any way for being so wary of this topic. He thought her irrational before, perhaps unjustly concerned of what he would think of her. It seemed more likely now, that she was protecting him. Protecting him from himself. His head hurt from the emotional turmoil. His body was exhausted, Margaret was still away at the Mill. He set the three journals on the nightstand with his list place on top, before sinking into the comfort of his bed. He would take a short nap, and be in a better frame of mind to speak to Margaret when she returned.

John closed his eyes, and slept. And he slept so deeply he neither heard, nor woke when Margaret finally returned from the Mill. He did not see her scan the list placed on her journals, nor see her smile a sad resigned smile.

No, John slept. And as he slept, he remembered.