The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 3
Description:
Well, in a nutshell, Kate finally shoots the sheriff and skips town.
Author: C.L. Curtis
Disclaimer: Nope, nothing to my name yet. Maybe someday, though!
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May 24, 1890
Finally, it seems that I have run out of tears. The pain, however, has yet to abate. I have lost everything, absolutely everything that I held dear to my heart. I might as well have been exiled from Green Lake, as it is clear that the foundations of the life I built here have been destroyed. I can't stay here any longer, not after what they have done, but also I feel that I never again wish to resume teaching. How could I face such innocence day by day? How could I ever again stand in a schoolhouse without thinking of him?
The Town feels no remorse. I sat by my window today and watched as life continued as normal outside. They took an innocent life in violence, and yet they lose no sleep. The children are blinded as well—too young to understand the severity of the situation, let alone form their own opinions. They know only that their schoolteacher is a 'bad' woman, and that the schoolhouse is no longer.
The older children are another matter.
As Teresa Parker and Robert Pike walked past my cabin this morning, I could hear their muffled words through the open window.
"Miss Katherine kissed a black man," Teresa was saying in hushed tones, pure disgust in her voice. Robert replied by spitting in the dirt outside of my home.
I know not the reasons for their intolerance. Love doesn't know race. And neither does God.
I have sat perched by my window for the majority of the day, lacking the will or energy to move. So far the only comfort I have received has come from an unlikely source. I happened to glance out through the panes as Emma Wilson and Becca Tennyson made their way down the road. Emma was pointedly drilling the little girl on the spelling words I had assigned to her just last week, and as they passed, our eyes met. Her eyes, too, were bloodshot.
I cannot bear to look into the faces of these people, many of whom I once called my friends. I also cannot bear these feelings of hopelessness, of helplessness. I refuse to give in to them. Hopeless, perhaps, but no man will ever dare call me 'helpless.'
May 25, 1890
I have utterly lost my mind. I have done the unthinkable.
I shot the sheriff.
Today, as he was drinking his cup of morning coffee.
I can't describe what came over me, I can only tell you that I calmly rode my horse to the sheriff's office, feeling far too weary and weak to walk. I cannot for the life of me recollect what was going through my mind. I only remember vowing to reclaim my identity. I will never be a victim ever again.
Without giving it as much as a second thought, I strode into the office, the gun that I have always kept for safety concealed behind my back.
"Hello," I greeted somberly, a dangerous smile playing at my lips. "So, did you still want that kiss?"
As he opened his mouth in a gasp, I pulled out my gun and shot him in one swift motion. Then, I carefully applied my lipstick and gave him the kiss he had so requested. Stepping back to admire my work, I was momentarily frozen by the realization of what I had just done. Once I was finished gaping at him, the instinct to run kicked in, and I turned to do just that.
However, instead of an open doorway to greet me, there stood Miss Emma Lorraine Wilson, pale as a ghost.
I stared at her, the gun clattering to the floor as I brought up my hands to symbolize that I had no intentions of harming her. To my shock, instead of fleeing for help, the girl stepped toward me, stooping to pick up the weapon and push it back into my hands.
"He deserved it," she said bitterly, big green eyes locking into mine. "Miss Katherine, you better get out of here."
And so, now I am in Austin. Surely, a search for me has already begun, as the jailers were bound to identify me as the sheriff's murderer in exchange for a pardon. If one thing is certain, it is that I can't let them find me. I refuse to give them the honor by allowing myself to die by their hands.