Ice and snow, glittering in a flat plane as far as the eye can see. Wind, sharp and cold. The sun, bright but without warmth. No sign of life or humanity but a few rough claim shanties alone in this bitter land.

I stand out in the cold; it's cutting and seems to seep into my very bones, but at least I'm feeling something. I close my eyes to the bright sunshine and try to imagine myself back Massachusetts, back in the friendly, close-knit town of Bridgewater.

I remember sewing with my friends during the meeting of the Lady's Aide Society. I remember warm spring mornings and cool fall days. I remember cozy winter evenings snug in our modest but pretty house. The snow fell softly there, and the wind was not so harsh.

I remember a time when Johnny would toddle around the house, laughing at the antics of our cat, Ginger (who is now living with the Evanses back home, lucky thing). There was a time I loved Johnny. A time he was precious to me and every new thing he did was a miracle. But now he's just a burden, a whining, unhappy burden. Not that I can blame him. I wish I didn't have to keep my feelings inside.

I continue to let me mind drift. I go back in time to the dances and potlucks, the county fairs and harvest celebrations. Even the bright and hopeful services at the little white church. Back when I believed in God. But there was no God in this hateful land.

"Martha!"

I'm jolted out of the memories, back in this harsh place in the middle of nowhere.

"Martha, come inside!"

Thomas voice. There was a time I welcomed it. There was a time I loved him, too. But he'd dragged me out to this Godforsaken country, against my objections. When I'd pushed back, he told me that the Bible says a wife must be completely submissive to her husband. He'd never been so harsh with me before.

Dreams of 'prairie fortunes' had changed him. And with that, so had my love, which dwindled into a bitter sense of duty.

"The new schoolmam is here. I'd like you to meet her."

I sigh heavily and go back into the miserable shanty.

This Laura Ingalls is barely out of childhood. She greets me warmly, however, and through the day, tries to play with Johnny and helps around the house. I didn't have the spirit to care or to thank her. Besides, just one extra mouth to feed, one more person to take up space in the already tiny shanty.

But it's more than just that. Laura is bright and hopeful, even if she seems nervous about teaching. She goes through chores with a brisk will while talking about her family back in De Smet, her house, her father's claim and how she can't wait for it to be a full fledged farm.

Poor thing hasn't been here long enough to be disillusioned. If only I could save her.

The days and nights continue, with no break from the frozen, still prairie except for the occasional blizzard. Nothing but whiteness and pallid sky and frigid sun. The other mothers in Brewster's Settlement seem to have a little more hope than I do, because their children are old enough to go to school. With that, the children can get an education that might take them to a better place and situation than this. But Johnny is still a crawling, whining, demanding toddler. And Thomas isn't much better.

One night, I've had enough.

It's midnight, the moonlight shining thinly through the calico curtains. I steal softly out of bed to the box where we keep our silverware, trying not to think of the days it graced the table at the joyful Christmas dinners back home. I grab the hilt of a butcher knife and muse.

Thomas will be the first to go, and then the girl. Or should I spare her? Maybe I can convince her to go back to Bridgewater with me, before the prairie kills her spirit, too. I still have my Uncle Jerry's inheritance, which I hid from Thomas. Oh, how I hate the oppressive laws that a woman's inheritance became her husband's. I could buy a small house, and the girl could help with the housework and Johnny in exchange for room and board, and I can offer my work as a seamstress.

I nod. Yes, I'll take the girl with me before she dies inside, too, I decide.

I lift the knife over Thomas's sleeping form, watch it glint in the pale light.

"Put the knife away, Martha."

Thomas's voice startles me. When did he wake up?

I shake my head.

"If I can't go home one way, I will another," I said firmly.

"Martha, there's nothing you can go back to. I have you and Johnny to support," he says, as if it would really matter when he was dead.

I stand unflinching.

"Put the knife away."

I sigh heavily and throw the knife onto the table before slipping into bed, cringing away from Thomas. But before I drifted into a fitful sleep, I had one more idea.

I can't go home, and I can't stay here. Unless...

I think of the knife.

I'm already dead inside, I think. Why not finish the job?

I can wait for Thomas and the girl to leave tomorrow. And then I'll go home-to the void of nonexistence.