Outside the Rain.
Chapter Four.
Sometimes I think about dying, and I can’t breathe. I think about the fact that I’m fifteen years old, but it seems like just yesterday I was only ten. Then, I wonder if since that time went by so fast, will seventy come even faster? Will I make it to seventy? Will I even make it to twenty or thirty? Will I even live to see tomorrow? Then, I wonder why I even fear death so much. I don’t have a reason to live, I can’t even talk. All I do it take up space. My mother would probably be happy if I died.
Usually I don’t think about it for very long before my heart starts pounding and my stomach feels like it’s going to come up out of my throat. Then, I can’t breathe. I don’t know if it’s because my heart is beating so quickly, or if I got so caught up in my thoughts that I forget to breathe. When you can’t talk to anybody, all you can do is stay stuck in your thoughts. Of course that’s not all I think about, well not anymore.
The night after Richard and I had our little confrontation in the barn, I thought about him. It was the strangest thing in the world, and I liked it. When I thought about him, my stomach felt kind of strange. I thought about the caring look in his eyes when he noticed my scar, but mostly I thought about the way his hand felt on my face. I should not have left the barn like I did, he could help me. He could get me out of here.
He could even love me.
I turn over on my stomach and shake my head. I had to push that thought out of my head. That was the most ridiculous thought I ever had, he could never love me. Could he?
Richard came over the next day, but today he requested to see me alone in the library instead of Penelope. My mother seems shocked, and starts to object; however, Richard is persistent. She can’t talk him out if, so she allows us to go to the library alone.
“I don’t know why he’s so interested in her when he can have pretty little Penelope,” I hear her mumble as she walks to the kitchen.
Once we’re in the library, Richard closes the door and retrieves a pen from the desk.
“I know you won’t speak to me, but you can write to me. Writing isn’t speaking,” he says before handing me some paper and a pen.
I look up at him questioningly, and he sighs.
“Miss Dawson, I want to ask you a question and I want you to write the answer on this paper. Okay?”
I dip the pen into the ink then write “yes” on the paper. He nods with a satisfied smile.
“Will you tell me who hurt you?”
I write “no” on the paper and show it to him. I wanted to believe he could help me, and I wanted to tell him. However, I couldn’t tell him while I was in this house. They would know, and I would know they would know. Anytime they know I’ve said anything against them my skin burns, that’s why I don’t speak. Even if I’m not close to them, they will know.
“Why not?”
I feel tears threaten to escape, but I push them back. Crying isn’t good.
“I can’t tell you,” I write.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, “Do you want out of here?”
I look up at him desperately, I want to say yes so bad. I want him to take me away from here, far away. I stare at him, and I let the tears go. The moment the tears run down my cheeks I feel the agonizing pain piercing my skin. I start rubbing my arms and my legs in an attempt to stop it, but it keeps spreading. Pretty soon it’s all over my body, and I can’t stop it. It’s like fire-ants biting me all over, except they were coming from inside of me. I wrap my arms around my stomach and I start rocking back and forth.
Richard stares at me confused, “Miss Dawson, Miss Dawson! Are you alright? What’s going on?”
I let out a strange moan, and tears pour out harder making the burning worse.
Help me.
This lasts for nearly fifteen minutes, when it quits I stay wrapped up in the fetal position until I feel Richard’s hands in my hair. He pulls my head up to face him, and he stares into my eyes.
“I am going to ask you father for permission to take you home with me, to my estate in the country.”
I don’t say anything, but he knows that I want him to. He kisses my forehead before leaving the library.
Usually I don’t think about it for very long before my heart starts pounding and my stomach feels like it’s going to come up out of my throat. Then, I can’t breathe. I don’t know if it’s because my heart is beating so quickly, or if I got so caught up in my thoughts that I forget to breathe. When you can’t talk to anybody, all you can do is stay stuck in your thoughts. Of course that’s not all I think about, well not anymore.
The night after Richard and I had our little confrontation in the barn, I thought about him. It was the strangest thing in the world, and I liked it. When I thought about him, my stomach felt kind of strange. I thought about the caring look in his eyes when he noticed my scar, but mostly I thought about the way his hand felt on my face. I should not have left the barn like I did, he could help me. He could get me out of here.
He could even love me.
I turn over on my stomach and shake my head. I had to push that thought out of my head. That was the most ridiculous thought I ever had, he could never love me. Could he?
***
Richard came over the next day, but today he requested to see me alone in the library instead of Penelope. My mother seems shocked, and starts to object; however, Richard is persistent. She can’t talk him out if, so she allows us to go to the library alone.
“I don’t know why he’s so interested in her when he can have pretty little Penelope,” I hear her mumble as she walks to the kitchen.
Once we’re in the library, Richard closes the door and retrieves a pen from the desk.
“I know you won’t speak to me, but you can write to me. Writing isn’t speaking,” he says before handing me some paper and a pen.
I look up at him questioningly, and he sighs.
“Miss Dawson, I want to ask you a question and I want you to write the answer on this paper. Okay?”
I dip the pen into the ink then write “yes” on the paper. He nods with a satisfied smile.
“Will you tell me who hurt you?”
I write “no” on the paper and show it to him. I wanted to believe he could help me, and I wanted to tell him. However, I couldn’t tell him while I was in this house. They would know, and I would know they would know. Anytime they know I’ve said anything against them my skin burns, that’s why I don’t speak. Even if I’m not close to them, they will know.
“Why not?”
I feel tears threaten to escape, but I push them back. Crying isn’t good.
“I can’t tell you,” I write.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, “Do you want out of here?”
I look up at him desperately, I want to say yes so bad. I want him to take me away from here, far away. I stare at him, and I let the tears go. The moment the tears run down my cheeks I feel the agonizing pain piercing my skin. I start rubbing my arms and my legs in an attempt to stop it, but it keeps spreading. Pretty soon it’s all over my body, and I can’t stop it. It’s like fire-ants biting me all over, except they were coming from inside of me. I wrap my arms around my stomach and I start rocking back and forth.
Richard stares at me confused, “Miss Dawson, Miss Dawson! Are you alright? What’s going on?”
I let out a strange moan, and tears pour out harder making the burning worse.
Help me.
This lasts for nearly fifteen minutes, when it quits I stay wrapped up in the fetal position until I feel Richard’s hands in my hair. He pulls my head up to face him, and he stares into my eyes.
“I am going to ask you father for permission to take you home with me, to my estate in the country.”
I don’t say anything, but he knows that I want him to. He kisses my forehead before leaving the library.