(a/n: if nothing shows up here, it's because it won't let me copy and paste from word, which is where I wrote todays page)
“I’ll read, ya kno’,” Mary whispers, her voice too quiet. She get this way when she upset- mo’ subservient, mo’ tedious, mo’… Quiet. Her footsteps don’t make the wood creak, her breath is nothin’ mo’ than the wind. Her voice is almos’ not even there.
She come into the room, still at the door, her face lookin’ scared. She scared of me. My own sister, my own twin is afraid. I ashamed, there must be sompin’ real wron’ with me.
I feel sad fo’ makin’ ‘er like this, makin’ her go back inta herself. Right now it seem like ages ago, that we was both playin’ ‘round with Lloyd, talkin’ an’ joshin’ like we was actually sisters. But then I remember that it ain’t my fault, really, it hers. Or maybe not hers, maybe daddy’s. If ya really look into it, almos’ everythin’ ‘round here is daddy’s fault.
He the reason why I am who I am. He the reason Mary get like this. He the reason the Misses treat us that way. He like the poison in all our life. But fo’ some reason, I the only one who kno’. An’ it took me nineteen years to even figure it out.
I hardly notice when Mary come to sit by me. I don’t hear her, just feel her- feel the bed shift ‘neath her weight, feel her warmth at my side. Her fingers land on my shoulder, then her head, her arm wrappin’ round mine. Suddenly the image of her cryin’ come straight back to me, her sittin’ right outside, knees tucked into chest. The way I did the same. I hold her back, an’ we hold each other- both the other’s rock. An’, with me bein’ honest with mesyelf, it real nice.
“I ain’t really upset ‘bout that,” I finally respond, tryin’ to find words. I didn’t storm out ‘cause of the Holy Book, that the truth. But then that leave the question a why? Why did I do that then? Why’d I’d transform myself back to bein’ a little gurl?
“I kno’,” she say, “An’ it alright.”
“Wha’ am I gonna do?” I ask her, as well as God. It ain’t specific to jus’ one problem, what am I gonna do fo’ everythin’? Wha’ am I gonna do with my life? I sigh.
While God don’t answer me like normal, Mary do, “I can jus’ tell Miss. Lizabeth an’ Daddy that you feelin’ ill. You can stay up here fo’ the rest of the day if you like."
“I’ll read, ya kno’,” Mary whispers, her voice too quiet. She get this way when she upset- mo’ subservient, mo’ tedious, mo’… Quiet. Her footsteps don’t make the wood creak, her breath is nothin’ mo’ than the wind. Her voice is almos’ not even there.
She come into the room, still at the door, her face lookin’ scared. She scared of me. My own sister, my own twin is afraid. I ashamed, there must be sompin’ real wron’ with me.
I feel sad fo’ makin’ ‘er like this, makin’ her go back inta herself. Right now it seem like ages ago, that we was both playin’ ‘round with Lloyd, talkin’ an’ joshin’ like we was actually sisters. But then I remember that it ain’t my fault, really, it hers. Or maybe not hers, maybe daddy’s. If ya really look into it, almos’ everythin’ ‘round here is daddy’s fault.
He the reason why I am who I am. He the reason Mary get like this. He the reason the Misses treat us that way. He like the poison in all our life. But fo’ some reason, I the only one who kno’. An’ it took me nineteen years to even figure it out.
I hardly notice when Mary come to sit by me. I don’t hear her, just feel her- feel the bed shift ‘neath her weight, feel her warmth at my side. Her fingers land on my shoulder, then her head, her arm wrappin’ round mine. Suddenly the image of her cryin’ come straight back to me, her sittin’ right outside, knees tucked into chest. The way I did the same. I hold her back, an’ we hold each other- both the other’s rock. An’, with me bein’ honest with mesyelf, it real nice.
“I ain’t really upset ‘bout that,” I finally respond, tryin’ to find words. I didn’t storm out ‘cause of the Holy Book, that the truth. But then that leave the question a why? Why did I do that then? Why’d I’d transform myself back to bein’ a little gurl?
“I kno’,” she say, “An’ it alright.”
“Wha’ am I gonna do?” I ask her, as well as God. It ain’t specific to jus’ one problem, what am I gonna do fo’ everythin’? Wha’ am I gonna do with my life? I sigh.
While God don’t answer me like normal, Mary do, “I can jus’ tell Miss. Lizabeth an’ Daddy that you feelin’ ill. You can stay up here fo’ the rest of the day if you like."
