Meia hurried up the stairs.
The heels of her shoes clacked on the bare wood.
The housemaid would want to help her with her dress, but Meia did not want to meet her again.
Upstairs in the hallway, candlesticks were lit and a door stood open.
It was an empty room with old things in it. The door was as bare as the floor. The door handle had long lost its shine and was rough from rust.
Meia heard hand movements from there. The housemaid was probably sorting out her suitcases. Meia hurried past.
"Miss Arvis, shall I not help you with your dress?" came from the room before Meia had quite reached her door.
"No need."
The housemaid came into the hallway anyway. But Meia did not look back at her and quickly closed the door from her room.
The housemaid did not follow her. The hallway became silent.
Meia left the oil lamp out. She took off her shoes and dress. Due to the damage, it almost fell off by itself.
There was a tear along the zip. It was right at the seam. Maybe it could still be sewn?
Carefully she hung it over the back of the chair, then shook the key out of the oil lamp and opened her bedside table.
A pencil came rolling forward and bumped into a pack of matches. Meia put it back to the back of the diary. She took off her earrings and carefully put them in a red casket. In the drawer was otherwise a hairbrush and a coiled laundry wire with a green rubber coating. That was all that was in it.
Meia closed the drawer again and left the key in it.
She tossed her pyjamas to the side and without doing anything else, she lay down in bed facing the window so that only her face looked out.
White moonlight fell in squares on the wooden floorboards. Stars shimmered in the black of the night. The grass swayed in the faint wind. Warm lights twinkled in the village. With all the little lights in her eyes she pulled the blanket deeper into her face and clung tightly to the fabric. Why was everything like this? Had it to be like this? But why did it have to be like this? She cried again. Tears soaked into the pillow. No one saw it. Why did no one saw it? Why was there no one who asked her about it? Why was there no one who knew her? Why was there no one who cared about her? There were many lights in the village and many stars in the sky. Both was far away. Nothing was in the light. She was alone in the world. There was only her. All she had wanted was one person to spend her time with. Was that too much? Maybe it was her own fault. With her left hand, she grabbed her right arm. Why did she had to keep making mistakes? Why could she never do anything right. Her grip tightened and her fingernails pressed into her skin. Was it because of her looks? Her character? Angrily, she pulled her fingernails down her arm, all the way to her wrist. But it did not even hurt. It had been far too weak. She did it again with more force. She had not wished to be born, was she still to blame? Why did no one care about her? Why did she have to live at all? No one needed her. No one wanted her. Even as a tool she was useless. Would it not be easier to die? Surely it would be better if she would die. No one would mourn. No one would care. The housemaid would be glad to have less work. Her father would be glad to be rid of her. Surely he could then beg for some favours out of sympathy for his situation. It would be better. ~No one needs you. No one knows you. No one hates you. No one loves you. You're worthless.~ At that moment she felt a stinging pain from her arm and squinted her eyes. One of her fingernails had torn her skin and was cutting into her flesh. It had only surprised her. But the pain quickly subsided. So she did it again and harder and so hard that she could feel the bones and muscles in her arm. Her fingernails cut deep into her flesh and a faint warmth spread on her skin. Was that blood? She could not tell. Everything was dull, as if through a filter. She did it again and again. She did not ask herself why she was doing it. She just did it and cried. At the same time she was angry. Maybe at her father? But perhaps at herself for being so useless, for being so hideous. Maybe it was a self-imposed punishment. She wondered what would happen if someone saw the injury. Did she hope that would happen? Would she be asked where she got it? She would cry, but she would not answer. What would happen then when she cried? These questions were unnecessary. No one would notice the injury. No matter what she did, it did not matter. It was not the light that was empty. There might have been a bed in this room, but there was no one in it. It was just an empty room.
.../ End Part
Meia hurried up the stairs.
The heels of her shoes clacked on the bare wood.
The housemaid would want to help her with her dress, but Meia did not want to meet her again.
Upstairs in the hallway, candlesticks were lit and a door stood open.
It was an empty room with old things in it. The door was as bare as the floor. The door handle had long lost its shine and was rough from rust.
Meia heard hand movements from there. The housemaid was probably sorting out her suitcases. Meia hurried past.
"Miss Arvis, shall I not help you with your dress?" came from the room before Meia had quite reached her door.
"No need."
The housemaid came into the hallway anyway. But Meia did not look back at her and quickly closed the door from her room.
The housemaid did not follow her. The hallway became silent.
Meia left the oil lamp out. She took off her shoes and dress. Due to the damage, it almost fell off by itself.
There was a tear along the zip. It was right at the seam. Maybe it could still be sewn?
Carefully she hung it over the back of the chair, then shook the key out of the oil lamp and opened her bedside table.
A pencil came rolling forward and bumped into a pack of matches. Meia put it back to the back of the diary. She took off her earrings and carefully put them in a red casket. In the drawer was otherwise a hairbrush and a coiled laundry wire with a green rubber coating. That was all that was in it.
Meia closed the drawer again and left the key in it.
She tossed her pyjamas to the side and without doing anything else, she lay down in bed facing the window so that only her face looked out.
White moonlight fell in squares on the wooden floorboards. Stars shimmered in the black of the night. The grass swayed in the faint wind. Warm lights twinkled in the village. With all the little lights in her eyes she pulled the blanket deeper into her face and clung tightly to the fabric. Why was everything like this? Had it to be like this? But why did it have to be like this? She cried again. Tears soaked into the pillow. No one saw it. Why did no one saw it? Why was there no one who asked her about it? Why was there no one who knew her? Why was there no one who cared about her? There were many lights in the village and many stars in the sky. Both was far away. Nothing was in the light. She was alone in the world. There was only her. All she had wanted was one person to spend her time with. Was that too much? Maybe it was her own fault. With her left hand, she grabbed her right arm. Why did she had to keep making mistakes? Why could she never do anything right. Her grip tightened and her fingernails pressed into her skin. Was it because of her looks? Her character? Angrily, she pulled her fingernails down her arm, all the way to her wrist. But it did not even hurt. It had been far too weak. She did it again with more force. She had not wished to be born, was she still to blame? Why did no one care about her? Why did she have to live at all? No one needed her. No one wanted her. Even as a tool she was useless. Would it not be easier to die? Surely it would be better if she would die. No one would mourn. No one would care. The housemaid would be glad to have less work. Her father would be glad to be rid of her. Surely he could then beg for some favours out of sympathy for his situation. It would be better. ~No one needs you. No one knows you. No one hates you. No one loves you. You're worthless.~ At that moment she felt a stinging pain from her arm and squinted her eyes. One of her fingernails had torn her skin and was cutting into her flesh. It had only surprised her. But the pain quickly subsided. So she did it again and harder and so hard that she could feel the bones and muscles in her arm. Her fingernails cut deep into her flesh and a faint warmth spread on her skin. Was that blood? She could not tell. Everything was dull, as if through a filter. She did it again and again. She did not ask herself why she was doing it. She just did it and cried. At the same time she was angry. Maybe at her father? But perhaps at herself for being so useless, for being so hideous. Maybe it was a self-imposed punishment. She wondered what would happen if someone saw the injury. Did she hope that would happen? Would she be asked where she got it? She would cry, but she would not answer. What would happen then when she cried? These questions were unnecessary. No one would notice the injury. No matter what she did, it did not matter. It was not the light that was empty. There might have been a bed in this room, but there was no one in it. It was just an empty room.
.../ End Part
