The Letter

I wrote this one day when I felt inspired

  As I sit here looking at old photographs of when we were once happy, a mix of emotions flood my mind. I at times remember the joy, yet also cannot forget the heartache I felt whilst listening continuously to my parents fighting. I come upon my mother's old tattered journal, and as I read her thoughts it becomes clear to me, why the events that happened, happened the night of October the thirteenth. I will never forget the day. It was October the thirteenth in the year of 1807. I was turning info a young woman on this day as it happens, it was my thirteenth birthday. My mother was off again for she was a great seamstress of her time. I remember my mother well. Isabella was her name. She was as beautiful as a sunset with long golden hair, eyes as blue as the sea and with skin as fair as a newly fallen snow. My father stayed home most on most occasions while my mother was away. I too remember my poor father. Jonathon was his name, Jonathon Parker. His eyes were as dark as the bark on the trees, with skin as tan as the sands on the ocean's shore. His features were sharp, which in my opinion balanced the angelic softness of my mother. My parents loved eachother I am sure, however one cannot deny that there was an unrelenting tension between husband and wife. You see, my mother Isabella brought in more money than her husband. People talked and gossiped of course, they always will. For a woman to bring in more money than her husband is profound, it is unheard of. As the townpeople talked more and more, my dear father I fear began to crack. Yes, my father Jonathon cracked as if he were as fragile as a porcelain dish that has just been shattered across the hard floor. The horrid drink of alcohol was his crutch. A very vile drink that can turn even the most respectable man into a heathan. The time was after sunset when there was a knock on the door. My father stumbled to the door for he had been drinking since dawn. Once he approached the door, he caught his balance and asked for the stranger's name. It was the noble messange. My father cautiously opened the door to find a rather small looking man in yellow and blue. This strange looking man carefully placed an extravagantly decorated envelope into my father's hand. The man in blue and yellow bowed and dissapeared into the darkness of the night. The envelope however, was adressed to my mother. Since my mother was away, my father tore open the decorated envelope. And I fear this is where my frightening story begins. The look on my father's face was almost horrifying, and only worsened as he read. Then and there I saw the difference in his eyes. It frightened me, for I had not and never have since seen such hatred and madness in a man's eyes. However, I was confused, for once he finished reading this mysterious letter, a misinterpreted calmess seemed to overcome his face. As I said a misinterpreted calmness, for I was mistaken. With the glint of madness in his once serene brown eyes he tore out of the front door only to come back in with an inhuman like rage. It was as if he went outside for the moment to gather his thoughts yet was overcome in that instance by the drunken heathen inside him. Tables were overturned as he threw my mother's finest fabrics into the fire. All the while rambling on about a subject I could neither make our nor understand. Every minute or so he would stop to take just one more sip of what he called his magic medicine. Me, I thought it was poison. I was terrified as I watched the scene that was being played out before my eyes. I heard him yelling my name over and over again, yet I couldn't seem to move to go to my father. The seventh time he yelled Sarah; there was an evilness that I had never before heard. I went to my father, shaking all over. The heathen inside of him lashed out as he ripped the ribbons out of my hair and ripped my newly made birthday dress. As I cried for him to stop he only punished me more. What I was being punished for, I had no idea. It had to be something to do with that letter, but what! The more I cried the louder he would scream. I tried to figure out his reasoning for this rash behavior. I yelled to him and asked him what I did wrong. Through his slurring and rambling I made out this. My father told me that my mother had made him this way. Wasn't it curious, he asked me, that nobody has ever seen her work? she claims to be a famous seamstress which is why she is always away, but it is all lies. These words he screamed at me. He cries that he had been blinded by love, mislead by this witch he called a wife. Never before had I been so so confused. All along she has lead two lives and he never knew about it, this he shouts in my ear. He screams that now she will pay, and I will suffer for her lies, and her deceit. Befor I know it he grabbes the firepoker, and pins me up against the wall of our once quiet home. I believe I felt pain, but only for a few moments. For after that I was overcome by numbness to all pain, and all emotion. I was for the time, empty. Yes my father branded my with the firepoker that was in the shape of a P for Parked. He branded the P onto my face. Before he took his own life, he told me that I would always be the reminder to my mother of the evilness and sickness that she drove him too. He said that I would be her everlasting, haunting memory. He read the letter to me befor he died. The letter told of how I was to become princess, and my mother Isabella queen. My whole life had been a lie. Isabella married Jonathon out of love. Quite a smart woman in my opinion for she decieved everyone, right to the end. I will forever be reminded of pain and suffering every time I see my reflection. i am quite sure I saw my mother shudder a few times when she looked upon my branded face. She told me I was beautiful, right up until the day she passed away. Will I ever feel beautiful again? This I am unsure of. The P that was branded onto my face has, by the grace of God, faded, though only a little. So that is my story. And as I sit here reading my mother's thoughts out of her old tattered journal, I understand. She was once in love, torn between a life of royalty and a life of a more humble nature. Mixed up between pleasing her parents, and pleasing the man whom she loved. Unfortunately the path she chose was confusing and shadowed with sorrow and wrongdoings, and I , Sara Elizabeth Parker Swanson, Queen of England will forever wear her burden upon my left cheek for however long God continues to grant me life.

 

Author's Note

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