America the Unknown (United States of America #3)

Entry #5

Miss Emily had given birth again, shortly after Miss Caroline's passing.

No one was able to believe it, or even how blind we had been to it. We did not see that the Spanish had attempted another colony, this time in the form of a fort called Fort San Juan. It was built in the native village of Joara, just further up the coast, and exactly three human years after Miss Caroline's death.

But this child, no...children, had been sharing the same womb as Miss Caroline, waiting to be born into the world, and then join their sister in death.

I will talk about Fort San Juan's personification for this entry.

We had just put Miss Caroline to rest, watching as her tiny form faded from existence, leaving them with no grave or memorial. How could we bury something that had no remains? How could we create a memorial for something that pained Miss Emily so much?

We tried either way, just as we had with Mr Etu, Mr Sol, and Miss Neoma. Many of us drew pictures of them, created poems for them, and even made up stories of what they would have looked like if they lived past their childhood.

Despite the pain this brought, we did not wish to forget those young children, and I truly believe that Miss Emily did not wish to forget either.

However, that did not stop these new tragedies.

We had finished paying our respects to Miss Caroline when we heard new sobs come from upstairs. We got there as quickly as we could, finding Miss Emily on the floor, and a new bundle laying lifeless on the bed.

I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. Truly, I at first thought the tears that Miss Emily was shedding then were tears of joy, for maybe Miss Caroline had come back, easing her mother of her grief. However, when I stepped towards the bundle, any hope I myself had disappeared like the flick of a disappearing fire on a candle.

This was a new child, a baby girl, and she too was not breathing.

If it weren't for how lifeless she looked, I could have sworn she would have been a beautiful child. Her dark blonde hair was wavy, appearing to be made of pure silk, and her pale skin could have had cheeks that shone like freshly cut roses. I could not see her eyes, for they were simply closed as if in slumber, but I imagined that she would had beautiful eyes, just like her mother.

But that was not to be.

No one dared to speak then, out of disbelief of what we were seeing and in grief of our useless selves. Miss Emily continued to sob uncontrollably on the floor, looking so broken I would not have been surprised if she had been made of glass all this time, for she truly appeared on the verge of shattering to pieces with no hope of being fixed.

But glass can never be fixed once it has been broken. It was something we always had to be careful of if we wanted to keep the appeal of the mansion the way it should, and so we could protect Miss Emily's secret from her so-called caretaker.

I may not be familiar with Mr. Kirkland, but I know for sure that he is far from a good caretaker if he ever was one.

I also sincerely doubted that he cared for Miss Emily. In fact I would not be surprised if he did not, and saw her as a trophy, a way to obtain more money.

I hated him, and it was something I myself will carry for the rest of my life.

However, seeing Miss Emily in this state, all while I was in some kind of war with myself, the butler moved to take the child away so a memorial could be made for her, but then Miss Emily spoke.

"No," she said weakly, her puffy and red eyes looking up at us. Until then, I had never seen my mistress look so broken, and I could feel the guilt within me become stronger.

I almost hoped that she would fire me right then.

"Mistress, we must--"

"No," Miss Emily interrupted, staring at the limp form of her child. "Let me hold her, just this once."

"Mistress..."

"Please." Miss Emily was on the verge of crying once more. "Just this once."

Despite hesitating a moment, the butler complied, placing the limp child in Miss Emily's hold. She stared at her daughter, appearing to be looking for any sign of life within her, but found none. More tears streamed down her cheeks, but she did not sob.

"Elara," she then said.

"What?" We all stared at Miss Emily in confusion.

"Her name. Her name is Elara."

Elara. Such a beautiful name. I had begun to cry then, unable to control myself any longer, and a few others followed my example, especially a few men.

Truthfully, I never thought that men always needed to be strong. Of course, I knew it was expected of them, to never cry, but in the end, many seem to forget that men are human as well, just as fragile as women.

And there we were, vulnerable for all to see, and not caring.

Finally, after holding her, Miss Emily allowed us to take Miss Elara to be given a memorial, and just as we stepped outside in the warm sun, her body vanished, leaving nothing behind, just like with Miss Caroline.

Why God?

Why do you continue to allow this to happen?

Are you truly that cruel?

I truly felt myself growing more and more hateful towards God. He was supposed to be a savior, a loving figure, but instead he has taken everything from Miss Emily before they could even begin. Why kind of "loving" god does something like that?

I do not care if you scold me for thinking such things, I am merely speaking the truth. My faith in God was gone at this point, and replaced with seething hatred.

But I could never hate God more than I did myself.

And sadly, I know this tragedy is far from over.

--Diary of Jane Faustus, written by Anna White, 1576.