I like it here. The others complain or cry, but not me. Silence is beautiful. Why don’t they understand that?
For years I was lost in a sea of sisters. Eleven of them. Eleven asking me to sneak out at night, to go to dances, to entertain jabbering young men who presume they’re princes. To hear so many tell it dances and celebrations fill us delicate females with joy.
Joy. A room to myself. That is joy. I sleep all night long here. I wear a simple dress, the uniform, a glorious thing, really it is. No beads to lose, no lace to tear, no layers to drag around my legs. Why do my sisters think it fun to have so much to look after?
And no more secrets either. Between the crinolines and bows and the secrets I was so tired all the time. Here they want the truth. The Doctors reward you for truth. Isn’t that the most delicious thing you’ve ever heard? Have you ever had anyone look you in the eye and ask for the truth and mean it? If you haven’t, I feel terribly for you. I hope one day someone will care enough to listen to what you say and write it down. The doctors write what I say down. And they’re going to keep those pages forever. They promised.
In 100 years my words will still be here. My sisters can’t say that about their dresses.
Eventually I’m going to run out ideas.