The Unwilling Bride

The love of my life is my best friend—a tall, lean gentleman by the name of Robert
Buchanan. I still remember the first time we ever met, by the seaside. I was but a young girl,
fresh into lively adulthood, gathering creamy peachy shells out of the sand while my dress
gallantly fought the wind. Robert was looking for work at the pier and was rejected, so he found
himself wandering the coast lonesomely. When he first spotted me, he said that he believed a
mermaid had grown legs and decided to see what the beach had to offer. He thought that,
although my hair was tangled, my eyes were ruddy and dry, and salt decorated all of my exposed
skin, I was a gift from the great above made just for him. Since then, my time with him has been
much more than extraordinary.
He, in turn, was my rescuer, my knight in shining armor. Though it sounds made up and
entirely fictional, he was my love at first sight. Robert's dark hair whipping in the ocean's breath
and his coat falling behind as he ran to meet me is an image burned into my brain for the rest of
my life. He was so sweet to me, a stranger. Robert told me everything about himself within a few
weeks of knowing me. When I lived with my parents, he visited my windowsill, night after night,
just to ask about my day. And Robert, the love of my life, is brilliant too! He spent two extra
years in school as opposed to all of his classmates. He always wanted to be a teacher and raise at
least five children.
Every waking moment I want him beside me. Every second of every day, I want to hear
his voice. Anytime I'm free, I will visit him at his home. He will sweep me up into his arms, as
he always does. We will sit by the fireplace and drink steaming tea and eat anything in the
pantry. It doesn't matter the food, though, as long as we're together. We will spend lengthy days
talking and holding each other or walking the glorious plains of Ireland in wonderful silence, and
we will spend even longer nights enjoying each other's company until the break of dawn. There
is nothing in this world that I couldn't tell Robert about. We will talk about anything and
everything without a care in the world.
The love of my life truly is my best friend.
However, my fiance is quite the opposite.
My fiance's name is James Erskine. He is plain and is, as excruciatingly simply put, a
background character. I hardly even remember meeting him. It's as if he has always been around,
somewhere in my life. Ever since we were children in primary school, James has been lurking in
the shadows. He often went to the fields or the beach or town square whenever I did. But I didn't
care much for him. James is and has always been far too short, stout, and stupid. When his facial
hair started coming in, it was patchy and uneven. Without a father at home, he didn't know how
to cut it. So it either looked overgrown and unpleasant or haphazardly shaved and unpleasant.
Anyone could imagine my horror when my parents announced our engagement. When
James's parents moved to America, James and I would be wed in exchange for their entire
property. Then we would take over the plantations, as my parents would be far too old. Until

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then, we've been placed into a tiny farmhouse on the outskirts of town, overlooking the ocean
and a horrendous fifteen-minute walk on a curvy series of stepping stones from Robert's home.
But, fortunately, the wedding wasn't for another four months, when I turned twenty-five. That
gave me plenty of time to be with Robert and his two kids and maybe develop a plan to escape
the countryside with him.
Robert's two-story beige wonder towers above everyone else's house in town. I'm positive
he inherited the building from his parents, as he doesn't make enough money to own a place like
his, but he's never talked about it. Still, every time I visit, I brush my fingertips over the aging
wallpaper and bury my feet in the plush carpets. It's far more comfortable and exquisite than my
home. However, the most eye-catching is the costly rock-crystal, ridiculously radiant beauty
hanging above the sitting room. The ornate chandelier invited all to gaze upward and admire the
virtue of its sparkle.
Whenever I'm not busy rewalking through the halls in Robert's home, I teach his two
daughters, Harriet and Julia, to sew and mend. We spend long mornings sitting out on the old
front porch or in the fenced yard among the daisies, sitting on small benches with baskets of
colorful yarn and long, thin rolls of thread crowded around our feet. Their blonde tangles and
neverending giggles drift into the wind to bring happiness to everyone around. We only have one
thimble to share among the three of us, so the children trade back and forth while I endure any
stabs I may get from the needle. I would do anything for the young girls.
We sew and knit all morning and into the afternoon while Robert writes inside. He's an
author and a very creative one, but he doesn't like to be bothered while working. However, once
midday arrives and the sun hits its peak, the girls head to primary school, and I get to spend time
with their father. I usually make lunch for him, whatever he wishes to eat, and then go on a walk.
Afterward, we spend time together at his house, just the two of us, until his daughters return.
Before sunset, I head to town by myself to sell any pieces I created while knitting or bring
patched-up clothing to customers. Then I go home in the dark.
In particular, though, today was a slow day. Nobody bought my colorful creations, and I
had no new or returning customers. I stood, shivering, pulling my shawl closer to my body
behind my booth. The buildings around me blocked out all light, forcing the cobbled street into a
dull and terrifying place to be. Not even the street lamps lightened the mood. They only made the
marketplace gloomier as the shadows moved drowsily along the ground. Usually, I would sell at
least a sweater or two, as the coast tends to be rather chilly due to the winds coming off the
endless ocean. And most weeks, I fix up patches on quite a few articles of clothing. But recently,
my business has been nearly nonexistent. I stayed out for an extra hour, waiting until the stars
reached their full potential to pack up and go home. I packed up all of my hard work into a single
basket, shoving each article in with blue-tipped fingers. I walked slower than usual, as it was
cold, especially with no sun to warm me. Nevertheless, though I stayed late, I was confident I
would be home before my fiance. I have ​always ​been home before James.
Except for this one time. When I arrived home, which teetered dangerously between the
edge of the woods and miles of luscious farmland, the lights were already lit inside. I was careful

2
to enter, had it been an intruder, but very quickly found James seated at the kitchen table, among
the floral plates set for dinner, head in his hands. When I entered and put my materials away into
my designated cabinet, he sat up to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot.
My first assumption was that one of our parents passed. My heart skipped a beat and I
stepped closer. James has never been an emotional or sensitive person. He had never cried in
front of me before or talked about his feelings. That's one of the many reasons I despise him. If
he could speak to me like his fiance and not a stranger, like Robert, perhaps I'd be more open to
spending my entire life with him.
But, just as I had started to open my mouth, he stood and started pacing. I watched him
for a few seconds before asking,
"Are you upset?" It was a stupid question with a self-evident answer, but James awarded me a
simple nod. He didn't even make eye contact. "What are you upset about?" I tried again. He
didn't stop still but did meet my eyes.
"I lost my job," he told me. Then he went back to staring at the creaky floorboards as he went
back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, I forced myself to look away in order
not to get dizzy.
James worked on a neverending plantation, fields rolling into the horizons, kissing the
sun as it came and went. He helped tend to plants and, when their time came, harvest them. He
brought home a third of whatever he gathered, as did every other worker. The rest went to the
market to be sold. The farm employed many men from our town. It was close by and paid well
for our living styles and supported the entire village.
But recently, it was failing. The soil was becoming much harder to grow with, and the
most important crop, the potato, has been dying far before it grew. Many believe that it is a sign
or a prophecy. Rumor spread that people would starve to death as our population outgrew our
food production. I had even met one woman who believed the Gods above were turning their
backs on us for sinning. James believes that it is a farm disease. His bosses tell the workers that
they need to watch out for fungi or mold on crops that seem to be harming the leaves and or the
edible roots. James assured me that the bad harvest would be over soon and that the collections
would start to get better within the month.
"They let go of nearly everyone," James continued. He had stopped pacing and was instead
staring out at the farmstead in front of our house. "They aren't making enough money selling the
crops that we harvest because there are hardly any in the first place. Everything is dying, Nancy.
The stock of potatoes, barley, wheat, oats, beets—it's almost all gone. Even the cattle, swine, and
sheep. We don't have enough to feed them and ourselves."
My breath had caught in my throat, as I hadn't realized it was so bad. I moved over to the
pantry quickly and started throwing open doors and cabinets. Two more bowls of champ
(potatoes and scallions), makings for another meal of colcannon (potatoes and cabbage), perhaps
enough for an Irish Stew (meat with potato and vegetables), and several servings of boxty (fried
potato cakes) were all that was left. I stared at the contents. We would probably only last for a
few weeks with strict rationing and trying to eat only one meal a day. Especially with the

3
weakening conditions that winter inflicts, unless we made money or could grow our own crops,
we'd be dead within months.
"Did you make any money today?" James asked. He had turned to watch me riffle through our
supplies.
"No, nothing. I only sold two sweaters this entire week," I admitted. "But I'll do better. I'll do
more errands for people. I'll double my stitching time." I rattled off a few more promises that
both my fiance and I knew would fall short.
"I think your parents are going to lose the farm. Or have to sell it," he murmured, as though he
was trying to make sure I didn't hear him. But, unfortunately, I did. The room fell into an
unbreakable wall of silence, built right between us, for a minute or two. I was sure I'd start to cry
if I spoke. But then, James got up and started to leave the room. "I'm not going to eat tonight," he
mumbled as he went to the bedroom.
I waited in the kitchen until the light turned off in the other room. Then, hurriedly, I
fetched my coat and went out into the night. With only the glimmering moonlight to guide me, I
stumbled and tripped over nearly every pathway stone in my way. Fifteen minutes later, I was on
Robert's front porch. The door flung open after I knocked several times. Suddenly I was in his
arms.
"Nancy? Why are you here? What's wrong? Are you crying?" he asked, trying to take my head in
his hands to examine my face. I shook my head and just crowded closer to him until he backed
up into the house. After calming down, I explained everything to Robert. He sat quietly as I did,
hanging onto my every word.
"What am I going to do? If the farm gets taken or sold, we won't have anything! Our main house
will be taken along with the farmhouse and all the barns. We only have enough food for a little
longer and we aren't making money anymore! I'm sure prices will only rise as others experience
the same…" I rambled on and on. Robert pulled me close and shushed me after realizing I was
spiraling.
"Nancy, dear, you need to calm down. You can come live with me if you have no other choice.
You know that you're always welcome," he promised with a beautiful smile. After a few beats of
our hearts, he added, "And James, I suppose."
I would never hide anything from the love of my life and my best friend, including my
fiancé. The moment we got engaged, I went to find Robert and tell him. But he knows I love him
much, much more than I have ever loved James. He was aware that I went back to another man
every night but knows I would never cheat on him. He also, thankfully, doesn't bring up what
will happen to our relationship after the marriage. But Robert knows very well that James must
stick around if I am to have a family. The farm has supported my relatives for centuries. But
now, I was unsure of the future and what would happen to the farm or myself.
"I wouldn't do that to you," I finally decided. "We will probably live with my parents. I'm sure
they have a plan." Robert nodded and just held me long into the night. Before I knew it, the sun
was rising, and I was still at his house. I didn't return home until the afternoon, when James was
still out, hunting for jobs.

4
 Within the next few weeks, the luck in my life had sprinted, bounded, and galloped
breathlessly towards our town's magnificently deadly seaside cliff. It stood teasingly at the edge
for a while, eyeing me with reckless abandon, before it finally leaped. On the dreadful,
tear-jerking path down, it hit several menacingly sharp rocks, angered the roots of mothering
birds, perhaps latched onto a bit of my sanity, and crashed into the vicious waves of the ocean
below, never to be seen again.
My mother fell sick after a few weeks of rationing food between herself and my father.
The freezing weather and downfall of the diverse and healthy community she had grown up in
trapped her in a dark, inescapable corner and sent her into near insanity. James and I visited her
often, just to try to avoid our eyes as her pale, thinning form tried to eat stew with shaking hands,
wrapped up tightly in her bed with a hundred different quilts. She reminded me of a stray dog,
shivering and nearly hairless, eyes always filled with watery tears that never seemed to fall.
During one snowy week, I stayed in the town center, trying to sell my knitting and sewing
services from sunrise to sunset. I received some looks of pity, but no customers. When I returned
home one day, James took me into his arms, although he never hugged me. I cried for the rest of
the night. We buried my mother behind her childhood home the next day.
My father became an empty shell of mourning cicadas, always making some sort of noise
or sound to fill the silence, but never with any meaning. He also seemed to turn grayer every day
after his wife's death. His eyes dulled, his hair lightened, and his skin gradually lost its natural
suntan from the fields. My miserable father didn't ration his supplies, as he no longer cared about
anything and ran out of food within a week. We moved in with him to help out. The farmhouse
was creaky and old, but it was home.
However, when an officer came by to ask for a monthly payment for the house, we
couldn't pay him. He asked for money, food, or medicine. We had no money, very little food,
and all the medication had been used on my mother. We had nothing. When asked to leave
within the next week, my father refused. I begged him.
"We have somewhere to go," I told him. "I know a man who is willing to let us move in with
him." My father didn't budge. "He has some more food and another bedroom. And two little
girls. Children will make you feel better." I promised. My father shook his head, his tapping foot
sending me into a fit. "Don't be selfish, father! We need to go. We don't own this property
anymore!"
But all he said was: "I won't leave your mother behind."
So it was decided. James and I stayed with my father for the next five days, finishing the
last of our food. On the fifth day, I woke to a calming crackling and the smell of fresh candles. I
enjoyed the atmosphere as the gentle sizzling and sputtering continued. Then, something large
fell outside and banged against an aluminum cow trough, surely knocking all of the water out. I
sat up and woke James. He and I sat in bed for several more minutes, admiring the strange
sounds of the dimly lit household before we got up. Sleepily, we moved into the kitchen.
Above the dish-filled sink, flames licked adoringly at the glass panes and crawled up the
house dreamily out of the kitchen window. They danced with beautiful lightheartedness through

5
the dry straw and into the rafters, helping one another leap from board to board. Yellow and red
and orange dyed themselves together as a show of trust, creating destruction as triplets whatever
their loving tips brushed. Another elegantly sculpted dagger of fire dragged a few panels from
the walls onto the ground outside, igniting the morning grass with a hiss of pleasure. The
countryside in the distance sat peacefully, unscathed, but the house we stood in was set ablaze.
I screamed, and when James spotted the fire, he cried out too. We ran outside via the
back door to find the roof covered in the terrifyingly stunning danger and on the verge of
collapse. I hurried to the troughs around the houses, but most had been dumped over as I had
expected, the water protecting the surrounding grass. The structures themselves were too hot to
touch when I attempted to flip them over. A section of the roof fell in, and another scream was
ripped from my lung, piercing the drowsy morning air.
"Nancy, help me!" James cried from the front of the house. Pumping my sleep-ridden legs as fast
as I could in my whirling nightgown, I reached him quickly. He was trying to open the front
door, but the wooden frame was collapsing, and the handle spritely stung any person who came
into contact with it.
"Don't go back inside," I yelled at him, pulling at his warm nightshirt. He turned and shoved me
away. James had ​never p​ ushed me before. As I opened my chapped lips to raise Hell, he glared
at me from over his shoulder.
"Your father is inside!" he shouted. My heart skipped a beat and sank towards the Earth. My
whole world—my entire ​universe​—came crashing down alongside my beautifully smoldering
childhood home. I should have helped James. I should have tried to slam my body into the
burning door. I should have broken a window with a branch or brick. I should have done
something. Anything!
But I didn't. My feet were glued down with the weight of a thousand memories and
sentiments floating away into the gentle breeze. My head spun with the realization that my father
would soon be lost to this world, apprehended in his lovely beige bedroom by sauntering flames
and the inescapable clouds of smoke disguised as the merciful bringers of death. But instead of
falling into the afterlife in his cozy bed with his loving family holding his frail hands, he would
suffer. After a lifetime of diligence and dedication to making a mark on his hometown, he would
have to endure the terrible blaze in his own residence, the very one that he inherited, much as
James and I were going to if the conditions had been vastly different. The fatal fire would melt
his callused, paling skin off of his firm, hard-worked bones and the horrendous smoke that would
snake its way into his body and caress his lungs with such a ferocious hold that his eyes would
bulge and his ears would pop.
Amid the haunting image burned into the back of my eye sockets, James called to me
repetitively. I could hear him, but I couldn't understand what he was asking for. He kept yanking
on the door tirelessly, trying everything he could to open it. My eyes drifted from one side of the
house to the other. It may have looked to him as though I was searching for a way inside to
recuse my poor father, but I was simply taking in the last look I would have of the house before
it was reduced to rubble.

6
 A few sections of the room caved in within the next few minutes. Half an hour rolled by
and all of the windows blew out with massive clashes, surely waking the entire town. The
kitchen wall fell next, exposing the drawers of ashy cutlery and broken plates strewn across the
tiled floors. People came to help after that. Some I knew, some I didn't. A lot were customers of
my business. They brought buckets of water and took turns throwing them on the relentless
flames. Eventually, the starving and completely poverty-stricken neighbors even formed a line
down to the seaside so that the buckets could be moved faster.
After two hours had passed, the fire had been extinguished. Everyone whispered their
condolences as they left, but they had nothing extra at home to give us. We all knew that much
and expected nothing more than assistance. James and I stood staring at the destruction exposed
by the crumbled walls of the kitchen and living room. Then, with a loud ​bang a​ nd a few more
boards crashing onto the lawn, the front door fell.
"How convenient," James stated dryly. He looked over his shoulder at me, but the severity of the
situation had caught up and made my legs weak with fear and sorrow. I dropped to the grass
beside the house, and my knees were made quick, bloody work of by the shards of broken glass
beneath me. I gazed up at my childhood home as my eyes filled with brimming tears, burning a
pathway down my cheeks as the fire had done my house. My hands squeezed into fists and then
wrapped together as though I was praying.
But I had no promises or questions left for any greater beings above. They had already
failed me.
James stood aside as I mourned and watched me for quite a while. As usual, he was
uncomfortable with the display of intense emotion. I'm sure all he wanted to do was run away
and never look back. Surely he would, as he was never into the marriage for anything more than
a secure family life for his future. I didn't see when James ventured into the ash-ridden house, but
I watched when he exited.
"Nancy," he called. "I got something for you." My face contorted into one of disgust. I hated that
he was looking for a present in the burnt wreckage and his very existence caused my stomach to
churn and my palms to itch. If he hadn't been around, perhaps my parents would still be alive.
But when he approached, brandishing my father's wedding ring, my expression softened. I didn't
thank him, but I took the ring and held it over my rapidly beating heart. He understood the
simple gesture.
James and I took one trip back to where we stayed at the edge of my deceased parents'
property. We gathered some blankets, pillows, a change of clothes, and any sentimental items we
had left. Since I insisted we move into the main farmhouse with my ill family until further
notice, all of our food, medicine, most of our outfits had been reduced unusable. I decided to
bring a few letters from Robert's early days of courting me and a book my mother had given me
before moving out of the house. I left behind the papers for the marriage between James and me.
On our way past the main house for the second time, I stopped by my mother's grave
under the willow tree. As if the ash had covered more than just the landscape, the grey sky above
grumbled and coughed. The headstone had become covered with soot, so I used a few burnt

7
towels to clean it. Then, right beside her, I buried my father's ring. I leaned on the great tree,
looking up to the sky. Even if I wasn't sure he existed anymore, I asked the Lord above to allow
my father into Heaven.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't amazed by Robert's house's structure and charm. The
drops that dampened my clothes and lightning that shook my core may have had something to do
with the feeling, but the intricate tiling of the patio and hand carvings on the front door didn't
make me swoon. And the sight of Robert's little girls, filled to the brim with joy and laughter,
couldn't bring a smile to my face. Harriet and Julia took turns hugging me before Robert came to
the door. He wrapped me in his arms and cocooned me in all the safety he had to give. James
stood quietly behind me. He had always been an onlooker.
That night, all of us sat around the table with bowls of unfinished stew as James and I
retold the experience of the horrible morning. The girls' mouths fell open, and they stared at us,
wide-eyed, as though we had changed species. Certainly, the story had sounded made up to
them, which I wasn't upset about. If they forgot about it overnight, I would be content.
After our recounting, Robert asked his kids to go to bed. When Julia made a face and
Harriet whined and refused, he raised his voice wanting to hear more of the fire.
"Go to bed!" he yelled. The house seemed to shake with the same unrelenting panic that
overcame the children. "You listen to me the first time I ask you, or there will be consequences.
We have guests! Don't act like brats," he warned. The girls nodded, tears already filling their
glistening eyes before they ran off upstairs to their bedrooms. James and I sat silently. My heart
was beating as rapidly as the rain that crashed onto the tin roof and bounced off the windows.
I had never been scared of Robert before. He always spoke to me in a soothing voice, as
though I was a stray, begging for my next meal though ready to turn and run at the sight of
violence. He held me through my worst times and celebrated when I was victorious. His smile lit
up rooms whenever we were together and guided us to mutual understanding and love. He had
not once raised his voice in my presence. Now that he did, and at his own family, I was stuck.
My mind buzzed on as far as the ocean spans, but I couldn't form a coherent thought. My eyes
stayed glued to the meal in front of me. I didn't know if I should check on the girls or ask Robert
about his outburst. As I was about to make a decision, one was made for me.
"It's late," James said, standing. His chair scraped against the hardwood floor, and I inwardly
cringed, clasping my hands together tightly. "We should head to bed. But thank you for housing
us until we can get back on our feet. We will repay you, I swear." When James offered his hand
to me, against my immediate reaction, I took it and stood beside him. His palm was rough and
calloused from working in the fields. Though the scratchy feeling was usually unwelcome, at that
moment, it felt comforting. My buzzing fear was calmed by merely standing in James's
protective shadow. Robert glanced between us, frowning.
"I suppose it is about bedtime," he agreed, though the creasing lines forming between his
eyebrows did not match his tone. He nodded at me specifically, ignoring James as though he was
completely invisible. "I'll see you in the morning." And with that, he began to collect the half-full
stew bowls, making a ruckus with the silverware.

8
 James held my hand gently, knowing very well that I didn't want to be holding his, and
led me upstairs. I relished in the safety that had never come from James before but often came
from Robert. The anxiety that radiated off of Robert and shot straight through me, though, had
never come from James. However, as soon as we entered the guest room, across the hall from the
sniffling girls' bedroom, I let go of his hand. I wanted to keep my composure. I couldn't let him
know that I briefly enjoyed the fact that he was still in my life, watching over me and my
wellbeing.
Though Robert's room was grand and full of rich colors and massive comforters, the
guest room was modest. The bedding was thin and the pillows were nearly nonexistent. The air
seemed colder than the rest of the house and the furniture cast longer, gloomier shadows. James
gave me two of the three pillows and let me take most of the blankets. Within an hour, his
rhythmic breathing and gentle snoring gave away that he was asleep.
I didn't let myself close my eyes and rest my racing mind. I was afraid that all my dreams
would be full of adventurous, crackling flames and the old gold, now charred ring buried beside
my mother's body. I didn't want to visualize my parents' faces. Their memory already brought me
so much pain, as I knew it was partially my fault that they passed away. But I also couldn't force
myself to get out of bed and go to Robert. Perhaps it was a simple passing phase or a
consequence of my fiance being around. Regardless, the thought of leaving the guest room made
my skin crawl. I didn't wish to anger Robert any further in such a short timespan. I had never felt
outrage that caused me to lash out at my own family before. Then again, I wasn't a single father
who worked tirelessly to put food on the table in a dying country.
Rolling from side to side, I couldn't get comfortable. The mattress felt far too lumpy and
the moonlight's glow seemed far too harsh. I didn't feel like myself in my own body, as my soul,
yearning to be free, was trapped inside of a mourning, confused woman. I craved to be running
across the waterfront again, playing in salty waves, without a care in the world. But with the
vision of Harriet and Julia's tearful embarrassed faces, my world and the modest guest bedroom
drifted away into a nightmare-filled slumber.
Over the next few weeks, conditions didn't improve much. The days that Robert and I
were alone, I felt full and distracted from my life's deep-rooted issues. Though I still had a
specific emotion I couldn't place scratching at my skull, demanding to be let out, his love always
kept me going. He had gone back to the wreckage with me a few times to look for remnants that
had survived the blaze. We only found a few fully intact ceramic bowls and two necklaces that
were salvageable from my mother's jewelry box. Talking to Robert made me feel better too. He
had told me that it was okay to cry, even if it drew some curious eyes.
"It's better to let it all out than to hold it in," he told me with a pitiful smile. Had James given me
that look, I would have stormed away. However, when Robert did it, my stomach churned with
the same wonderful feeling from our first meeting. He also promised that he would hold me and
let me vent to him as long as needed. And some days, I did.
But on other days, I avoided him, especially when we weren't going to be alone together.
Living with him had shown me a new side of him that I had never witnessed before. I had never

9
before heard Robert yell, especially at his children, but it seemed to now be a nightly occurrence.
The girls had a routine at this point. They would make Robert's face turn red with anger and
shame before running off to bed, sometimes crying, sometimes giggling. The amusement they
found was not a pleasure I could indulge in, as their father would not be out of his mood until the
next morning. James seemed to understand this, too, as he would save me from the awkwardness
at the dinner table at night and let me go job hunting with him during the daytime hours.
After I accompanied James on his eighth day searching for work and my third, he and I
stopped at the cliffside that the town rested on. We were not having any luck, as any jobs that
were still employed were filled up. All of my previous customers did not need patches or sewing
work, as most could do it themselves at home—those who couldn't didn't have enough money to
pay for my service. Robert and I sat on the grass and ate the lunch we had brought with us in
comfortable silence. The birds above eyed us greedily, perching on trees and lamp posts to spy,
but didn't attempt to come anywhere near us. Townsfolk had recently turned to the bird
population in place of the lack of food and I wasn't against selling a pesky scavenger to a family
for their dinner.
The combination of the repetitive crashing waves and buzzing of insects surrounding my
feet, searching for a morsel to eat, influenced my eyelids to droop. The sun, peeking from behind
the clouds, tickled my nose and fingertips. I slowly laid down in the dewy grass, appreciating the
simplicity of the afternoon and anticipating a restful nap. I didn't sleep much at night, by choice.
Instead, I spent long dark hours tossing and turning, coming up with better ways I could have
handled the tragedies of my life.
"Nancy?" James said. I hummed in response, not allowing him the time of day. Though we were
on better terms, I made sure he knew that he was still only a family agreement and nothing more.
"Nancy?" he repeated. I opened an eye.
"What?" I snapped. He wasn't looking at me and didn't bother to turn when the typical response
shot at him like venom.
"Maybe we should leave," he said. I propped myself up on my elbows and cocked an eyebrow.
He still didn't glance my way. He was watching the ocean dip and swell in its familiar, random
pattern.
"The water had always amazed me," he once said when we had first become engaged. "It doesn't
behave. It doesn't bend to any will. It had no regrets or anything! I wish I could be like that." I
never asked what that meant because I never cared. I always thought he was already that way. He
never showed me what he was honestly thinking and he hid his tears behind closed doors. But,
for a moment, I watched a glimpse of innocence sneak through his eyes and drift towards the sea.
Robert had emotions. He was human, after all. He was just tired of being judged by them, and
that's, I knew, why he wanted to be more like the relentless ocean.
"Where would we go?" I finally asked, exasperated. "Everywhere else is the same as here,
James. They're all starving and in poverty. Some are even becoming violent. What place is going
to be better than here?" I thought my response would shut him up and that I could go back to my

10
peaceful nap. But instead, his answer was as instant and shocking as a cold wave on a summer's
day.
"America," he simply replied. His eyes were finally ripped from the compelling beauty of the
ocean and he focused on me. He didn't say a thing more, but suddenly a burning sensation began
in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat until it came bursting out of my mouth.
"How dare you!" I cried, sitting up straight. "We're not leaving to go to America! My home is
here. ​Your h​ ome is here. America is not our home!" My eyes bore holes through his head, though
he stayed upright and stable. My hands balled into little fists, but that did little to deter my
fiancé.
"My parents are in America," James carried on, as calm as ever. His voice was soothing and his
breathing was even. He didn't realize how unrealistic and dreadful his suggestion was. He didn't
know how moving all the way across the ocean would ruin our lives forever. "They could help
us. We could make a new home there. We could have a future there."
Suddenly the drastic drop from the top of the plateau seemed dangerous and formidable
rather than familiar and magnificent. Its dizzying height and sharp rocks made me shake with
uncertainty and resentment. The crashing tides below felt as though they were hitting my body,
pushing and nudging me closer to the edge where I would tumble into an abyss. But I didn't want
to get lost in that chasm of emptiness and unhappiness. I wanted to run. I wanted to run far away.
"I'm not going to America with you," I stated, standing up. I pulled my dress from the grabby
thorns and bristles that begged me to stay. "I will stay here, with Robert. We will prevail just fine
without you!" With a dramatic huff and a turn that surely threw dirt in James's direction, I
stormed back to the house, where it was safe and comfortable. James made no move to follow
me and just began to pack up our once friendly picnic.
When I got back to Robert's house, he was out on the porch. His heated personality was
making a theatrical show as he stomped around and slammed his fists on the wall and door. The
boards creaked under his feet, complaining almost as much as he was. Had I not been seething
myself, racing to get as far away from James as possible, I would have had more common sense
to turn and leave. To go find an activity other than confront the fuming man in a rage.
"What's wrong?" were the first words out of my mouth. But when Robert's stormy eyes turned to
me, instant stinging regret filled my soul and tightened my throat. Robert clobbered over to the
porch stairs, and I took a few steps back, stumbling over the dull stepping stones.
"What isn't wrong!" he growled. "The schools are closed and I have two troublesome children to
get rid of for a few hours so that I can afford to feed them!" Recently, Robert's writing wasn't
selling, and our situation has been looking dier. Nobody needed news or entertaining stories. Not
sure if we could pay for another month's worth of food for four people, he had been traveling up
to an hour away to promote his business. Though so far, he wasn't having luck, and that only
worsened his mood.
"How about a tutor?" I asked, the fury burning in my belly extinguished. My voice was meek
and soft as I tried to calm the giant.

11
"I already hired one. I'm not stupid," Robert grumbled. "The girls are supposed to be there now.
But they're too incompetent to get dressed!" I flinched at the shout and immediately volunteered,
seeing the opportunity as means of escape.
"I'll go help them out. You stay on the porch. We'll be out in a few minutes," I said, moving
around Robert, perched on my toes. When I opened the door, I made sure not to make any
sudden movements or severe eye contact. Robert nodded, breathing heavily, and turned to pace
again.
I moved quickly through the house, avoiding the old creaky boards. Heading up the
stairs, I leaned against the wall, trying to not rip too much at the antique wallpaper to steady and
compose myself.
"Girls," I called, once outside their bedroom door. "I'm coming in to help you two get dressed
properly. Your father says you need to go to your tutoring lesson as soon as possible." Once the
scurrying calmed down inside the room, I opened the door to find Julia struggling with tying her
shoes and Harriet tangled up in her coat. I first helped untie and redo Julia's shoelaces as she
squirmed uncomfortably in her dress and overcoat. Then, I strode across the room to where
Harriet was standing. I helped her unbutton the jacket and began to rebutton before Julia
interrupted.
"That's my jacket!" she complained. "You have my jacket on, Harriet!" Her sister scrunched up
her nose.
"No, I don't!" she yelled back. I looked between them and then laughed.
"Yes, you are. Julia's overcoat has eight buttons and yours has six. You two switched clothes! No
need to get upset, though, it's an easy fix." I told them. They both muttered in irritation and
began to take off their jackets.
Only then did I notice the countless assorted blotches of bruises all across the girls' skin.
Puffy green and yellow swellings decorated their upper arms and snaked down to their wrists,
where they became darker and fresher. My eyes widened while I analyzed the monstrosity that
the kids came off as normalized to. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to come up with
comforting words, though all English seemed to fail me at that very moment. Harriet and Julia
simply switched coats and helped each other with the buttons. Within the next minute, they were
dressed and ready to walk out the front door. But I was still not prepared to leave their quaint
bedroom.
"Are you okay?" Julia asked, picking up her tiny pink school bag. I nodded, swallowing thickly.
"Yes, dear," I replied, forcing a smile to appear on my face for the sake of the children's
happiness. Both seemed to accept the fake joy and ran downstairs, yelling for their father. I
watched from their bedroom window as Robert led the children down the stone pathway and
towards town. I observed their silhouettes until they were but a speck in the distance and then
followed the rays of the afternoon sun down to my shaking hands. I knew that Robert had gotten
upset at his children, but never in my life had I imagined he would lay a hand on them. Though
some of the bruises seemed recent, I convinced myself that he hadn't hurt them since James and I

12
moved in. We would have noticed, surely. The girls would have cried out and we would have
heard them.
The overwhelming sense of dread didn't stop brushing at the back of my neck, though. It
whispered in my ears and tugged on my hair so that I became a fidgeting mess for the day.
Robert and I went on a relaxing walk before sunset, after he wrote for a few hours. He hardly
spoke once during the stroll but to comment on the incoming rain clouds that frolicked like
children through the sky, ready to come thundering down upon us. I tried not to provoke Robert.
He was frightened and embarrassed by his struggling business and I didn't wish to upset him
further. I didn't speak at all but just held my own hand and tried to look as natural and carefree as
possible.
We returned home just before James. When he came inside with the picnic basket, he
thankfully didn't comment on my fleeing. He just dropped off the dishes before going upstairs to
freshen up for dinner. When the kids got back later, I sewed with them in the yard until the sun
went down and then played with them in their room. I kept them busy and bubbly, brushing
dolls' hair and adjusting their dresses until dinner when both of their mischievous sides seemed
to shove their way out of their soft, innocent, bruised skin.
"Let me refill your drink, Harriet," I smiled over the table, lifting the pitcher after noticing the
girl had drained her water. I wanted to make sure that they knew I cared. Hopefully, they would
come to me for help if they trusted me more. She kneeled on her chair and stooped over the
table, handing the empty cup to me.
"Don't lean over your food like that," Robert snapped. Harriet quickly moved back to her seat,
back utterly straight in alarm. Julia giggled beside her until she got an uncanny look from her
father. Both girls were then ridged and silent, blinking back surprise from spilling out their eyes
and down their cheeks.
"I apologize; that was my fault," I said, the trembling in my hands beginning again. All I could
imagine was the love of my life following his daughters into their bedroom that night and leaving
his violent rage on their arms. James seemed to notice my hesitation as he turned and nodded
towards the pitcher and cup.
"Would you like me to pour?" he asked softly. Robert huffed, his eyes burning into mine. The
intimidation didn't help stifle my anxiety.
"She can do it herself," he muttered. I smiled at James to let him know that I was okay and began
to shakily pour the water. The contents of both containers sloshed and spilled a bit, landing in my
lap. I didn't say a word but kept pouring. Everyone was staring. James was chewing on his lip
instead of his food as his eyes flickered from mine to my hands. I knew he wanted to help, but I
needed to prove that I was strong to the children. I needed to prove that I could protect them. The
girls watched with peaked interest, having abandoned their meals to watch. Robert's hands were
clenched around his fork and knife, almost twitching as much as mine as he stared me down with
bitter pressure.
Suddenly there was a fire. Fiery blazes jumping everywhere. Flares ricocheted off of the
windows and door frames and, most excruciatingly, the utensils on the table. Sparks hit me in the

13
face and left throbbing ashy marks on my cheeks. The heat rose to an uncomfortable temperature
and forced me further in my seat, cackling in my face when I shrunk back in fear. I knew what
would happen next. The tablecloth would burst into flames, along with the curtains and rug.
Then everyone around me would catch their hair and clothes on fire and would sprint in circles,
fleeing from the undying flames. Their skin would turn black with soot and then run red with
blood. Their eyes would budge. Their ears would pop. There would be no escape and no
survivors.
I dropped the pitcher and cup amidst my terror. The cup shattered on the floor and the
pitcher spilled all over the carpet. My slippers were drenched and my pride was ripped brutally
from its spot beside my quickening heart. Time seemed to slow as both girls jumped to their feet,
quick to escape the broken glass all over the floor. The rain pounding on the windows and doors,
begging to be let in, suddenly quieted and shied away from in terror. James also stood up but to
grab my shoulder and steady my downfall and the shredding of my dignity into unfixable,
paper-thin shreds. Robert, however, was the only one not to stand. He instead dropped
everything, and for a single second, I believe he would hug or comfort me, as his loving nature
usually would. But then he lifted one, imposingly enormous palm.
"Robert!" James yelled. I hadn't even felt the sting of the slap until after the Earth had returned to
its standard spinning rate, and everyone wasn't in slow motion. "How dare you hit a woman!"
Robert didn't listen to anything my fiancé yelled and instead pushed his chair back so harshly it
fell onto the hardwood floor with a huge bang, causing everyone to flinch. He slammed his large
fists on the table and stared me in the eye with a menacing glare that I had never seen before. We
shared intense eye contact for only a few moments, but I knew at that time that I had messed up
far more than I ever had before. Then, finally, he stormed off upstairs, his bodyweight jerking
and yanking the house back and forth. The girls squealed and screamed, starting a rapid,
rambunctious conversation that I couldn't keep up with.
My eyes filled with tears of shame. Once the movement upstairs ended and the house
calmed, settling back into its foundation, and the rain continued its on-pour, I moved as fast as I
could y to get away from the tragic dinner crime scene. I stepped over the main amount of glass
and tiptoed into the kitchen, my face burning as warmly as those invisible flames had. James
followed quickly behind, taking my face into his hands.
"Are you okay?" he worried, turning my cheeks this way and that. The ashy stings that the sparks
had left were undetected and nonexistent to him, but they still scorched my entire body. The pain
was genuine to me, even if he couldn't see it. I pushed him away with outstretched arms, turning
my head away. I didn't wish for him to watch me cry. If he wouldn't allow me to see his tears, I
would not give him the chance to see mine.
"Yes, I'm fine," I mumbled. I was encased in a glass coffin of guilt and embarrassment that
everyone could detect and laugh at because of my foolish imagination, but I would never tell him
that.
"I'll go clean the glass. You can wash some dishes while you settle down," Robert said calmly,
not at all bothered by the rejection. I was positive that he was used to it. I knew that I shouldn't

14
oppress him, but the only emotion I could process at the time was hostility. He then grabbed a
broom and went back into the dining room.
A few moments later, the girls began to file in one after another with dinner plates. They
stacked them up on the counter. As they went to go get the fully intact cups, I started to fill the
washing basin. The warm water did make me feel better, as it usually caressed and soothed my
skin. Instead, it only made the invisible injuries burn more. The pit in my stomach only
tightened, hardly allowing me to breathe in the stormy air coming in from the open window. I
knew I had made a terrible mistake, but I was sure that I could fix the problem with a simple
apology. The wound on my cheek started to ache a little less the more that I stood passively in
the kitchen, though I noticed the swelling compromising the corner of my right eye.
Reaching up to touch the injury with delicate fingers, I recoiled from my touch. A bruise
would show up within the hour. I didn't hate Robert for what he did and I did not want to get him
in trouble. I truly hated the idea of needing to explain where the harm had come from, so I
started on the story I would make. Perhaps I had tripped down some stairs or ran into a shelf.
Clumsiness would be the perfect cover.
Just as I reached for the next dish, someone grabbed my bicep with a mighty hand. With
a shout and a jerk of my body, the plate shattered on the counter, along with the remainder of my
confidence. Ceramics went shooting across the floor and bouncing off the wall. A few pieces hit
my wet feet and exposed ankles. But I wasn't afraid of the shooting stars that would have stabbed
my eyes or slit open my palms. I instead focused on my main fear, moving my arms in front of
my face, prepared to be scolded.
"I'm sorry."
The simple apology in itself drew my attention. I moved my blockade and looked up at
James. His face had turned bright pink, and he was rubbing the back of his neck, though he didn't
avoid eye contact. His lips twisted with an apologetic smile.
"I didn't think that through. I should have announced my entrance. I would never scare you on
purpose," James rambled. I shook my head, dismissing the accident, bending down to collect the
shards. I didn't return the smile, as I didn't know how to. He had been so kind about the accident,
unlike Robert. I wasn't sure how to feel.
James retrieved the broom again and helped me in comfortable silence. He also aided in
drying the dishes and putting them away while I finished washing them. But, when it was time to
head to bed, we both hesitated, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. I shifted from foot to foot,
glancing around the room as though it was my first time seeing the elegant tiles and hand-carved
counters.
"I'm sorry," James said again. I put up my hand to avoid any further commotion.
"It's fine," I replied. "It wasn't your fault. I got shaken up, that's all." That was the truth.
"When you were pouring water for that kid," he started. "You started to shake. You were afraid,
right? Of Robert?" I was silent for a minute, watching him through conflicted eyes. I wasn't sure
if telling him what I had witnessed was a good idea. I didn't want him to get Robert arrested or
get his kids taken. He loved his children! I thought of lying, telling him I simply had a flashback,

15
but for an unexplainable reason, I nodded. And then the words came spilling out of my house, as
quickly and as fiercely as the rain outside.
"The girls have bruises. Lots of them," I whispered. James nodded and I frowned. He was so
nonchalant about the fact that the pit in my stomach began its familiar burn of resentment. Then
he said, with hands clenched at his sides,
"I saw them too. When they were washing the dishes the other night. I didn't say anything,
though. I thought you knew, with how much time you spent around here even before we moved
in." His face didn't reveal any emotion and, although my irritation wasn't boiling and trying to
tear me apart from the inside anymore, I glared at him. I wanted to know if his stomach burned
with rage or if his mind was afloat in sorrow.
"I found out earlier today," I told him, searching for a droplet of feeling. He stayed quietly
thoughtful, his eyes drifting throughout the room, a sailboat venturing on without its sailer.
"James," I called. He looked my way but didn't respond, as though he was looking for an answer
to this hellhole we now lived. "What are you thinking?"
"Nancy," he sighed, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. "I'm going to America. I can't
stay here. There are too much violence and too little justification. You should come with me. I
know you'll be happier." That was the last thing I wanted to hear come out of his mouth.
I shook my head quickly and pushed past him to rush upstairs to our bedroom. The fact
that James would even suggest leaving Ireland again so soon irked me. This was my home. This
was ​his h​ ome! How anybody could ever imagine leaving behind the lushes hills and the roaring
ocean was beyond me. Soon the farms would be restored and the crops would flourish. The
markets would become rich and prosperous again. I would even get back my family's land after I
made enough money off my sewing work that people would be able to afford again. A smile
grew on my face. It will be shortly. We are soon going to have nothing to worry about.
The grin on my face was replaced by a grimace. Even if all of my hopes were achieved,
that would not change the fact that Robert is abusive. He hit his children multiple times. And he
slapped me. Who is to say he wouldn't do it again? I had never thought of the love of my life as a
mad and terrifying man. Of course, Robert had always been emotional, but he had never taken
his anger out on me. The new revelation from dinner felt as though I had entered a whole other
world. One filled with fear and resentment for the man who was supposed to love me more than
anything. All because I spilled some water and broke a cup.
However, James had the same experience as me. He had seen the bruises and watched
Robert hurt me without remorse. I had broken a plate in front of my fiance. The shards went
everywhere and could have hurt one of us. It may have even already injured him, though I didn't
check, and he didn't say anything about it. But, instead of raising a hand to me, he apologized
and helped me fix my mistake. He took responsibility for his actions. Although I was prepared
for the punishment, he accepted that I only jumped and shattered the ceramic because he snuck
up on me. Robert had the same likelihood of peace that James had, but he chose violence. He
decided to slap me.

16
My mind was torn, a battle raging in my soul. One part of me roared and screamed to stay with
Robert, brandishing swords that claimed that he wouldn't hurt me again and he had always been
there for me in the past. But the other side of my consciousness reasoned that James had also
always been around. He knew me from my childhood. And the shields of reasons pointed out
that he had never hit me and likely never would.
I had never thought of going to America, but after realizing that the calm, rational section of my
being craved to the violence, starvation, and poverty behind, immigrating became the only
solution rattling around in my brain. It hit the corners of my mind and tried to rationalize with
me. Surely moving wasn't that bad. James's parents had gone and were evidently thriving. They
had sent us letters detailing the beauty and community in the United States. They lived off of the
coast of South Carolina, in Charleston, and seemed very happy. James always dreamed of going
with them, but they wanted him to have a stable life in Ireland with the farm. But, now that we
no longer owned our property, he was ready to leave.
'Maybe,' I thought, 'I should be ready too.'
By the time James came into the simplistic guest bedroom, sunlight was filtering through the
windows, casting iridescent silhouettes across the room. They bounced and played around with
each other, directing my eyes as they fooled around. James watched for a moment before
packing the small bag he had brought to Robert's house. I tore my eyes from the antics of the
shadows and watched him curiously. Finally, when he had shoved all of his clothes, a whole two
shirts, two pairs of trousers, a coat, and pair of shoes, and three books into the suitcase, he looked
up to meet my eyes.
"You're welcome to come with me," he said. "I'm going to get the tickets now. I know a man in
town who is selling them. I have just enough money leftover for two." His face was hopeful,
though his eyes told me he had already given up. After what had happened last night, he had
realized that my feelings towards him hadn't changed much.
"I thought we had no money left," I muttered, sitting up.
"I was saving just enough for two tickets, Nancy. I've been planning this. There is nothing left
for us here," he said, casting his eyes over at my empty suitcase.
"Robert is here," I responded. I stood up, getting out of bed. "And the kids."
"Those children aren't yours," he reasoned.
"And Robert isn't my fiance, but I still love him," I snapped, stepping towards him. I wasn't sure
what I was planning. Maybe I was going to hit him and maybe doing that would make me feel
better. But James didn't move; he just shrugged. I knew that if I raised my hand, he would take
whatever blow I landed.
"You won't have any fiance if you stay here," he replied. I stopped in my tracks and stared at
him. He was right, for the hundredth time. He knew what was best for us and how to achieve it. I
didn't want to believe it, but we were in a crater, and he was trying to dig us out, even if we left
behind some people.
I craved for a reaction or emotion. I wanted James to care more. I wished that he would
not even think of departing without me. My heart yearned for a man who would tear up at the

17
thought of leaving me behind and get on his knees, clasping his hands together, to beg me to
come. Even if he were to get angry and throw his hands up in the air and stomp out in a fit, I
would feel better. Just enough to show me that my choice mattered to him.
But instead, he was just as lost as I was. He had the same hollow eyes and messy hair
from when we were younger when he watched his parents sail away.h The same hunched figure
from whenever he lost his job and thought we were going to starve. And the same hopelessness
that has been inhabiting my body and soul ever since my parents died. As much as I would
refuse to say it out loud, James understood what I was going through and only wanted the best
for us.
"I'll go with you," I finally sighed, shrinking to the ground to collect my suitcase as though the
sudden sorrow that overcame me rendered my legs unusable. "Go get the tickets. I need to say
goodbye." James nodded once and left his bag in the bedroom, a sure sign to show me that he
would return. He left the house and walked briskly through the thin morning dew, a dream of the
future lifting some of the weight off of his shoulders.
Within the hour, I packed two pairs of clothes, a blanket, and a few items I had brought
from home, such as my mother's jewelry. I woke the girls, both tangled in blankets with a nest of
messy hair, to kiss their foreheads and tell them to be good for their father. They didn't pay me
much mind and grumbled a response before going straight back to sleep. I also entered Robert's
bedroom but just stood in the doorway, watching him snore. I felt like a stranger, snooping in his
house, leeching off his resources that should be aiding his children. The plush bed and familiar
bed frame carvings of proud birds and flourishing flowers were a distant memory, much like the
peaceful, happy remembrances I once had with the love of my life.
Perhaps he would follow me to America and we would create a new life. Or write me
love letters to beg me to come back. Hopefully, he would change his ways, just for me, and I
could come back.
But even with the newfound faith fresh in my mind, I turned and took the suitcases
downstairs without a word. Had I entered the bedroom to say goodbye or hug him, I may have
never found the courage to leave. So, heart heavy and spirits far below my feet, I waited for
James to return and take me away from my only home.
Though doubts and uncertainties pursued us, James and I walked, each with a suitcase in
hand, for two hours to the next town over. We followed the shore, filling our shoes with warm
consoling sand. The sun shone over us like a beacon of hope, though its rays stung me to the core
where I still regretted leaving Robert behind. The shells that were once alluring now cast me
away, stabling at my feet with every chance they got, scolding me for giving up. The ocean
rushed at me, trying to push me back home, telling me I should turn around, that the moment I
stepped foot on an immigration boat, my life and happiness would sink to the bottom of the sea.
But I strode on. Although the entire universe pleaded that I not leave, I would have followed
James to the end of the world, just with the tiniest rosebud of hope blossoming between our
spirits.

18
 After we had walked further than I had ever been before, several barques rose out of the
water and caressed the sky. The three masks on each one loomed, poking at the clouds, ignoring
the bustle on the docks and decks. When we approached, nobody moved out of the way or even
bestowed eye contact. Everyone went about their business, yelling to each other and throwing
luggage around. A long line of men and women alike, handcuffed and chained together, filed
onto each ship. Each had hollow cheeks and distant eyes. Nobody seemed comfortable or excited
in the slightest. James led me to the back of one of the lines of criminals, and we stood, swaying
on the dock, shivering in the morning breeze. Finally, when I couldn't take the anticipation
anymore, and lurching nausea shifted into my head, I turned to James.
"Why are there prisoners getting on the same boat as we are?" I asked. Some of my shiverings
weren't due to the cold. He had been rubbing my arms to warm me up, but he knew very well
that he couldn't send the uncertainty away. His eyes slowly trailed from the unsteady railings on
the ship to my fearful shimmering eyes.
"They're being transported, same as us. Those people just going against their will," he explained.
I frowned, the bubbling in my mind popping with beads of dark thoughts of being stolen from or
even stabbed with a makeshift shiv. James wrapped an arm around me and I shied away from the
touch. "Don't worry. Most of them are going for petty crimes. Stealing, mostly. Clothes, food,
money. Anything that anyone could get their hands on to survive. We won't be anywhere near
them."
His explanation made me feel a little better and my overwhelming shivering lessened. We
boarded the ship without a problem. A few crew members looked at us strangely, as the tickets
we had were handmade and crude, but they allowed us on anyway. Not many average citizens
were immigrating, it seemed, as there were only a few other people who carried luggage and
weren't chained up. James led the way to where we would be staying, following the herd who
followed one of the annoyed-looking crewmates. Down a set of stairs and through a corridor was
a long cabin with bunk beds filling the walls and people swarming the open floor, much like a
crab trap I had seen fishermen use. The sense of being trapped for consumers' benefit ricocheted
around my skull and forced a fierce headache to magnify all of my worries. James and I fought
our way through the bustling crowd and found two empty bunks, side by side so that our heads
would be facing each other. We placed our bags on top of the thin sheeting to claim them.
Further through our cabin, deeper into the boat was the prison, complete with prison bars. The
criminals were shuffled through our place of rest and into their cells. There were no hammocks
for convicts to sleep on; they slept instead on benches. But, unfortunately, there weren't enough
places for all of the chained men and women. So, as a solution, since there were only about
twenty willing immigrating occupants, the crew members put them in the empty bunks in our
cabin. Some were handcuffed to the beds, some were set free once the boat left the docks. Where
could they escape to? The ocean?
Being so close to all of the prisoners made my hands shake again. Cold sweat popped up on my
brow, snickering at my uncomfortable shifting in the crowded cabin. All through the night, I
hardly slept and stared instead at the felons snoring in beds across from me. Every once in and a

19
while, I would glance up at James's face to check that he was still breathing and hadn't been
stabbed or suffocating. Not that I wouldn't notice as it happened. I was so jumpy to every small
movement. If someone reached under their pillow, suddenly I saw a toothbrush sharpened to a
point, waged to stab someone in the throat and end their journey early. But they were only
flipping their pillow over to the cool side. Had there been windows in the cabin, I most likely
would have jumped out one to escape the thick, frightening atmosphere.
During lunch the next day, I was horrified to find that the convicts not in cells joined us when we
went to eat. Lobscouse, a watery vegetable stew, and burgoo, a cheap porridge, were served to
us. The seating in the stuffy dining room was so close that I could feel the people on either of my
sides on the long, skinny benches swallowing and gagging through their meal. That night, I slept
hardly a full hour.
The following week went by the same. I was mistaken for a female prisoner without chains or
handcuffs quite a few times. During the first occurrence, one of the crew members saw me
leaning over the railing, admiring some dolphins that had floated up beside us, and grabbed me
roughly from behind. He held my arms up against my back so that I couldn't get away and started
yelling aggressively at someone else, probably another crewmate, to open the coal hold. I tried to
explain to him that I was a passenger, but he growled back,
"You know the rules! If you don't obey orders and stay in the cabin, you get thrown into the hold.
Keep talking back to me and I'll shave your head for misbehaving!" His threats caused me to
scream and struggle, stalling him long enough for James to come and see what the commotion
was. He convinced the crew member that I was a passenger and not a criminal. I was then
released, apologized to, and given an extra blanket to sleep with for the night. However, the
luxury was short-lived, as a pregnant lady asked for it the next night and I couldn't find it in
myself to refuse her.
Only a day or two away from America, I stood and left the dining cabin during dinner. I couldn't
suffer being in there a second longer, shoving the same watery stew down my throat that we had
been eating for days. James knew better than to follow me. I had hardly been speaking to him the
entire trip. I regret leaving Ireland and he knew that. He knew that I slept not a wink at night and
I hated the idea of finding a new home. He had been trying to give me space and time, but every
time I saw his face, I got angrier with him and myself. Even when I checked him for injuries or
wounds at night, I hated myself for caring and even more for relying on him.
"I miss you, Robert," I told the serene sea as I stood on deck, though, much like everyone else on
board, it didn't care. "I'll come back for you. Just wait."
The night was quiet, as most of the crew members had gone to eat with the rest of the
passengers. The crescent moon flirtatiously winked above, signaling for a still ocean to drift us
the rest of the way to our destination. The stars pointed and stared as tears surprised me and ran
down my cheeks, mocking me. The spray of salt from the water didn't help either, as all it did
was aid the pain of my body and soul.
As I was about to turn around and head back to the cabin that I hated so much, a hand
covered my mouth, and another arm wrapped around my waist, squeezing until I could hardly

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breathe. With a gasp, my eyes widened in realization, and I struggled against the hold to no avail.
Greasy hair tickled my neck as I was half dragged and half carried to the creaky deck opening
that dropped steeply into the boat's hold. Digging my nails into my captive's arms, I kicked at his
legs and bit at his hand. But, as we got closer, I squeezed my eyes shut. This was happening.
There was nobody to save me. Even when somebody noticed I was missing, I could be dead or
humiliated far before they found me. This is what I deserved for leaving Ireland and the love of
my life.
The arm around me tightened as the man started to descend the steps, thundering steps
announcing my doom. I tried to push back and trip him, though nothing seemed to work. I
screamed into his hand, but the sound came out muffled and pathetic. He chuckled, a cruel,
petrifying sound, and kept moving forward. The darkness of the area below grabbed at my hair
and clothes, pulling me further inside. Once I could no longer feel the ocean pulling and pushing
the wind around my body, I about gave us, allowing my body to go limp.
The man stumbled once, then twice, trying to hold me up. Another set of footsteps started up
behind him. My capturer grumbled and then grunted in pain as something hard hit the back of his
head with a loud crack and he crumbled on the stairs. Already being limp, I collapsed right on
top of him.
Standing up as fast as I could, I steadied myself and held my arms in front of my body to protect
myself from attackers. But no attempt was made. I was not hit or grabbed or even yelled at.
When my eyes could cut through the darkness, I finally saw James's frightened face. Turning
around, the humongous man passed out on the stairs began to form a halo of frothy blood. I
turned back to James, who was shaking just as much as I was with adrenaline.
"Are you okay?" he asked, panting. He held a large wooden plank in his hand. He was shaking,
though standing firmly, his two tree trunk-sized legs planted solidly on the stairway. I nodded
slowly and he dropped his weapon, lurching forward to hug me.
"You saved me," I whispered, practically in awe. I had never seen James as a hero or savior of
any type. He always tried his hardest to make me happy, but there had never been a need to keep
me safe. We lived in a secure area with great people. I hoped to the Lord above that America was
more like Ireland than the cursed criminal-infused immigration boat. James nodded, head still
buried in my shoulder, arms sheltering me from all forces of nature and man. Though my legs
were weak and my arms felt numb, I hugged him back, allowing my breath to settle with his as
we both connected on a level neither of us had felt before.
James took me back to the cabin after we had both calmed down. We left the savage,
which I refused to look at again, on the stairway into the hold. My fiance sat with me on his bunk
and held me throughout the night. I didn't sleep again, and neither did James, but I at least knew I
was safe in his arms. We didn't move for the full and final day of our journey. It wasn't until the
sun showed through the cracks in the wood and people started shouting with joy did we leave the
bed area to go back on deck.
Out in the distance, only roughly an hour away, were the slithering wooden snakes that
would allow our boat to complete its journey. The coast carried on for miles out of sight, dipping

21
in and out playfully. The waves crashed against the shore where people mulled around, either
playing, working, or waiting on the immigrant boats. The sight was oddly similar to one I would
often see back home, in Ireland. The familiarity soothed my rapid heart.
"Are you ready?" James asked, quietly enough so that only I heard. I nodded.
"I'm ready," I replied because, for once, I was. America may not have been my home, but Ireland
was no longer the place for me either. My home was gone. I lost my plantation, parents, and the
love of my life, who wasn't so loving. And the new land I was arriving in was foreign and
strange. It may even be as dangerous if not more as the boat had been. But throughout it all, I had
one maintaining factor: my fiance. James was my home.
He kept me safe for years and made sure I had the best. Even when I was with my affair, he
didn't complain or argue with me. He was quiet and gentle, always in the background throughout
our entire relationship. Though he wasn't emotional and didn't tell me every single detail of his
life, he was consistent. I knew he would never hurt me and would let me go if I wanted to. He
was ready to sacrifice everything for me. And now that I knew that, life would be so much
easier.
Four months later, I stood in the waves, staring off towards where I was sure the magnificent
plains and cliffs of Ireland lay, just beyond reach. For mere moments several times, I had thought
of going back. But James's parents set us up with a small house on the shore and a little money to
get back on our feet. My fiance began to work at a cotton plantation. We had agreed to wait a
little longer to get married to make sure we were both happy with the arrangement. But now, I
was positive James was the one for me. I was ready to settle down and have a big family with
him in our new home. He had proved to me that Ireland was just a place, not a family member,
and I didn't need it to live happily.
It helped to be close to the water. I could leave through our backdoor and have my feet buried in
the comforting sand within a few yards. The friendly spray of the water and alluring shells
bumping into my feet kept my days exciting and fun. If I closed my eyes, it was almost as if I
was on the shore of Ireland again. I could see the bustling docks from the section of the beach I
spent the most time on, along the coast of swaying brick and concrete buildings. Chimneys
dotted the horizon as men and women alike rushed to get work done. Life had become calm for
me as I spent my time watching the world pass by and rethinking what I wanted for my future.
As I swirled some water around and watched children chase each other around, kicking sand into
the breeze, I decided that would be my next step. To expand our family. Perhaps I would take up
sewing again and teach Charleston's kids how to make a little extra money. I had so many
choices. I no longer had to worry about starving or going into poverty as long as we were careful.
A breath of fresh air filled my lungs as James waved to me through the kitchen window. I smiled
and returned the gesture. Tonight I would tell him my idea. Of course, he would agree and allow
me to do whatever. If I told him I wanted to go back to Ireland without him, he would help me
pay for a ticket. He knew he didn't have to be emotional to win me over. He only had to be kind
and understanding. As long as James never hurt me and always offered his support, I would
never turn my back on him or leave him again.

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He truly is the love of my life.

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