(The following entry is hastily, if not recklessly, scratched across the page, the edges of the parchment discolored and slightly wrinkled, as if once smudged with sweat.)
Lord, help me. I cannot sleep, for fear of returning to that horrible dream.
When I close my eyes, I am laying on that ragged cot where Father Matheer had drawn his final breath. My legs will not move. My right arm below the elbow itches beyond reason, and yet I feel nothing there. I try to call out, but I can manage no more than a pathetic, wheezing breath. Every slight movement sends pain coursing through my raw nerves, but somehow, I know I must get up and leave this place, that I cannot stay. There are footfalls echoing in the chapel somewhere…
I discover that I have the use of my left arm. Slowly, painfully, I draw it out from under the heavy woolen blankets that cover me. The room is dark, and I fumble as I reach out, knocking over a wooden cup and sending it clattering across the stone floor. The effort is too much for me, and I pause to catch my breath. I hear an odd rattling sound, and, belatedly, I realize that it is coming from my own throat. With dawning horror, I force an unsteady hand to my face. My fingers meet something rough and wet, and in my panic, I barely feel the terrible, searing pain.
I try to scream for help, but my mouth produces a gurgle instead. It sounds laughably like the noise of a child. There is something warm streaking down the side of my face, across the cheek that has not been burned away. What have I done? Oh, Lord, this cannot be. I think perhaps this might be my end, alone, like this. I close my good eye and wait.
Soft footfalls, the rustle of skirts. With effort, I reopen my eye, though I do not know how much time has passed. I smell the delicate scent of flowers long before I see her face. Who is this woman, who has come to watch me die? It takes every ounce of my being to turn toward that achingly familiar scent. Blonde curls fill my vision, and sad grey eyes come into focus, illuminated by the unpredictable flicker of a candle’s light. You? Why are you here? I don’t want you to see me like this. No, not here, not now. It is too much…
“You’ve disappointed me,” I hear her say softly. There is disgust in her voice, unmistakable. “You’ve disappointed us all. We could have been happy here, but I can never love you now. Not like this.” My vision fills with salty tears that burn my wounded face. I can no longer see, but I hear her rise and walk away. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls.
I am sorry. So very sorry. Please… forgive me.