self para. 002
where: The Dempsey Country House; Dublin, Ireland
when: Winter 1798 (18 years of age)
trigger warnings: depictions of stress, depictions of depression, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of blood, mentions of menstruating
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The world had filtered itself in black and white. Rain poured in sheets, whispers filled the halls, and weakened thoughts replaced action and ambition.
Her voice grew hollow in the classroom. Mimicking joy without the presence of it. Repeating sentiments without the urgency of someone with a desire for change, a plea to love what she was fighting for. But what was she fighting for, truly?
The children hadn’t noticed, at first. Not until their work was returning with no notes. Marks and cross outs, numbers. It was cold, detached. The makings of a fine teacher? Certainly. But the makings of a teacher with Ceara’s smile and charming wit? Well, the difference was startling in that regard.
Home was the clearest sign that something hadn’t been quite right. Pillows strewn about the small room, books half opened on random pages, thick parchment stained with tears. A single letter laid across the crumpled sheets one day. Lying on the vanity another. Folded neatly behind a tear-wetted pillow most of the time.
And always amidst the vacant chaos was her. Donning nothing more than a wrinkled nightdress, hair undone, and face splotchy. She looked every bit the young girl she was. Every bit the vision of heartache and grief rolled into a pouted lip and fluttering lashes beneath full cheeks.
Even her little sister, at the bright age of twelve, took note of Ceara’s shelled persona. For once, she sought out instead of ignoring. Plead her case for concern and offered hazelnut soup in exchange for a bit of time. Some days it worked, other days it didn’t.
And when those days didn’t work, Ceara would depart to the nearest shore and sit in the water. There were no concerns about ruining her best skirts and nicest dresses, as those were trivial concerns. What did clothes matter when her heart had been turned upside down?
But one night, as she mindlessly marked her calendar, everything grew sharp into focus. A red circle pinpointed a date. January 29th.
Three weeks ago.
Her courses had not come.
Sitting straighter, she counted the dates passed and a cloud of darkness shrouded her. This was not a fear she had ever concerned herself with. Not when the risks she took were not ones she was taking on her own. But it had been a month since things ended with Dominic. There was no other man she could go to and accuse or worry with.
Placing a hand on her lower stomach, nightgown crumpled between her fingers, the past ten months flew past her in a whirlwind of chaos and longing. Every moment where she could spot his decision, her own mistakes.
Had all of that culminated and burst into flames for something else to come of it? A child? His child. What would he say? If it were true, if her courses would not be coming, would he claim the child as his own? Take them in and raise them better than she could?
Or would he resent her for what her body had taken to? He had gotten rid of her, all for a child to act as a reminder of what they had done?
A reminder. A blend of him and her that would be all hers.
A light poured into her private quarters as the black clouds gave way to the sun's efforts to fester on her news. The bitterrsweet news.
The difference in Ceara was palatable following this revelation. She hadn't told her mother, who grew increasingly concerned by the erratic and isolated behavior. She hadn't told her little sister, who would be too young to understand the gravity of such a situation. And she hadn't dared telling her father, who would go after the marquess with no regard for his title.
But she held herself in a higher regard. Lifted her chin high, donned a smile. She had her own secret, and intended to carry it with her until her belly was round with the evidence. Dominic needn't know. He'd made his stance clear on her place in his life.
She didn't belong. But the child she was sure she carried would, even if their mother was her.
The children noticed. The margin notes and crude drawings had returned on their graded work. She spoke with a familiar joy that matched the sweetness present in her soul again.
Her little sister brought hazelnut soup, and every day, Ceara ate it with her. They shared bread, shared time. For once, they were sisters. True sisters that spoke with prose, not venom. And in that time, her body began to relax. With her mind at some form of curated peace, she could survive.
Until one morning, she awoke with a peculiar feeling between her legs. Bringing a hand down, her fingers came up stained red. Her stomach dropped and she scrambled to sit upright.
"No," she whispered. Ceara crawled across her bed as the small spot of blood stared back at her. A cramp ran up her spine and spread throughout her stomach, throbbing and horribly familiar. And then another. But none like she had read about pregnancy. She grasped at the sheet, as if clawing the wish back to her with bloodied fingernails. As if that would make what she accepted a reality. A shaky gasp left her lips as salty tears fell, breath quickening in a panic.
"No, no! No! Please!"
There was no child to be had. No evidence that they'd been together. There was nothing, but a crying girl tearing apart bloodied sheets and a ruined nightgown. The same splotchy face thinking she had more to lose than she did, but no less bereaved.
Nearby, the sea roared and the rain began again.
