it's not often that I find myself... becoming one(1) with a /minor/ character in a show, a non recurring one. but something about amy bartlett (or isabella york)(or the unnameable woman she was forced to become) is making me want to scream and cry and rip my heart out, in a way not many things always do
i had been watching violet evergarden for the past two weeks or so, and the show, by itself, had already become an irreplaceable, integral memory for me. it became so so important to me, in such a short time, with every single thing it stood for,,,, human connections, war, empathy, memories, peace, violence, remembrance, burning, words, language, thoughts, feelings, desires, love, so, so so much grief, but such devastatingly greater love..... something about the innate humanness of the show got me in a way nothing else has, and it became one of the .. safest pieces of media ever for me. at the centre of my overwhelming intensity of emotions, of fondness and love stood violet evergarden herself, who was forced to grow up so quickly yet... actually I'll talk about her later, because as much space as violet has in my heart and will for evermore, this post is not (just) about her
and then I finish the series and I'm filled with this deep sense of grief, but a deep sense of love. and so I start this little movie and here comes isabella york, the deuterogonist who at first glance seemed to me like the normal rebellious girl, born in a high class family in a high functioning society with the crushing expectations of patriarchy typical of the Victorian era that the show is supposedly set in, placed on her shoulders- a harrowing narrative for sure, but nothing new, nothing we haven't seen before, something we could primarily sympathise with, rather than empathise. you expect her to be like the typical, common place rebel, who finds herself strangled with these. you're convinced that there's no way violet would be able to "tame" her, and she'd give violet a world altering speech about the confines of the nobility being too constricting for her, and she'd give her a small kiss and fly away into the setting sun, with violet watching her go with a half smile on her face
except
except none of this actually happens.
you watch, and you're instead hit with the ..... heartwrenching tragedy, that isabella york is. you watch her be tamed, you watch her become increasingly lady like, you watch as the resigned set of her shoulders becomes wearier. you watch her fall so desperately, so hopelessly in love.
you watch, and you start getting restless, because there's no way right? you convince yourself, there's no way. there's no way they'd keep throwing in the scenes of her before in her ragamuffin clothes except to highlight that the person in present is far at home in them, that past image could never be comfortable, be One with the silks and satins and ribbons and bows right? there's no way they showcase the love, the heartbreaking love she had for her little sister unless they planned to reunite them immediately after, with a little help and push from violet right? there's no way they show her falling so much in love, just for it to go... nowhere right? they wouldn't show her in a prison, just for her to never escape... right?
right?
and then you watch, keep watching with a pounding heart, and you see violet and her bidding adieu, and you see four years passing without a word from her, and you see her sister growing up, and you see her sister yearning for her, and you see her at end and you see her .confined. imprisoned . still. and even though the movie ends on a happy note, you go and look her up, you look up the light novels, and you search frantically, looking for some news, any news of her.
and that's when it hits you. the absolute tragedy that amy bartlett is, the absolute tragedy she's been turned into. that's when it hits you that some people aren't like violet, who've been saved so thoroughly and wholely (as joyful as I'm about that). that's when it hits you that some people are just dealt a ... rough, miserable hand by God. and they end up hating him for it.
like,, idk I don't even know i genuinely don't know what about her got me so bad, that I'm sitting here with my head pounding and loads of work to complete, but instead im just . sitting here with my heart feeling like it's carved out of stone.
i think it's mostly the never ending grief of womanhood, the heartwrenching pain of a denied queerness.
like, i read the two extra stories dedicated to her and both of them just. stuck a chord in me, a chord that made my very soul flinch, shudder in agony. it was the absolute hopelessness i think. it was this i think
ORESTES: This was always going to happen. She's been dead since the beginning.
Aeschylus, The Oresteia
like,,,, idk idk man I wanna cry so bad, i think it genuinely was this, a large part of it was this; she'd never been meant to be the rebel girl, who'd find love and acceptance and freedom whilst getting to love her sister and the girl she adored and herself. it was never about fighting, breaking free.
her fate had been set in stone since the moment her "father" had appeared out of nowhere to restake his claim on an abandoned child and asked her to partake in a monstrous deal, a deal where she'd been dealt the losing hand even before it had been stuck.
her three months with violet weren't supposed to be the grand, life altering point paving the path to her freedom, you realised. it was just supposed to be her reprieve, her... noon. that she'd forever clasp, unseen, hidden, and that would have to be pried from her cold, dead hands.
i don't know, even after writing this much, i feel like I haven't gotten to the essence of it, of why amy bartlett makes me want to sob my heart out, why i relate to her more than I have to anyone ever. i can't, i Cant get over the unfairness of it all, about why She alone was dealt a miserable hand, why she couldn't have been saved like the Postal company saved violet and like she (and then violet) saved taylor and how she again saved the couple who had been thrown out of her husband's room and ...
god, something,,,,.just something about the two chapters about her is still shattering me, devouring my very heart where i sit. like,,,, this girl, this brave, tragic girl, who should've been able to fall in love with a girl, her... her violet blossom, should've been able to tell her, should've been able to live with her, and her sister whom she adored and who adored her so, so heartbreakingly much, and lived comfortably with them, lived in their small house where nobody would have been lonely and nobody would have needed saving and the sun would shine and the world wouldn't be a terrible place and if she were to be asked if it should end, she wouldn't have had to say it should, and god would have dealt her a much softer hand for which she would never seek revenge and she would live forever in her noon, basking in the loud laughter and quiet smile of the two women, one whose red unruly hair she'd dry and brush for all of time to come, and the other for whom she'd tirelessly pick out thousands of violets and place countless flower crowns in her velvet hair, the two women who were her whole world.
she was instead fated to live as a Woman, a woman through and through, representation of the absolute,,,, misery that womanhood can be (even more so as a queer individual), a woman cut out for suffering the moment she was born, a woman with a terrible childhood, and- just as she started feeling like a child, like she belonged, to have it wrenched from her grasp, to watch, unseeing as her sister begged her not to go, to trade her very life in exchange for her sister's, to donne on dresses and gowns and be commodified, to meet a girl whom she'd probably love more than she would ever anyone else in this lifetime, to play with her hair and hold hands and swing and swing around and fall in love just because she was walking alongside her, and then to have it once again wrenched from her grasp because again, this wasn't something meant to last was it? and then continue and be married and forever, for ever carry the atlantean weight that every, every woman is forced to carry, especially in those times to have been gifted a forever cursed existence, to be so lonely, to want to be saved, so so much but knowing that no one was coming ever, to have precisely this be your tragedy, to forever seek revenge by saving others because she would never be saved, to live with an abusive man, to spend her whole entire life stretched ahead of her, vast and so tragically unending, struggling to make do with the handfuls of love she'd had, to force it to be enough, for it to not nearly be enough, to, be so full of love so as to make her sister and her visits her entire noon as she grew up and older, to forever live as someone she wasn't because she'd given up her life long ago, to love someone she couldn't, she shouldn't have had to.
a woman meant to love only for a short while before having it yanked from her, from her chest from her heart, a love that still raged in her, but she'd forever, ever after, continue to live with the memory of that love, the sheer force of it. to remember violet longer than she knew her. to be so in love, but to be okay even if the other never finds out, for all eternity.
claudia tells violet "you haven't realised that everything you've ever done has sparked a flame that is now burning you up. one day you'll stop burning and understand, and for the first time, you'll notice the burn marks." and I think amy bartlett's tragedy is that she never. stops burning.
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There was noon on that day.
Isabella York and the Spring Sunshine Filtered Through Leaves
—Cloudy day with soft breeze.
I have early mornings and late nights in me. Hardly any noon.
In the morning, while listlessly getting up, I make sure to live my life hoping that something will begin. Nothing ever happens, but even then, I live while thinking, “Today’s definitely gonna be the day.” In general, that’s how my days are.
Noon is literally a eulogy in my life. It’s when I feel happy being around people, having fun and wanting to savor that moment forever and ever, wishing for it to last an eternity. Like, “O time, do stop. Everything is so beautiful and precious.”
At night, I’m distressed. Anything that catches my eyes is a nuisance and I want to destroy it all. I feel irritated and filled with a desire for ruin, wanting to hurry and end this life of mine, to disappear like popping bubbles. “You, and you too – be gone,” I’d wish.
My life is just morning and night. I’ve only had a taste of noon a handful of times.
My life already had intense ups and downs in the first place. I didn’t have a father ever since I was born and my mother was murdered by a thug. I, a weak living creature that was supposed to be protected, grew up without any protection... until my body completely developed into one that could no longer be considered a child’s. After a repetition of so many nights, I arrived at my current self.
Amy Bartlett.
Isabella York.
And now, I had yet another surname.
There’s only night going on inside me. Both my life and my emotions are too much of a mess. I’ve never once attempted to give them a clean form.
This world that was so unkind to me should disappear.
But once I came to know noon, I found myself thinking that maybe I’ll get to bathe in sunlight one more time. That I might experience another beautiful moment. What an idiot I am. I’m sure it’s never gonna happen again.
These are my morning records as I wait for noon.
—Loudly whistling winds, sunny.
I’ve grown used to writing on this diary, but come to think of it, I haven’t written down the reason why I started using it. I also have to write stuff to read over again someday, after I turn into an old lady.
I got a diary with a lock to celebrate my birthday. Getting a diary as a gift was something unsettling to react to. Maybe because I only had dicey feelings for the person who gave it to me.
Who the dicey person is? The one who plays the role of my spouse: my honorable husband.
By the looks of it, he was deeply sorry for forgetting my birthday.
The man who performs the role of my husband is from a family worthy of someone like “Isabella York”. He’s supposedly a diligent and prudent spouse, who received a high-grade education and is far apart from me in age.
That aside, is he stupid or something?
I often ask myself this question in regards to that old man, despite how sorry I feel about it. I have to laugh.
My birthday was two months ago, dear husband. You were far too late.
Besides, I’m not the type to faithfully keep a diary. If you knew me better, you wouldn’t have thought of giving me one.
Let’s see... if it were my little sister, she would’ve given me colorful wildflowers. Decorating the dinner table with them might not fill up my stomach, but looking at them would make me feel at ease.
If it were my violet blossom, she surely would’ve given me ribbons to tie my hair with. After all, she always arranged my hair for me. Ever so smoothly, with her artificial fingers – she was such a skilled person.
Honestly, if I were to receive anything from the only two women I’ve ever loved, I’d be overjoyed even if they just gave me a tuft of grass from somewhere in the area.
That he was the one who gave me this diary was probably a big factor as to why I couldn’t be sincerely happy about it. That’s what I thought after self-analyzing this subtle feeling.
But, well, he didn’t have any bad intentions. The fact that he had gifted me with a diary of beautiful biding, in spite of not knowing what to buy for the much younger girl who played the role of his wife, was proof of his effort. He had already purchased clothes and jewelry for me at the time of our marriage, and he probably thought that this would be suitable of a gloomy girl who was always secluded in her bedroom at the estate. In any case, I would’ve preferred a book.
My honorable husband only acts as a spouse whenever he suddenly remembers to do so. In a way, he must have a feeling of obligation for taking me as his bride.
He locks his own wife up in the mansion and lets a lover whom he’s apparently had since before our marriage frequent his home. His barely existing conscience probably hurt because of that.
You don’t have to mind me, though. I don’t care about you either.
We both sold our souls in exchange for something. He got himself a bloodline of nobility and connections. And I got myself a means to protect the little girl whom I love most in the world. The two of us sealed a contract because there were things that we wanted. If I were to say it, we’re a pair that managed to get their hands on something even at the cost of our own souls.
We just happen to have one thing in common, but we don’t like each other in the slightest. We can never be a couple.
That, we already know.
I call my husband “old man” in my head and I think he’s probably nicknamed me “shitty brat” in his. We don’t get along. We were also raised in different ways. Our conversations don’t mesh.
When passing each other, we confirmed our respective intentions. As in, “It doesn’t seem that we’ll grow to like each other at all. If that’s how it is, then why don’t we become a make-pretend couple, plain and simple?”
We didn’t have to make any effort to love one another. We just had to coexist. That was the only point we agreed on.
Still, I wonder if wanting to keep appearances is a thing for aristocratic men.
The result of what he came up with as a gift for his wife and accomplice was a diary. Old man, there must’ve been something a bit better than that... like a book. A book would’ve been fine. I’d rather have a book.
Regardless, I had experienced growing up in poverty until a certain point, so I never want to let anything go to waste. Therefore, I’m here secluded in my bedroom, pen in hand.
My husband also gave me a peacock feather pen. I like this one. The ink is a pretty blue. A stunning blue. Blue like the eyes of a certain beauty. My favorite color.
Speaking of which, it’s been quite a while since I last wrote her a letter, I think.
Violet. Violet Evergarden.
When writing it in blue ink, the name becomes even more beautiful.
My violet blossom. My maid. My secret Auto-Memories Doll. My friend.
She’s probably forgotten about me already. I’m hopeless right now. I can’t write any letters.
I haven’t replied to her even though it’s my turn, so no new letters from Violet have arrived either. Ever since I got married, I’ve had no idea what to write about.
Maybe because I didn’t want her to find out how I was now.
Of course I wouldn’t. I don’t want to let the girl I like know how my married life is going. I don’t want her to learn that I married someone I’m not in love with or that I’m suffering.
“S’up, Violet. I’m doing horribly.” – What would I gain from writing her something like that?
Aah, Taylor. I want to see you.
But that’s impossible, isn’t it? I get it.
—Warm day with gentle breeze.
Quite a few days have passed since the last time I wrote here. I feel a tad amused whenever I reread this thing, so I guess I’m gonna keep doing it for a little while.
I tried going out into the garden for a bit today.
I usually don’t step out of my room. I even ask for my meals to be brought to my bedroom. When my husband comes over, we eat together at times in order to keep appearances, but the air around us feels like a father and daughter who have been estranged for many years while reminiscing to their home, so we avoid each other.
It was a warm day, so the wind felt nice. It’s not as great as the academy’s rose garden, but this mansion’s garden is beautiful too.
I remembered that I’m living a life in which I don’t have to touch the earth, so I tentatively grabbed a fistful of it. I would’ve switched over to a good mood if nobody had talked to me just like that... but after I spent a while staring intently at the flower beds, the gardener showed up.
“Madam, please look as much as you wish. If there is anything wrong, I shall fix it,” the gardener said, looking serious and nervous.
Is there such a thing as fixing or not fixing when it comes to gardens? It’s fine the way it is.
The silence was painful. I asked him a question because there was a flower that I was curious about, and perhaps he was happy about this, as he excitedly started giving me a specialist-like explanation on it. “Crap,” I thought. He was a chatterbox.
It’s at times like these that I can truly feel I don’t like dealing with people. Whenever I have to listen to someone talking non-stop, I feel like I’m being used as an outlet for something. I should just hear them out and have fun with it. But I find myself suffocated and wanting to run away instead.
As I kept on nodding with a strained smile, the elderly butler who manages the estate gave me a chance to cut the talk short since my tea was ready.
The gardener seemed down. He was young, so he probably wanted someone to compliment his work. I left the garden, went to my room and, after drinking the tea that was prepared for me, I thought at last, “I should’ve praised him more.”
Most likely, that’s what my real job is. After all, on the surface, I’m the lady of this mansion.
Even though I have such a problematic and unlikeable personality, that girl actually spent three months with me.
After drinking the tea, I decided to dance waltz by myself for a little bit.
—Stuffy winds, cloudy.
I met up with my husband. Apparently, he came to pick up some luggage.
Rather than meeting up with him, I guess I should say that he charged in, since I was in my room.
He asked me if I was doing well, to which I answered with an “I’m alive”. He asked if I wanted to go back home, to which I answered with a “no”. He asked me if I wasn’t going to my ex-schoolmates’ salon party, to which I answered that I wasn’t. He asked me if there wasn’t anything I needed, to which I answered that there wasn’t.
When he asked me what my favorite color was, I recalled Violet’s eyes. I said that it was blue, and he asked me why. When I told him that it was the eye color of the person I like, my husband forcefully tried to hold me in his arms and I vehemently resisted.
Since this was so sudden, I ended up coughing and everything I had eaten that afternoon spilled out of my mouth. It was then that my husband finally pulled himself together.
“If you come any closer, I’ll throw puke at you.” – This phrase also worked against him.
It seems my husband had a fight with his mistress. But did he have to try to lay a hand on the person he had mutually confirmed that he wouldn’t fall for, after both of us had decided to live however we wanted? This is why I don’t get men.
Actually, it’s not because he’s a man. I’m sure this person is a lost cause. He’s just like how I used to be in that he thinks it’s okay to harm other people if he’s unhappy.
Aah, this pisses me off. Running off to another woman just because your girlfriend is giving you the cold shoulder – I really don’t like that kind of thing. This isn’t love. He doesn’t have enough faith in his lover. I feel bad for her.
My husband endured it apparently quite well as I said lots of honestly nasty things to him, and then left the room. As for me, I cried while cleaning up the stuff I had vomited.
I want to see Taylor.
I want to see Taylor.
I want to see Taylor.
I want to spend my time only with someone that I can cherish.
—Rain after a cloudy day, no wind.
It’s raining today.
Since it was a rainy day, I had to brush Taylor’s hair thoroughly with my hands. Her hair is beautifully curly, but that’s a problem on days like these.
I was so sleepy. But there was work to be done, so I had no spare time in the morning. I had to get up and brush Taylor’s hair.
That’s what I was thinking when I opened my eyes. I looked for that curly-haired little girl for a moment, but couldn’t find her.
I’m an idiot, so I seriously looked for her for about thirty seconds. Could it be she had gone outside on her own?
If she ran into a kidnapper, she’d be done for – I had to do something, I thought as I jumped off the bed. That’s when I suddenly realized.
Taylor isn’t here.
Are you stupid, Isabella? You’re Isabella now, aren’t you? You’re not Amy anymore. Taylor isn’t with you either. She hasn’t been for the longest time now, so why did you think that? Why did you look for her? Even if you were half-awake, this shouldn’t have happened.
Unable to do anything about this emptiness and sadness that I couldn’t tell anyone about, I punched my pillow hard. “Ugh, ah, aaah, uugh...” I hit it really, really hard, several times. “Uuuugh, ah, ugh...” Each time I punched it, my tears splattered on the sheets.
This happens sometimes. I feel as if people who are no longer with me and sights I can no longer see are still here even now. It’s like an illusion.
The memories engraved into my body had me looking for my tiny little sister.
Is Taylor also seeing this rain? Is it also raining where Taylor lives?
I wonder where Taylor is living. Does she get to have breakfast over there? Do they feed her dinner there too?
Does anyone brush Taylor’s hair on rainy days?
As the tears trickled down, I looked out the window. A thunder rumbled, startling me and making me fall onto my butt on the carpet.
The lightning should’ve struck this place instead. If it had and if that caused terrible problems to this mansion, I would’ve felt a bit better.
I had this fantasy for the whole day.
—Damp air, cloudy after sunny weather.
I had stomachache today, so I went to the toilet all the time. I think about this whenever I get my period, but why does it have to be such a harsh mechanism? If I were the God who created all things, would I make a mechanism like this? Plus, it’s questionable whether I need this function or not. Probably not. I want someone to take it off me. Actually, I’m scared of taking it off.
Anyway, I don’t like pain. I’m weak to it. I get teary-eyed just from my constant coughing. It’s so painful that I can’t help it.
I didn’t want to associate that with my period, but no matter what, I’d find myself thinking about the family heir. A problem imposed on us, the make-pretend married couple. It’s still shelved, though.
If only my father died, we’d probably manage to trick everyone else with a child that my husband could sire with some other girl. We had to either make it look like I was the one who gave birth to them or adopt them.
The options were many.
I like kids, so I’m confident that I can raise even a stranger’s child with care, but I’d feel bad for them. As expected, it’s best for them to be with their real mother. I’m not necessary when it comes to that kind of thing, but I’m indispensable for my husband’s life plan, so there would be no divorce.
After writing up to this point, I was horrified to realize that I was thinking of children as a “device”.
Stop, stop – off with everything you just thought. People like me exist as a result of parents not thinking about their kids. What would a victim get by turning into an aggressor?
Just as I thought, let’s leave this shelved.
Even though my everyday consisted of just mornings, noon might come at some point. There were two women in my life who had taught me this.
Things will work themselves out one day.
Aah, for starters, it would’ve been great if I weren’t even a person... but rather, like, something that could be divided. If I were a thing whose feelings would interfere less with reproduction, and if it weren’t a physically heavy burden, I might’ve been able to give it a thought.
Geez, getting attacked by my husband last time had quite an impact on me, huh. “I’m fine; this is fine,” is what I told myself.
But actually, nothing about getting hurt is fine.
—Crescent Moon day, cloudy with intense winds.
I had a terrible time.
Is there anybody who finds delight in this sort of thing? I’m not having any fun with it at all.
How should I put it? Scandals, gossip. That kind of stuff.
The incident was unbefitting of such a quiet mansion.
As for what happened, it seems the gardener who works in this estate and one of my maids were making out in my husband’s room. My husband let his lover hang around his home and didn’t come back too often, so the two probably had their guard low.
I’ve been there a few times; it’s a room with a unique atmosphere – the all-black furnishings are very, very beautiful and animal mounts are placed around, waiting for their never-returning master. I can’t say that it’s an ideal place for a young couple to meet in secret, but it did have the mood. And a sense of guilty pleasure too. They probably found enjoyment in having several dates in my husband’s room.
I can’t say it was a good thing. That’s for certain. But the two who had done it weren’t far from me in age. They were too young. I wish he’d forgiven them with just a strict rebuke.
But from the conclusion we had, my husband got furious and went on a rampage.
Apparently, he came home by chance and happened to walk into the duo’s rendezvous. His angry yelling reverberated all the way to my room. So did the sound of breaking furniture. It was terrifying.
Men’s yelling is one of the things I hate. Violence is another.
And it got worse from there.
It was quiet after a while and then it seemed someone was opening the mansion’s gates, so I looked outside the window. Even though the nightly wind was so cold, the pair was chased out without being allowed to even take their belongings with them. The gates were closed without mercy, and they stood trembling outside of the estate, unable to move.
My husband must’ve been tremendously furious. I could understand why. It’s tough having people do something like that in your bedroom. I wouldn’t have liked it either. But I couldn’t sympathize with him.
Even if he could get rid of his anger by kicking them out, what was going to happen to the two? What happens to the ones kicked out without a single penny on them? Should they become beggars? Become thieves? Get killed by thieves? They might have to sell their bodies to either of these.
He couldn’t imagine such a future. Even if he could, he didn’t care. Well, of course he didn’t. My husband never had a hard time growing up, after all.
I wanted to give him retaliation.
That’s what I had in mind, for some reason. Rather than it being out of irritation towards my husband, it was closer to irritation towards things like fate, God and this world, who only ever thought of messing me up, as always.
What did I do the last time I got mad beyond any help? I took in a little girl, who should be made the happiest one in the world, as my younger sister.
That’s why I put myself to motion.
I really only hesitated for an instant, and immediately after walking away from the window, I went to the rooms where the help slept and had them take out the couple’s belongings. Everyone seemed appalled that the mysterious new wife, who barely talked ever since she had arrived at the estate, was suddenly exerting such ability to take action.
After taking their belongings, I went out not through the mansion’s front gate but through the back door and walked along a narrow path in the darkness for a little bit. Sure enough, I found the duo at loss, sobbing quietly.
“What do we do?”
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
They were crying while holding hands. Rather than them being drunk on their own tragedy, it was truly a tragic scene.
“Hey, you. You forgot this. Take it,” I called to them, handing over their luggage.
“Madam, is that you?”
“That’s right.”
“Hum, we are deeply sorry for...”
“I’m not looking for an apology.”
Maybe I should have given them some money, but unfortunately, I didn’t have anything, so I gave them the beautifully carved hair ornament that I was wearing, which I had received as a wedding gift, as well as the jewelry from my clothes. I also tore out the pretty buttons. If they sold them, they could earn enough travel expenses to some extent.
The two were in shock.
“Hum, this is really you, isn’t it, Madam?”
“Don’t ask the same thing over and over.”
“Why are you doing this?” they asked, to which I shrugged.
“I thought you’d need it.”
“Even though we did something inexcusable in your home?”
“You sure did. Still, this dangerous way of driving someone out is just... cruel.”
“But—”
“It’s not like you killed anyone, so I at least have to give you your stuff. I apologize in place of my husband,” I said plainly, yet the guy was crying quite a lot.
There was actually one more motive. Yes, o afflicted youths. There was another reason why I saved you.
Why had I done it? Well...
——Because no one’s ever going to save me.
Probably nobody knew, but I wanted someone to save me all the time. Couldn’t they tell? It was the truth. I always wanted to be saved. I needed saving. Or else I might end up hanging myself one of these days. I wanted someone to save me before this happened.
——Somebody save me. Somebody save me. Somebody save me.
I was lonely, desolate and feeling like I was going to die. But no one was going to help me.
I had no one to hold my hand through this dark path.
Therefore, I was going to do for other people the things that nobody would do for me. All of it. That was my logic. My revenge against God.
I’d been doing this for a long time. In the past, I picked up a little girl. I made her my sister.
I didn’t dare say it aloud, but I was making racket in my mind. Offering a helping hand to foolish lovers was an encouragement that I could give precisely because I knew poverty.
“Do you have a place to go?”
“I’m thinking of taking her with me to my hometown.”
“What about the train tickets?”
“If we sell what you gave us... we can probably...”
“Money converters take advantage of people, so you can’t sell it based on asking what the price is. Listen up. You’re going to protect her. If you get attacked by anyone, no matter how scary they are, don’t turn away on this girl.”
“Madam, what are you?” he asked dreadfully and I sneered in the darkness.
“I’m Isabella York. I have a different surname now, though.”
We talked about all sorts of things and that was the end of it, so I wondered if those two managed to reach his hometown safely.
—Humid wind, rain.
The sun came upon the estate today.
Amy Bartlett became Isabella York, Isabella got some other surname, and after changing quite a lot from when I was born until now, I arrived at my current self. But there was one thing that never changed. The fact that my bronchi were as weak as ever.
While receiving treatment, I’d think about heaven and hell. They’re essentially different places, but might be similar once you get used to them. Of course, the attributes granted to the two and how they’re viewed are complete opposites. But what I mean to say is that, once you get accustomed to something, your line of thought will grow numb and you’ll end up accepting it.
That’s resistance. One of the abilities bestowed upon human beings. A wonderful one at that.
As to why I was thinking about this, it’s because the estate’s doctor gave me a sermon.
“Lady Isabella, please be careful not to take too much medicine.”
The doctor who always gave me bronchial medicine told me about drug resistance. Apparently, if one kept on taking the same medicine, their body would get used to it and the medicine would begin not to work very well. He told me that overdosing mustn’t happen and it was bad to drink the medicine constantly, even when I was feeling okay, just because I was anxious. I couldn’t look at the doctor in the eye out of shame, so I was staring at the lint of his sweater the whole time.
“You shouldn’t become dependent on it.” Words that hurt my ears kept on coming. “You’re the only one who can heal your body and the medicine is nothing but assistance for that. It is common for people with lung illnesses to be depressed...”
——Shut up; be quiet.
“Go outside, take a walk or attend someone’s salon party, Lady Isabella. Being at home all day is unhealthy.”
——You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything.
“You have already graduated and become a fine married woman, so making use of your social status to get around would do you good.”
——Don’t spout nonsense. This body will always be a prison.
“If you go on like this, you won’t live long.”
——Who said I want to live long?
Who said I wanted to live a long life? I hadn’t said that even once. If anyone told me to die right now, though, I’d end up crying.
The doctor hadn’t done anything wrong, yet I wound up cursing him in my head because I didn’t have anyone else to take my anger out on. It might’ve showed in my attitude too. I was deeply sorry for that.
In order to show the doctor my gratitude, apology included, I went outside to see him off.
It was the first time in a while that I came outside of the mansion. There was the whole deal with the gardener, who was now gone, and my husband had tried to assault me, so I was a tad too disturbed by a lot of things and couldn’t take a single step out of the estate.
After watching the doctor board a carriage, I immediately went back into the mansion, but for just an instant, I saw someone with blond hair that resembled Violet’s in the distance, so I stopped on the spot.
It really felt only for a second that the person resembled her, and the magic soon dispelled. Upon a closer look, it was a man, which made me snicker at myself for reacting so out of proportion just because his hair was blond.
—Quiet breeze, cold then hot weather.
I was told that not to sunbathing during the day was bad for the body, so I decided to go out because there was nothing else I could do. But I didn’t want the people who live around here to see me. Hiding my face under a parasol, I went to not very popular locations in order to see seasonal flowers and natural greenery. I only ever felt depressed when I was in the mansion, so this made things a little better for me.
The parasol almost got blown away whenever the winds gusted with a rumble. Couldn’t the wind take me along? No one would be sad if I lost my life.
I want to vanish off to somewhere.
—Thick air, lukewarm temperatures.
I’ve been thinking this whole time about the “resistance” that the doctor told me about a while ago.
What happens to people when they don’t have resistance? They’d die in the winter from cold and they’d also die in summer from the heat. They can die even from the smallest disease or a tiny injury.
Well, what I mean is resistance must be an ability that people were equipped with in order to survive in all sorts of living environments.
Both happiness and unhappiness become commonplace when they’re part of daily life. There are many things that you can’t endure if you don’t have resistance. And at the same time, when you have resistance, you become insensitive towards all sorts of things.
In the past, I could only be sad or happy with what I received each day. When the pain that the world gives you becomes your everyday life, you start thinking that this can’t be changed. Maybe it’s the same with happiness. When a wonderful day becomes your daily life, it turns into a normal day.
When you get separated from someone, you finally understand. Things like, “Aah, so I was pitiful?” or, “Aah, so I was blessed?”
Once you’re able to see things from an objective viewpoint, you recognize it at last. It’s something that you can’t tell when you’re in the turmoil. Because you have resistance against it. Therefore, it was after I became Isabella York and was later removed from the York name to become the madam of some other family that I realized it.
“Aah, those days were irreplaceable.”
My life will probably end in this mansion, but if I were to see it flashing before my eyes in my last moments, it’s not this place that I would remember. I’d recall my most beloved little sister and the woman that I had declared my first love to.
I’d reminisce to sharing with my little sister a soup containing nothing but vegetable waste, to sleeping with her in my arms on cold days and to the fact that she, who could only speak incoherent words, called me “Big Sis”. Just these kinds of things. And also that I had danced with the most beautiful girl ever at the academy’s ball. That’s it.
During those times, those days, I was extremely fortunate. I’m only realizing that now, even though so much time has passed since I lost them.
Anyway, it’s been really hard lately. I feel that my resistance is weakening. Resistance to sadness, that is. It’s weakening. Everything is painful. Suffocating.
I want help. Do people live with this much loneliness?
I was supposed to be used to sadness, wasn’t I? And to being alone.
When my mom died. When I had to let Taylor go. When I waved goodbye to the girl I liked. I was sad in all of these times.
You’re used to it, right? Endure it.
Give me some resistance, God.
I want to have no emotions. I don’t need feelings.
Give me resistance to keep living even if I’m alone. Otherwise, God, at least please tell me that Taylor is happy.
With just these news, I can do my best until I die.
——It’s so hard; I’m so sad.
Today was rainy.
——I’m lonely.
Today was sunny.
——I’m so, so bored.
Today was cloudy.
——My coughs have been terrible and there’s blood coming out.
Today was sunny.
——Nobody touch me, nobody touch me.
Today was sunny and occasionally rainy.
——It’s morning now.
It was morning inside me too.
——There won’t be any noon.
Today was rainy.
——It rained inside me too.
Today was... Today was... Today was...
——What about tomorrow?
Tomorrow and after tomorrow. The next day and the day after that.
I was going to be lonely forever, wasn’t I?
Nothing good ever happened. The light of the sun never shone on me. Morning simply went on. There was no meaning to this if noon wouldn’t come.
Why was I alive?
If I was just going to have mornings of contemplating my dreams, then it was meaningless. If no beautiful moments were ever going to happen, what was my purpose for being alive? What was my drive for wanting to be alive? What sights did I want to see?
As though I were having a dream, today, tomorrow, forever. Forever. Forever. Forever.
Noon wasn’t going to come, was it?
—Pretty sunny day with warm winds.
A letter arrived.
I’m properly writing on the diary for the first in a long time.
That marvelous young man. The one who had blond hair and blue eyes like Violet. He brought me a letter from Taylor. He’s a postman from the CH Postal Company, the post office where Violet works. Violet hasn’t sent me letters all this time, yet she remembered me and my sister, and she cared!
That girl escaped from the orphanage by herself, I heard. What a surprise. She’s already grown to a point where she can do something like that. Aah, I wonder whom that recklessness of hers takes after. Gotta be me, I guess.
What do I do? What do I do? I’m already happy just from the fact that she was looking for me.
Yet she sent me a letter. She wants to see me. To think that something so wonderful would happen in my life – aah, what do I do? I’m crying as I write this. There’s tearstains splattered all over.
I wonder if she’ll come see me one day, when she’s an adult.
It kinda feels like time had stopped all along until now. So good things do happen, huh. I was merely resisting every day, patient and firm.
My heart had burst and I was about to discard myself just like that. Aah, aah, but...
If I live, there will be days when noon will come, huh, Taylor?
With time, both the world and I would grow old.
My field of vision, which only ever looked around with a cold gaze, would change its color, and little by little, the number of things that mattered to me would increase, as well as the number of things that I didn’t need. Even so, I would shoulder it all and live. Live, live and live.
Along the course of my life, I’d have days like this.
According to the blond, blue-eyed “deliverer of happiness”, who was now completely familiar with me and had a key position in his company, today was apparently the day that she would gain independence. It was his command that she be entrusted with deliveries specifically designated to me.
I was grateful for that. I ended up indebted to him for a lifetime. It would be great if I could pay him back someday.
Ever since I received these news, I couldn’t stay put, so I was outside since morning.
It was the morning of a peaceful spring day. Still a little bit chilly. With a shawl over my shoulders, I quivered.
At the back of the mansion, I was waiting for my destiny.
——Other than my violet blossom, you’re the only person that I want to forever keep waiting for.
After a while, amidst the unchanging natural scenery, I could see your beautifully changed figure. Mounted on a motorcycle, you showed up dashingly.
——Aah, but you’ve grown up so beautiful. You’ve grown up strong. I heard about it. You couldn’t memorize the names of the towns at all, huh. And even now, you get scolded because your handwriting is a mess. You haven’t fixed your habit of avoiding veggies that you don’t like eating, have you? Do you already have someone you like? I heard about the trip you went to with your friends. Don’t come running in such a hurry. I won’t run away. I won’t run away from here. So it’s okay. You can walk calmly. Really, thank you for coming all the way here to see me. I’ve been waiting all this time.
With a smile like the sun, she said, “Here’s your mail, Mrs...” nearly saying “Isabella”, she shook her head and corrected herself, “Here’s your mail, Lady Amy Bartlett.”
Hands trembling, I wrote down my signature to receive the delivery. While writing, as expected, I cried.
“You shouldn’t cry, Big Sis.”
Her sweet voice tickled my ears. Both of us held each other’s hands at the same time.
“Yeah, but I’m so happy that you’re doing so well...”
——Aah, God.
“From now on, I’ll always be in charge of this area. I’ll be exclusive for you forever, Big Sis.”
——I’ve always resented and cursed you.
“Yeah, yeah.”
——But for today, let me say thanks. God, I...
“Taylor, y’know...”
——...I’ll try to live on, just for a little more. Because I cherish the world in which this girl lives.
