Again, the rather boring diary beckoned to Kyle. He practically tore the paper as he carelessly dug his fingernails halfway into the delicate and fragile pages, eager to finish the ordeal of vicariously experiencing the life of a teenage girl. Luckily the book was stiff from disuse, and it plopped open like a bloated corpse to the last page Kyle remembered—that of April 6th. After that, each stitch of paper, jot of quill, and binding glue, either malfunctioned or outright disintegrated. Over a week was lost before Kyle finally encountered whole sentences. He read these greedily, skimming most simply to produce an internal summary; he didn't require the minutiae of her flowing shawls and gritty earth. Just the facts, Ma'Am.
April 23, 1887
Rue is so cute! I don't know what I ever did without him for so many years. He's my life now, to fatten with carrots, alfalfa, anything Mother doesn't mind, or whatever we don't use in our weekly stew. Rue eats it right up!
I'm afraid that Papa is cross with me. He looks at me, as if I've abandoned school, but I haven't, Papa! I read better than everyone else, and finish the work Mrs. Klein assigns, sometimes before you ask me to do my chores. It's all so easy, and I wish, I so wish that I could just come home and relax with you and Rue! I'm sorry Papa, that I'm so weak. I helped you in the fields, and you thanked me, so I know you're happy, even though you frown.
I promise, to always be your little girl. Rue says so too! He's such a clever little bunny, my Rue.
Jimmy tried to talk to me today, but I just had to come straight home to feed Rue. Jimmy is so strong, and courageous... so he'll understand that Rue needs my love more than he! A poor rabbit, my bunny lost in the world with me as his only protector. My Rue.
Kyle nearly dropped the diary again. Arin had plainly discarded all sense of perspective, practically hurling it against a brick wall and stomping on the quivering remains until all twitching finally ceased. Kyle thought, perhaps validly, that she was becoming enamored with Jimmy, and now she droned on for paragraphs about her pet rabbit? The one that almost became dinner?
It made no sense. And worse, Kyle wondered if her family didn't accidentally discover the "Wacky Weed" that made people go nuts, kill their friends from overwhelming paranoia, driving them into a dual personality incapable of discerning friend from foe. Maybe it was similar to the Salem Witch Trials, fueled by an insidious ergot pandemic wrought by moldy wheat. It seemed as likely as any other scenario.
Maybe Kyle had misjudged. Banal or not, Arin's story hardly supported boredom or disinterest. Was she nuts? Would Kyle read the unraveling of a girl's mind, as described in her own diary over fifty years ago? Kyle licked his lips and turned the next page, stomach churning in fear that the decrepit, ancient pulp proved deformed and worthless by constant harsh exposure. Luckily for him, the story continued.
April 27, 1887
Papa is so silly! But he seemed so stern today! He says I should be thinking about marriage, and about my school work. But I told him, I promised that I worked hard, and my teacher even sent home a note saying I told true. But I know he wants more.
He wants me to marry, and soon. But that's years away! I still have three years before I'm fifteen, so the wind may carry me high and low, but never to the altar. At least, not yet. Poor Papa. I hate to worry him, but I helped in the field, and I lugged the bucket, even as my arms ached, forcing me to drag the thing through Papa's neat ruts. He shouldn't worry, for I'm still but a child. Rue's just a bunny, and he won't live long, so I can spend some time with him. I'll provide for my little pet, before his days are short and painful. No cat, or lack of food will claim him, because I love him so. Father shouldn't worry of Rue...
Oh papa, if only you knew what I did.
The next page wasn't distorted by mold, water-damage, or torn pages. Small droplets had expanded and smeared only small portions of that page, as if rain, or tears had cascaded upon the surface as Arin wrote. Could it be, she was crying?
April 28, 1887
I can't stop crying. It's terrible! My house burned down, and everybody is dead! Mamma, Papa, sister Annie, even Rue. I couldn't be there to help him, or anyone else. Now they're all dead!
I only went out to sit under the Willow because I couldn't sleep. I didn't light a lantern, and I was quiet as a mouse, but I was away. Maybe Papa was looking for me and dropped his lantern... but he's dead. They're all dead! My family, my life, my dreams, everything... my poor Rue. I'll never stop crying, so long as I live. I've nowhere to go!
Oh Papa...
The tummult was unavoidable. It drew him in as a fire breathes precious oxygen, seeping under doors for every available shred of air, a voracious beast filling endless lungs for a mighty roar of defiance and rage. All dead.
All thoughts of Dr. Z and his assignment vanished like wisps of smoke in a tornado, shredded and spread to nothingness. All dead! Highly unlikely, but considering the period, the town hardly had an organized fire department, and everything was made of wood, without preserving chemicals or retardant asbestos. In just over a month, a sweet girl frolicking in swaying tree branches, now mourned her family, burned to cinders in a mysterious fire—maybe a lantern, but that meant her father was awake, and mobile.
Did she light a lamp to fill her room with flickering shadows in the dim orange whips of flame, only to leave it unguarded in her window, where wind, or the drapes finished the terrible story? Kyle thought maybe she wanted to hide the truth from even herself; she'd burned her family to death, relaxing in the crisp night under majestic swishing leaves swaying with a fluttering hiss, lulling her to sleep. After living in Tammond Dale, he could imagine the tranquil caress of liquid air upon his skin, stealing his resolve, hypnotizing him.
Arin didn't stand a chance. She must have succumbed to exhaustion outside, and forgotten about her own lamp, the one she used to go outside, and while she dreamed of better things, her family cracked and smoldered in a towering inferno. Kyle had to continue, finish Arin's story before he found Jason, or else he'd obsess over it, chafing to escape Manny's endless rants to a quiet corner, where silence reigned supreme.
It was dark, but it couldn't be much past six. He still had a little time before meeting Adriana, and unlike Jason, he could run back to town, blasting through the snow and drifts without pause. Jason could fend for himself.
When Kyle turned the page, his heart sank. It said simply, "I have nothing." The next page too, contained that heart-wrenching phrase. Several of these appeared, one after another, a military procession flaunting hopelessness and loss. Each of these proclamations was smeared by several circular drops, more weeping, more sorrow from Arin. Kyle almost cried, himself. Pointless, a waste of life, at a gruesome toll.
When the next entry came, no tears dotted and morphed the words. Each comment, every character stood in stark intensity, empowered by bold strokes that neatly ravished the paper, nearly cutting straight through, as if written by a honed knife instead of a harmless quill. But as Kyle read the message those deceptively fervent sentences outlined, his heart sank. Her new resolve wasn't forged in triumph, but defeat.
Kyle read her final lament, desperately clinging to an ideal reverie that faded as the day bled dry, consumed by the incessant gluttony of ensuing twilight. Kyle hated that he knew the ending, her ending, yet unable to escape the wretched claws holding him hostage, to witness her finality.
Kyle continued to read, and whimper.