Zephyra's Blog Post

                                                                             Pushed

Martha is dead.

This is all I can think of, the height and depth and breadth of my existence. It does not matter that my cot is dusty enough to choke a body, or that the heaviness of the shadows here could weigh down the sun itself. They keep it real quiet here, too. There is no sound to draw me from the horror of it.

Dead. My little sister is dead.

I press myself deeper into the sharp concave of my corner. There is nothing but horror. No anger. I got here rightly, by all I know of the law. No remorse. That man got what he deserved. The horror will fade, eventually, and then I don’t know what will be left. Grief? Loneliness? Or maybe nothing. 

Maybe I would’ve killed him, had they not pulled me away sooner.

I close my eyes against the harsh insouciance of the skylight. I’m glad they did. I wasn’t planning to. I don’t want to be a murderer. I don’t want the memory of Martha to be more sullied than it already is. I had just wanted to ask a few questions. That was all.

But that face… he could barely hide his sneer. Sit down, he told me. He pulled out a fat cigar. Lit it.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have a few questions about the death of my sister. Martha Lamb?”

"Miss Lamb was injured in an accident with one of our machines," he said. "We were given to understand that her death occurred on your property."

“Yes, sir. But I was just wondering…” I struggled to keep the desperation out of my voice. “She has– had– a few… disagreements, and I think someone might have pushed her?”

"That’s not our concern," he said. He blew a puff of smoke in my face. 

I kept trying. I needed to know. I needed to know for a fact that she had not been pushed, or at least not by who I think did it. 

Because if it is as I fear, then her death is my fault.

The conversation degenerated. I became desperate. He dismissed me and picked up a book. My purse was heavy. Maybe I could’ve killed him. His face was a mass of purple and green and red when I saw him at court. Him with his fancy lawyer all dressed up. I could’ve gotten Martha to the hospital with that money. He could have sent her to the hospital, instead of home to us. If only he’d done that, she would’ve lived.

But Martha wasn’t his concern. Just his money maker, another one of his machines.

She bled to death, didn’t even make it to nightfall. I lean my head back against the wall and open my eyes. Better that wretched skylight than the memory of what was once her arm, a crushed and bloodied ruin of bone and flesh. Better that the shadows press down on my shoulders and crush me than seeing her face, agonized and lifeless.

I might be the reason she’s dead.

I do not think I can bear this silence much longer.