The Diary Of Cordelia Bloodson..

...June 27, 1836...

     It is a sensation more potent than knowledge, a suspicion stronger than truth. I can feel it claiming me-death, that is.

      The contractions grow intense today. The baby is pushing his way out, searching for bright freedom from my dark, swollen womb. Yet something feels wrong. The pain is as heavy as my heart, but it is not the discomfort of childbirth. It is altogether something different.

      I have seen a change in my husband Reginald, an anger untapped until recently, and I fear I will not be on earth much longer to pick up the pieces of his inevitable destruction.

     The ghost of my Father visited me in a dream last night. Or perhaps it was a nightmare. The two has been interviewed as of late. Father brought a warning that something terrible is about to happen that will bring ruin to my home and disgrace my family. How can I bring a fifth child into a world so full of evil?

     I spoke of my concerns to Reginald, but he is convinced that I am simply worrying in excess. Our family physician, Doctor Edgar Valance, suggested that I might be affected with hysteria, but for the sake of my family, I must not lend credence to that diagnosis. With Reginald's increasing mercurial behavior and my own grieved heart, I must wonder if despair is contagious. I have felt it coming for weeks now, that unexplainable fear. And yet I am a helpless victim to it.

      So I open the bedroom window, invite in the salty June breeze, and distract myself with the view. The raging blue ocean as it devours the jagged shore. The dense forest full of vibrant green life. The rocky slope of the cliff climbing up to meet the field of fragrant flowers. And my colorful little garden where I have buried my secrets.

     I shall not write of my secrets, lest it sour my mood.

Instead I gaze at the maddening ocean and

Feel it drawing me to its briny depths. I recall what my father, who lingers on my mind, once told me. That my name, Cordelia, means "heart, or daughter of the sea," named after King Lear's sympathetic daughter. Did not Father realize she was hanged at the end of the play? I pray my name does not presage the fate the sea has planned for me.

    I must go, as my contractions wage war on my flesh. Yet a final thought haunts me, corrupting the beauteous sight and luscious smells of the garden outside my window. These are all the mere places to inter my body. An earth that is primed to eat my bones and feast on my flesh.

I know only one thing: my end is near, perhaps today, and no one believes me.

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