I rot down here, feet bare, skin and dress stained brown from too long in the dirt. The moisture seeps into my body from the soles of my feet, like the sadness, the loneliness, might take root.
To pass the time, I’ve scratched shapes into the soft dirt with sticks and stones, created games with myself to keep the madness from creeping in.
I’ve traced my handprint as if to sayI am here,and scratched stars into the dust, pictures I half remember from books Mama used to read to us by firelight.
As quickly as I draw them, my wild footprints wipe them away during the times when I can’t seem to do anything but walk. Like my bones don’t realize I’m not free. As though they believe I can move enough to get us out of here.
I can’t, though I should be able to. It’s Foxglove’s purpose, after all. My ancestors prepared for exactly this. They created avenues for me to escape—built tunnels that helped my mother, my sister, and me flee when I was just a young girl. Now, our cellar’s walls are lined with whiskey barrels, filled to the brim. Try as I might, I can’t budge them an inch.
I’ve tried to drain them, to break the boards and pry them away. Such efforts only result in bloody fingers and slashed hopes. He wouldn’t dare leave tools that might help me.
He doesn’t even realize what he’s done, placing the barrels down here. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. If it weren’t for the whiskey, I would be long gone by now.
Though, if it weren’t for the whiskey, maybe I’d not have been locked down here in the first place. My husband was not a cruel man when I met him, nor when I married him.
It was not until we lost our first child, still in my womb, that he changed. That he became cruel. After our second child wasdelivered stillborn, he took to distilling his own whiskey, the pints in the village no longer enough to quell his grief. And when the blood came again, warning of what would be the third loss, he forced me down here.
Perhaps he thinks it is my fault somehow, that I wished for this, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.
My face aches from the bruises still healing after our last visit, and the wounds itch relentlessly.
I hate that it heals, strange as it may sound. Like my own body is trying to fix what he broke, erase it as easily as my drawings in the dirt. When he sees me next, I’ll be good as new once more, a canvas ready for him to bloody.
When it’s late, and he’s gone quiet, I shift from where I’ve been sitting. My dress is soaked and sour with sweat and moisture. With the stench of fear. Of regret.
I creep across the room to the corner where I sleep, hidden from view to give me time to wake before he finds me, should he decide to pay a late-night visit. It’s the farthest point from the beam of light that seeps through the slats above, the glowing amber from the hearth. The moonlight that whispers tales of freedom I may never see again.
Each night, I wait for him to sleep, counting the time between footsteps. I wait for the silence to stretch longer and longer still.
Only then do I reach for the loose, sharp stone hidden in the crack of the wall. I pull it out, kneeling next to one of the wooden beams.
There’s just one letter left.
As a child, I grew up with our name carved above the fire, a reminder of from whom we came. Of whom I am. Down here, I’ve missed it. I’ve needed it, the strength of the women who came before me. The strength of my mother.
I press the edge of the stone into the wood, careful and slow. My hand is steady from years of carving soap with Mama.
I hear her voice down here with me each night as I work—it’s the only time she seems to be with me.
Gentle, now. Steady. Not too deep, just enough. Let the shape reveal itself.
And just like she promised when I was a child, the shape does reveal itself eventually, when my arms shake from use, my body nearing sleep.
N.
I lean back, admiring the full thing. WILDE WOMEN.
Not just Wilde any longer. If I ever find freedom again, I vow to take this board and place it somewhere I will see it every day. Somewhere to remind me that I am borne of women who knew of danger, of pain, and weren’t afraid to fight it. Women who fought for me.
Each daughter, each woman born, is just proof of generations of women willing to challenge the norms and live bravely. Willing to endure pain and scrutiny for a future she might never see, for daughters who might one day invoke her name when they need to feel brave, too.
I squeeze my eyes closed, whispering my mother’s name, the names of the women from the stories she’s shared. “Hannah. Hester. Josephine. Elizabeth. Rachel. Serena. Rose. Lyddie.” Then my sister’s name. “Millicent.” My dear Millie, who lives far away. Happy and safe. Who doesn’t know of my troubles.
We are the Wilde women, and Foxglove is ours.
And here’s the proof—carved into the beam. Our name creates a home for me in this dark corner. The shadows keep it safe until I am.
Until we are.
