A Martyr's Cry (Based on a True Story)

BASED ON A TRUE STORY.

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May 25, 1902

I brush my dark bangs behind my ear. The barn door opens and I ignore it, continuing to milk the cow, carefully, methodically, the satiny white liquid hitting the edge of the bucket. I rearrange myself on the stool.

"Maria." The way he says my name sends a shiver across my skin. I turn around slowly. He is standing a few feet away, his hands on his hips, looking down at me.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and say, "What is it, Alessandro?"

He arches his eyebrows and I stand. "You are growing very quickly," he says, crossing his arms. "How old are you, my girl?"

"I am eleven," I say, and then softer, with a sheepish smile, "And excuse me but, I am not your girl." I stoop to pick up the heavy bucket of milk and struggle with it, the thin handle digging into my palm painfully.

"Here," says Alessandro, coming closer, "Let me help you."

Not wanting him near me, I say through gritted teeth, "No, no, I'm fine."

But he comes right up to me and takes the bucket from my hands, then sets it behind him. The smell of him- horse, feild, fresh air, and distinctly male- fills my lungs, and before I know what's happening, he grabs me around the waist and says, "You look older then eleven, no? Growing into a beautiful young woman."

"Let go!" I shout, struggling to shake him off of me. He holds me tighter and pinches the inside of my elbow, and I go silent for a moment, swallowing back the sharp bite of pain.

"Don't fight, my girl, or it will be much worse for you," he hisses into my ear.

"No! Please!" I cry, hitting at his arms. His fingers wander down between my legs and I scream, kicking back and hitting the back of my head into his jaw. His grip loosens for a moment, and I squirm away, but before I can get too far, he grabs my wrist.

"Alessandro, no!" I plead, tears streaming down my face. "Our families! And the Lord! It's a sin, Alessandro! It's a sin!"

"It's a sin," he mimicks in a high-pitched voice that doesn't come even close to resembling mine; and spits onto the hay beneathe us. "Don't use the Lord against me. You think you're so holy and that the Lord favors you. Come back to reality, Maria."

I twist my arm and shake it loose of his hold, then scramble out the door, sprinting and stumbling up the hill to the house. I clamber inside and slam the door behind me, leaning on it and closing my eyes, trying to calm the shaking in my bones. When I open them, Mother is standing across the tiny kitchen, looking at me, wide-eyed. She dries her hands on her apron and wanders over to me, taking my face in her palms and looking me in the eye.

"Are you alright?" she asks, simple, sweet, worried.

I nod, unable to form words. Unable to tell her that her best friend's son attacked me. Unable to explain what he wants to do. Afraid that if I say it, the poor little life we have ekked out of nothing will all tumble into hell. Or afraid that after I say it, it will all be real. Raw, broken. Maybe it was just a dream.

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July 4, 1902

It wasn't a dream.

He comes back, over and over. While I'm picking flowers in the meadow. Washing the dishes when no one's home. Sweeping the front step. He grabs me around the waist and covers my mouth, and I fight. I've been able to get away each time, before he has a chance to do much dammage. He slapped me once, to get me to settle down, obey him. It was hard and left a mark. Mother is getting worried. I keep telling her I'm fine, but she keeps persisting, eyeing me suspiciously during dinner, and checking on me at night, once I'm in bed.