Dear Elizabeth

March 3rd 1694

Dear Elizabeth

What else can I say other than that I am sorry? I do not blame you for the way my life turned out, nor do I blame you for your husband's ill feelings toward me the seven months after the affair. I did love him- or at least at the time I thought it was love, and I wish things hadn't ended the way they did between him and I; between the two of you. I now see how foolish I was to let my blind infatuation govern my actions and my hatred.

I believed unswervingly that you were the reason he did not take me back and you were, though not for the reasons I wanted to believe. You made him a good and just man, Elizabeth, and for that you have my utmost respect. You had every right to kick me out when you did. What surprises me is that you did not expel me sooner, even before the affair. I never was any good at cleaning a house to expectations and I took more absences than I can count on both my hands. That having now been communicated, I would just like to thank you.

But where are my manners? Home in Salem, I presume, for I never enquired of you how you were. How are your boys? They just as mischievous as I remember them to be? They always caused me such grief when I worked about the house, back in the day. I miss them all the same. I miss home, Elizabeth, but I can never return, not as I am.

On the topic of home, how is everyone coping? How is my dear cousin, Betty? And my uncle, Parris? I do hope they are well. No doubt I was a thorn in his side when he first took me in. I'll never forget the day I showed up at his doorstep, soaked to the bone. I must have looked a sight. And I hadn't seen him since before I take my first baby steps.

I was so afraid he would cast me out into the streets. I was, after all, a picture of rebellion and distrust, and I used my parent's death as an excuse to have people fear me if ever they did me wrong. Fear meant respect and that was all I ever desired. I never did want people's pity. Only the weak need such things. Then again I never was the finest example of strength.

I have nothing and I know nothing. I was not trusted with cleaning houses or minding children when I fled to Boston. Not after word got out that I almost burned the clergyman's house to the ground. I am still sore from that incident, by the by. I had no other way to earn money than to use and allow others to use the one thing I claim my own. My body.

Yes, the rumours are true. Abigail Williams became the cheapest prostitute Boston has ever seen. For many months I had hoped it would not come to that but after many weeks of half-eaten bin scraps and serial vomiting I knew I had received the worst of it and anything could be better. I put my name to further shame and began to ask around.

When I walk the streets of Boston women spit on me and shake their heads, parting like the red sea as if I were a walking virus. I probably am. The men are no better. There is a glint in the eye of every man that passes. A knowing look hides behind them. Lust clouds their eyes as I am swept up into the dead of night and ravished to fulfill the unspoken fantasies of a perfect stranger.

I have a baby too, Elizabeth. A son with brilliant green eyes and no father to whom they may be matched. He is now twenty-two month old and causes as great a ruckus as I once did not too long again. Oh how I wish I still had that fire which burns bright in the eyes of my Jonathan. My name is dirt in the community and though it has no effect on me I fear it will impact my boy; the bastard son of a woman paid to deceive and kept in the company of greedy, disloyal men. His name is tarnished and no matter how hard we scrub we just cannot seem to remove the spots and stains our name will forever be clothed in.

The other morning at the market I find him with other small children and their mothers close by. They proudly watch their children like a lioness would her cubs. I smile and go to gather my little angel when the mothers see me and turn up their noses. They rush to their children's sides and snatch them up without a word, leaving Jonathan there abandoned. And despite all this he's still grinnin'. He is the happiest and strongest boy I ever seen and he never fails to make me smile.

I hate Boston but I cannot leave as I am. Finance is not the only issue, if only it were. The truth is, I am afraid. Every day I live in fear; of my clients, of my boy's well-being and reputation; in fear that one day he may be taken away from me. My neck is ever downcast and my back is sure to develop a hunch before it's time, for I lack the nerve to look people in the eye. My stance is hardly comfortable. The only comfort I find in the lack thereof is that I am not as recognizable hidden as I would be if my features were on display.

I try to keep myself well groomed but if my hollow cheeks, unruly mane and tired eyes are any indication I could easily pass for ten years my senior. I hardly enjoy my profession and if ever I do I am reminded how unfit I am to be a mother. A chronic battle rages in my mind as I ask myself two questions; "What is best for my son?" and "Can I afford to give him up to a more financially stable benefactor?" I do not know why I am pouring my heart out to you as if this letter were pages of a diary but I suppose I feel a relief of sorts in writing this down.

I have thought about ending my life countless times. Why should I not? If I only gave my son to another family no one would miss me or question my absence. My boy is only young, surely he will not remember me, right? So why am I still here asking questions? I know the answer. I cannot let another person slip from my grasp. I cannot have my son forget me and live on with no memory of me. Call me selfish but, if nothing else, I need my son.

Well I think it is safe to say I have disclosed more than you ever cared to know about me. I wish you well, Elizabeth, and I know the Lord's hand rests on you and your family. Surely he will smile on you and bless you in the years to come. I thank you one last time and, on that note, bid you goodbye.

Sincerely,

Abigail Williams.