I fall down on the disgusting sidewalk, too exhausted to move. Even now, my body is shaking to try to keep myself warm, still trying to fight back. However, my vision starts to blur and I start to fade away. Seconds before death, I ask myself in agony, “How did I, a sixteen year old girl, get here?” And I remember everything.
I was born on April 19, 1894 in London, England. It was a cold, grey and rainy day, just like any other in London, and the Williams family greeted me with open arms. The Williams were a very rich and prideful family. We lived the high life and were completely content. It was my father, Friedrich, my mother, Elizabeth, my two brothers, Charles and George, and me, Mary.
My father owned a large factory producing furniture. He got as much money as possible out of his factory. It didn’t matter how low his worker’s wages were, nor how long their hours were; all that mattered was that he made money, lots of it. However, I was oblivious to his awful behavior at this time.
My mother didn’t work and wasn’t the most brilliant woman. She refused to go to school because she claimed she didn’t need to work or know anything at all because she had her big, strong, reliable husband to make money for her. She was a socialite and most likely an alcoholic. She was out late, slept late and was completely irresponsible.
My brother Charles went to school and went on to a university in France. He was fifteen years older than me so I barely ever saw him. He was either studying, at school or with friends. He didn’t see the point in wasting his time on his useless sister. I never had a full conversation with him because before I could speak coherently, he was gone.
My other brother, George, followed in my father’s footsteps. He wanted to take over Father’s company when my father went into retirement. George was ten years older than me. He played with me when he was younger but as he aged, he too found it unnecessary to pay any attention to me.
And then there’s me. I was raised by an underpaid nanny, Ms. Potter, whom I loved greatly. My father who did feel some sympathy for me because he didn’t spend any time with me, bought me tons of toys. However, I didn’t care much for toys or dolls or puzzles. The thing I cared for was primarily provided by Ms. Potter. When I was an infant she would read me stories that I absolutely adored. Soon enough, I began reading the stories to her, than writing my own stories.
I loved to learn about history, science, religion, culture and language. I told Ms. Potter all about my thoughts and we debated. She was a brilliant, cultured lady who has experienced many things. She taught me about Shakespeare and fine literature and art. I learned about wine and food. She suggested to ask that I go to school, so I did.
I stayed up until my mother came home one night and asked, “Mum, could I go to primary school?”
She responded in a drunken slur, “You? School? Why would you, an extremely privileged young lady want to go to school?”
“I want to learn, Mum.”
“All you’ll ever need to know is how to charm a rich and handsome young man, and I can teach you that myself!” she pointed out proudly.
“I don’t want to survive off of someone else’s success! I want to be a great writer, like Shakespeare. Or a great philosopher, like Montesquieu!” I exclaimed.
She narrows her eyes, “Those are men! You are a woman!”
“The world is changing, Mum. Women are starting to fend for themselves. They aren’t property!”
“Are you insulting me? How dare you take what you have for granted! Your father works hard everyday to provide for us, and here you are sitting around blabbering about this equality nonsense! How dare you take advantage of what you have, you disgusting swine!” Mum began to yell. She pulled her hand back and slapped me hard.
