8th of May 1796
My palms tremble as I scribble this note. I love him, I trust him with my life but what if this goes wrong? Already I can see it: the anger on Pa’s face; the disappointment on Ma’s and the guillotine. Blades, sharpened for only one purpose, too soon are glinting in the morning light and I can feel my soul blackening; my faith in him rotting, as if this trepidation is some flesh devouring infection.
If I could just trust him like I should and like he deserves, then I would but I have never been a good girl. I think the vile daffodils at school foretold this. They never said anything to my face- their type never do- but I heard them whisper and have seen the judging glints in their eyes: I was always bound to lose my head before I was thirty.
Once when he kissed my neck and told me he loved me, he said he would take on any blade any day for me. He also said I had a pretty neck. If it is ever severed, one day someone will find this journal and know that all the wrong I did was in the name of love. This is at least some comfort.
Soon, I may have to run for my life, with my hood pulled over my face to conceal my identity and my skirts hitched up to my knees, flashing the pale skin of my bare legs to sprint. This is something I have not done since I was a child. Ma would be in tears if she saw me, knowing this time I cannot be fixed with a slap on the wrist and a bath. However I will never see the look of disappointment on her face because this is my last day in town and I am never to return. It is such certainties, as this, which comfort me most.
There is not a single thing I regret. Every immoral action; every crime I have committed for him has been worth it just to feel his lips on mine and our bodies curled together for just a little longer. At first it was just fun but now, our love is so much more than just a rebellion.
