36th Saun, 718 ~ following this
The girl sat on the floor in the corner and she looked at the bed. It sat there, seeming to almost look back at her and she could not believe it when it told her that it was hers. Yet, it was what Padraig told her too and the healer had instructed her that she should act as though what he said was true. That meant that he was like her owner, the girl thought and she realised that, in the dark and on her own she felt it more and more likely that it was a joke. When he was here, when he looked at her like he looked at her, she felt like it might actually be possible that she was his wife. The mother of his children - the children he was trying to soothe at the moment. They were upset, she knew, they felt confused and missed their mother.
But the girl didn't know who their mother was
She had tried to not be terrified of them, earlier on when she met them, but she was and they could feel it. And as much as she wanted to feel something, she did not - she had nothing inside her to give them and they knew. She could see it in their eyes, in their confusion. She had tried, but Padraig had told her that it was fine, that she was just nervous and tired and trying too hard. But he was disappointed, she knew. He hoped that the sight of their children might bring back the memories which he obviously believed she had lost. Yet, for her there was no gap. No place where memories would go. She knew that, apparently, if those memories came back they'd fill in time which she couldn't remember so didn't know she'd lost but her experience was that she fell asleep on a floor and woke up on a floor - granted, a different one and apparently hundreds of miles away. But still.
And then, there were these.
It appeared that Faith kept a diary. Faith had read Faith's diary and she recognised none of it. Not the way that the woman spoke, or wrote or thought or believed were familiar to the girl, but there were diaries and letters and things. Padraig knew that she was reading them, he thought they might help her remember and so she sat on the floor in the room, where she was used to being, kneeling in position and ready to move.
Having read the diaries of a strange who was her, the girl lowered herself down so that she was crouched on the floor and she started to write.
Freedom seems like a complicated thing.
Is what he tells me true? More and more, it seems likely.
And yet, it is impossible.
The woman who wrote these diaries, the woman they believe is me, she is so many things far beyond me. She is assured, confident. She refers to herself in the first person and she is aware of her strengths and weaknesses. Does he see that person when he looks at me? It seems important. His viewpoint is certainly important to her / me in these diaries. There is no doubt that she loves him and yes, what my feelings are, are not that. Are his? What does he feel when he looks at me? It would be more than reasonable to assume that even external differences have changed.
Does he love me or her?
Does it matter?
