Can you see me here, trembling as I write? Can you see what I see? This newspaper in my hand that paints me as Antonie's killer? This newspaper that spells my doom? This newspaper that assumes all of my cousin's horrific stories are true?
This narrow metal cot here, this is bed and bench and my world. There is a tiny window that is shoulder high, but I dare not look outside. There is nothing more out there than the choking yellow dust of the courtyard and the gallows...and the dangling rope!
I pray night and day. I ask Mary that there may be some miracle. Because I need one here. A few minutes ago, the jailer, smelling of whiskey, threw the newspaper with the story between the bars. He was cackling again. "Read this, princess," he said.
Reading these words: "I promise you, she will hang" -- a warm flood of fear spills through me. I think my dizziness is going to sink me to the floor.
I may die here before they hang me. I may decide not to drink another sip of that water that tastes like the rust of these bars. I may stop eating and drinking altogether, and I may just pray for a quick demise.
I apologize my dear Teresa. I realize that my giving up all hope like this is just so hopeless…
I close my eyes now and say another prayer.
I am so so thankful that you brought me the diary and I thank God and Mary too that you argued, and that they allowed me, finally, after all your arguing, to keep it.
Perhaps this is after all, the miracle, that I can sit here and write my own words.
and yes, now we are laughing and telling jokes again about Father Ruby, and now I taste the sweet and sour lemonade that you have made me.
This is bliss these pictures I have made.
So yes, you know that I will keep writing here, have no fear about that, and I will keep the faith too, as you told me, because what else can I do except pray and sob and write and write and hold onto some hope for a miracle?