Actually the address was fake. Maresy lived only in her mind. So she had made up a place for the horse to live, and used her own zip code rounded off to the nearest even hundred. As far as she knew, there was no such number, which was fine. She was never actually going to mail any of those letters. For one thing, Maresy didn’t live where she seemed; that OK in her address stood for Okay. She was always Okay.
There were boxes in the margins of the Journal. They weren’t exactly code; it was just that she drew them when she was disturbed, and the more disturbed she was, the more numerous and elaborate those little boxes became. She didn’t need to read the actual entries to know how she had felt when making them; the boxes told. Sometimes there were only one or two plain cubes; sometimes there was an elaborate network of boxes that completely surrounded the text. Sometimes they resembled stalls for Maresy, though the truth was that Maresy was a free horse, unbridled, unsaddled, and unstalled. Maresy was as free as Colene was bound.
She turned to the last entry she had made. It was the day before she had found Darius in the ditch. It was a box done in the shape of an optical illusion, with three projections that weren’t actually there when traced back to their sources; one was really the space between the other two. Variations on the figure were common; many people were intrigued by it. She thought the original was like a tuning fork, but it didn’t matter. The point was, this was her. She looked just exactly like a girl, but when the lines were traced, there was nothing; she was a girl-shaped space between others, and if the others went away, she would cease to appear to exist. She had really been twisted up then. The day before her adventure had begun.
But from the moment she spied Darius, she had neither written to Maresy nor scratched her wrists. Not till she freaked out Biff with a wholesale slash. No boxes either. Her inner life had changed completely.
Now she was back in her own reality, as it were. She started to draw a box, and watched it take form as if of its own volition. It looked like a cross between a prison cell and an execution platform.
“Oh, Maresy, I need you now!” she breathed. “What am I to do? I didn’t trust the man I loved, and now I am alone.”
But that wasn’t quite true. She had trusted Darius; she just hadn’t believed him. She had been willing to sleep practically naked in his arms, but not to stand with him when he tried to go home. Maybe he had seen that, and made it easier for her by pretending she was unsuitable for him.
Pretending? Why should he pretend? He hadn’t pretended about anything else. He had told her where he came from, though he knew she didn’t believe him. He had made her cover her crotch, because blue jeans didn’t do the job to his satisfaction. He had learned enough of her language to talk with her, and had shown how well he understood what she told him. He had been his own man throughout, despite the indignities of being confined to the shed and having to use the pot. He had embraced her nightly without even trying to take any advantage of her. In fact, he had refused sex with her when she offered it. Pretend? He had never pretended! He had said she was unsuitable because that was exactly what she was. She was fourteen years old and suicidal. How could she ever have thought he would want to marry her?
Because he had told her he did. He had always told her the truth, and now she knew that even the least believable part of it had been valid. So he had been willing to marry her, until he learned that she was depressive. He had to have joy, to take and magnify and spread about. That was her most awful liability. She could make others laugh by her cutting humor, but if they could read her inner nature, they would be appalled. Darius would be able to read it in his realm. So he had done what he had to do, and had been kind to her, he thought, letting her go.
“Oh, Darius!” she cried, grief-smitten. “I would have been satisfied to go with you, as your servant or your slave, just to be near you. If only I had believed! Now I have gotten what I deserved. I hope you find a woman you can marry.” But that last was insincere. Colene had wanted to be his wife. Deep down, she didn’t want him to be satisfied with any other woman. Oh, she wanted him to be happy, but not as happy as he might have been with her. And to know it.
She closed her Journal and locked it away. She knew what she had to do. There was a good knife in the kitchen, maybe not as sharp as Slick’s razor, but it would do the job. No more fooling around with compass points.
She went to the house. But her mother was in the kitchen and she couldn’t get the knife. Anyway, she hadn’t figured out the right place to do it. She didn’t want to splash blood all over Bumshed, for it didn’t deserve to be soiled that way. It wouldn’t be safe in her room in the house: her parents hardly ever went there, except those few times when she especially didn’t want them to. They had some kind of parental radar that made them home in at the exact worst times. Outside wasn’t good; someone would be sure to see her. So she would have to figure out a place first; then she could take the knife there and do it quickly.
There was nothing to do except wrap up her homework, so that no one would be suspicious. She would go to school as usual Monday, and keep her eye out for a suitable place. She would certainly find it, and then she would act.
MONDAY she found herself in the bathroom, contemplating her scarred wrist. But she didn’t touch it. She had been playing with suicide before; this time she would do it right. That meant the right place and the right knife. She had seen how easy it was with the sharp razor; she could bleed herself out quickly by slashing both arms similarly. Once she decided on the place that was right. Where she could do it cleanly, and not be discovered until long after she was dead. She had to guarantee that she would not wake up in a hospital, to the shame of failure. Boys had it easy; they used guns, which were easy, quick and sure. But she didn’t know a thing about guns; they frightened her. It has to be by a knife, so the blood could flow gently and prettily.
No place seemed right. Finally, Tuesday night, she did something foolish: she sneaked out to Bumshed in her nightie. She made a mound of books and a pillow, pretending it was Darius, and lay next to him in the darkness. “Take me now,” she breathed to the quiet form, spreading her legs and breathing heavingly. “Do anything you want to do.” Of course he did not, but that did not interfere with the fancy; Darius would not have done it anyway.
By morning she had come to three conclusions. First, she wasn’t fooling herself; she knew there was no man there. So this was pointless. Second, it was too darned cold out here alone, and lonely too. Third, this was the place she had been looking for. Here where she had known him, and brief happiness. She could make it sanitary by having plenty of basins to catch the blood, and she could empty them out as long as she was able. She could make a small hole beside Dogwood and pour it carefully in and cover it up; not only would it be practically untraceable, it would fertilize the tree. She liked the idea of her decorative little tree being nourished by her blood. When she was unable to take out the basin, there might not be enough blood left in her to overflow, so it would be all right. They would find her pale cold body, and a neat brimming basin of blood. That would be nice.
She went to school again Wednesday, concentrating on being absolutely normal. She did not give any of her things away to friends, because that was a recognized tipoff for suicidal intention. She did not mope. She laughed and paid attention in class. As far as she knew, no one had a clue to her plan.