1/25/23
It is a dreadful cold today. I cannot for the life of me figure out why, though it certainly is not for a lack of trying. Yes, it is winter, and it is New York, but even then..
John Williams is dead today. I have killed him. He shall no longer be a burden on this world, as I have taken care of it.
Another letter arrived today. No name on it, no return address. Only addressed to Irene Aria Calla. I wonder of how they know my name, let alone how they know the address. It is something I have kept dreadfully quiet, as the only three that shall know me by my unmarried name would never be so bold as to call me it in a place where wandering ears should hear. To most, I am Widow. I am her and she is me. We are one and the same. The only differences? Irene Kelly is a respectable gentlewoman, and Widow is a murdering harlot. Those who know me as Irene Calla know me as both.
It is such a strange feat, having the worth of three names. All exceedingly different, though truly similar once you think about it. The mask is ever changing, while the person underneath it is not.
I've been reading again. I never tire of the books, despite the many readings and re-readings I've done. This time, it's The Age Of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. Another stolen one, this time from Elizabeth Baker herself. Words never cease to amaze me, with their magic shows and simple ways of turning a dull, dreary event, into something of wonder, and light.
Jonathan doesn't approve. He never has, he never will. I have tried to reason with him, but now...it never seems to work, now. He'll get over it, he always does, in the end. I would never give up my books for something so trivial as him. I have long since stopped caring about him, and he has done the same for me. Always behind closed doors, though. If anyone else was to find out about this, to discover that our marriage was never one out of love, then it would cause chaos...we're supposed to be the role models, the leaders of them, but we can't even keep a damn marriage together.
That was rude. I shouldn't have written that, however right it is. I just must remember what Mama always told me, about being a good wife. It is what is expected of me, I must follow through. I have never had a choice, my whole life has been planned out for me. I never had a say...
I cut my hair a few days ago. It's bobbed, now, the rest of my hair laying in a trash bin. Rage and impatience can do a lot of things, and sometimes they make you cut off your hair to spite your husband. He didn't say anything, he didn't even look at me. He wouldn't have, anyways. Later, in the night, though...I paid dearly for it. Then again, don't I always?
He's never really cared about me. I must come to that conclusion, at least eventually. I hate it, hate it, hate it so much. I have dedicated almost 12 years of my life to being his wife, and yet, he cares nothing for me. It's a sad realization, though I suppose I must accept it. He loathes me, treats me as nothing but scum of the Earth. I'd say it breaks my heart, but truthfully...after all these years, nothing affects my heart much. First being married to him...then, when Thomas was born, I wanted to be happy. I could've been happy. Then Anna died and I...
Lord, I miss her. I've never loved anyone but her. She made me believe in love. I love her, I love her, I love her so, so much. No one can ever replace her. Marie tries, she really does, she just wants to be good...but no one can ever measure up to Anna. She wasn't a saint, no, but she was a goddess. She should've been the leader, everyone knows that. She's more than I could've ever expected. Was more. She died five years ago and yet I still have trouble remembering she's dead. Every day, every single time the goddamn door opens I keep hoping, praying that she's coming through the door, with good news, with news of hope, or something like that. She never does. Every single time, it's always unfortunate.
There's no use about wasting time on ghosts. She is dead, she is gone, and Anna Thomas will never be alive again. She is no longer an important part of my life.
Thomas is getting bigger. He's five, almost about to turn six, next month. He's adorable. Every day, he looks more like Jonathan...but, he reminds me of me. I've kept him out of all of the gang business. He's too young to know about that, too young to be pushed into such deep corruption. He could grow up normal. I have hope. I want him to have the life I never had. Jonathan, of course, must oppose me on that, but I've long since learned that if I paid attention to everything and anything he said, then I would have died a long time ago. All that matters to me is that Thomas is happy. He's been learning Italian, too. He's so smart, and so bold. Though...he is rather sad that his aunt hasn't been here in a while. I don't have the heart to tell him that his aunt won't be coming back, that Josephine won't be coming back to see him.
Josephine hasn't been here. I finally learned her name after reading the papers. Josephine Densmore, though I do remember her saying her name was Josephine Banfield. None of the Pinkertons have bothered us in quite some time, though it's not like I miss them. Well...I do, kind of. I miss Josephine. She's like sunshine, she lit up everything she touched, and then even more. She's amazing, and she should get a good chance at life. Leave all of this behind her, skip town, and then...I wish she had done that. She didn't. I've been tracking her. She's still a Pinkerton.
It's getting late. Goodnight
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