May 17^th, 1862

At home today. Mommy wants me to keep writing in my diary because she says it promotes creativity. She says it helps to get thoughts out of my head that have been bothering me. Daddy went off to Virginia to fight for our country. With mommy going to see Mr. Daye I’ll be on my own again at home, stuck in my room. All I can do is read and write and this journal. And look out the window. The wagon for Stewart’s Bakery arrives around noontime and there’s a lot of horse and buggy traffic around three. Market Street gets busy when fresh meat is brought in. A bunch of dogs walk in the crowds looking for a bite to eat. Scavengers. It’s nothing really exciting, not as exciting as the storybooks. I’m going to read.

May 18^th, 1862

I wasn’t going to write today but after watching the street for a few minutes something caught my eye. It wasn’t there yesterday. On the far side of the cobblestone road was a pile of rubbish. Manure and trash were normal but this had a weird shape to it, like it had been placed along the gutter without much thought. It’s been there all forenoon. Mommy should be home soon. She’s bringing pork for supper. Another dull day. It’s raining out.

May 19^th, 1862

There’s a body in the street. The rubbish has been disturbed, some of it was removed, or washed away, and there is a man underneath. I hope he gets help soon. I noticed his shoes first. They were worn and tattered like gramma’s shoes. Saw everyone walking by him. One woman nearly tripped when she stepped on his hand. He didn’t move. A jacket was covering his head. People didn’t seem to notice even by the afternoon. I feel sorry for him. I can’t look at him anymore. Going to wash clothes for mommy. My dress is getting dusty.

May 20^th, 1862

Went to the booksellers today. He’s still there.

May 21^st, 1862

Mommy taught me about death. She didn’t like to hide things. She said life is full of dark spots and blemishes. He had been trampled by midday. Part of his cheek came out the side of the jacket. He might be dead. Again no one noticed. Even the people at night don’t care. Going to sleep.

May 22^nd, 1862

The body is still there. No one has come to claim him. I wonder if he has a family, if someone is missing him. The jacket is gone. Someone must have taken it. His face is exposed, looking at my window. His eyes are dark and empty and his mouth is open. Closing the blinds. I can’t look at him anymore.

May 23^rd, 1862

Its dreadful, those eyes, staring at me from so far. I swear they are empty sockets but I can’t be sure. What’s worse is that everyone tramples it, paying no mind. Can they not see him! His hand is a gnarled mess, his fingers splintered like a flower. When they brush against him, he shuffles grotesquely. In his open mouth there is now debris, possibly a feather. Horse manure is piling up on his side and legs. He’s slowly disappearing under filth. I closed the curtain again.

May 24^th, 1862

He’s still there, forgotten like a dead bird. They don’t even look down anymore. A man in a hat spat on him. Kids ran by and jump over him as if he wasn’t even there. Won’t somebody do something? The clothes he’s wearing were torn. I suspect the dogs are getting curious. What world is this that we ignore our dead? I feel sorry but it is too hideous to look at.

May 25^th, 1862

I woke up and went to the window. The body’s arm had been exposed. The dogs got to him again and tore a piece of flesh, down to the bone. Skin lay flapped open like sheet of cloth. Dung lay next to the open wound. I was shocked to see fresh blood seeping from it but thankful that his head was turned the other way. Those pale eyes had filled me with fear but I could not understand how it had moved. Was he really dead? Was I imagining it? I didn’t care to find out. I chose to close the blinds. I don’t want to see anymore. I wish he’d go away.

Can’t sleep. I woke up from a frightful dream where I heard a tapping on the door. Mommy was sleeping in her bed. The rapping continued. On my knee I peeped through the keyhole and saw a black coat standing there. When I woke, I jerked up with sweat on my forehead. I was driven to the window with haste but I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I paced back and forth and sat on my bed for a while staring at the moonlight coming through the seams. I didn’t want to see; I didn’t want to look. My heart raced with every passing moment.

I still can’t sleep. Writing helps pass the time. I await eagerly for the morning sun. The darkness puts visions in my head of a man decaying in the street, coming to get me and take me away. I don’t want to see them anymore. I wish he would just go away.

I didn’t want to do it. I should have stayed in bed but the window kept calling to me. With much regret I went to the curtains and pulled them aside. I gasped with dread at what I saw and felt terrible dismay. A chill grasped at my heart when I saw him standing there, gazing up with those hollow eyes. I should have never looked out the window.