Diary of Margaret

Preface

Some of you reading this are probably familiar with the story of Margaret Cloverfield already. For those of you who aren’t, the Maiden of Mystery was born out of wedlock in August, 1909. The exact date is unknown. Her biological father Thomas was lost aboard the Titanic in 1912. Her biological mother remains a mystery.

What is known, is that Margaret became a ward of the State of New York at a young age. A child of the system, especially in those days grew up quickly, but not always right. Margaret was unfortunately not an exception to this. She picked her first pocket when she was eight. She was purported to have first killed at the age of twelve, although it’s not been proven and she was never charged.

By the age of twenty five, Margaret had been married and widowed twice. Both of her husbands had died mysterious deaths. At the age of twenty nine, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, as well as sentenced to death in the electric chair. She had been convicted in the murders of both her former husbands and a newborn child.

Margaret “Marigold” Cloverfield was executed on March 3rd, 1943 in the electric chair at Sing Sing. She left no last words. Her final resting place is the potters field at Hart Island, New York.

Day One

After hours of waiting the news was grim. The disease was not subsiding as Doctor Hess had hoped, but rather it had spread. Three days ago I had entered onto this hospital ward under my own power and with my own two legs. Today, I have no exit planned. I have no plans at all. I do know if I am indeed granted leave of here, it will not be as optimistically as I entered. I will not be leaving upon this place under my own power and with my own two legs.

This same sickness that has cost me my Earthly legs is slowly rendering the rest of my body useless as well. The disease, cancer, they say, is consuming me from the inside out. Soon I will be nothing more. A mere repository for liquid and bone. That will be all that remains of Margaret. The fluid of my life and that of which supported me in body and in spirt.

I’ve seen this happen to others. I know what the friendly smiles and closed ended questions mean. I may be a woman, but I’m no simpleton. They, the doctors, haven’t told me how long yet, but one knows it’s coming.

I know it’s coming.

The legacy I have to leave for this world is not near as grand as I once imagined it might be. I am twice a widow and have long been barren, that is, unable to bear children of my own. My body was keenly aware of the fact that any attempt at sustained longevity or posterity was futile. This was long before my mind was informed and also long before any such spirt I might have held for such of the aforementioned had been squashed. This was before my mind was lost.

Day Two Five

My first husband Andrew was a robber baron. He made his money by bilking both the poor and the rich. He had no shame. He worked in agriculture and on Wall Street. He was mostly a bitter, petty little man, but he hadn’t always been that way. He was dashing and charming when we met. He promised me the moon and the stars. He promised me a lot. He had evidently promised these things to a lot of other pretty young girls not just me. Most men do. They did then and they do now and they will tomorrow too. He took a flying leap from a 33rd floor office one Tuesday afternoon. At the time I was rather sad to see him go, but I’m older now. The sentiment has changed.

I told Doctor Hess that my right leg hurt. The pain was in my knee, but it was excruciatingly dreadful. The doctor nodded in response and took a clipboard from the wall. He put on his cheerful “everything’s alright “ face, but I could feel his doubt. I felt his fear. He scribbled something and said I should get some sleep. I took a peek at the clipboard when he left. It was a medical chart. My medical chart. I had never seen one before. Near the bottom of the page on what were once empty lines he had scribbled “phantom leg syndrome- complains of lower extremity pain.”

The fever had worsened on the eve of the first day. The infection had spread from my throat to my lungs. They treated it the best they knew how, but they still weren’t sure if I would ever wake up again. They had to amputate my right leg early the next morning.

I had a dream last night. I was walking through a lovely field of the most beautiful marigolds I had ever seen. Red and yellow and orange as far as my eyes could see. It was as though God himself had laid out his best blanket for an afternoon picnic.

Marigolds have been my favorite flower since I was a little girl. My mother, Isa, wanted to name me Mary, but father had his way and I took his mother’s name. I don’t remember much of him. I recall a trip to Coney Island, but that was a long time ago. For all I know it was merely a dream.

Day Seven

I am more than astutely aware that my legs are no more. Doctor Hess and his nurses did their best to console me but I cried. Oh Lord, I so terribly cried. Times like these almost make me happy that I was unable to have any children of my own. It saddens me terribly to think back at my own mothers death. I’m thankful that I had have no children to weep for me. My burden is my own. This is how it should be.

Today coincidentally happens to be my birthday. In years past the occasion had always been a garish affair. People I don’t know. People I do know that don’t know me. The continuous comedy and tragedy that wealth brings. God love it. I’m thirty today and I don’t feel a day past dead. I’d always silently wished I were dead. Now that I’m upon death’s doorstep, I wonder why. Why I felt that way. Why I didn’t change it. Why me and why now?

These are questions unfortunately only God has the answers to. My mother used to say that. I’m not so sure. That seems like someone else’s fantasy. I believe in God, yes, but for someone to have all that power to himself? I guess I’ll find out for myself what’s it’s all about and right quick. Soon enough I’ll get to ask all the complicated questions that have no simple answers.

Day Eleven

The marigolds on the window sill are beginning to wither and tilt. I can’t tell if they are bowing to the sun or away from it. I was thirteen years old and I desperately wanted a piano. The music I’d heard from the phonograph was mesmerizing. There was Bach and Beethoven. Mozart and Chopin.

I never got that piano. My mom tried, but they were still just people. My dad didn’t understand. I don’t hold it against them. Not even him. I close my eyes in the dark and I think. I feel. I’m still dying, but I’d like to think it was worth something.

I wonder what the fly trapped in the web thinks as it waits for its death. It’s impossible for it to die with dignity. It thrashes about and tries in vain to free itself. I wonder. What if I were the spider? Could I make this same observation of people? Perhaps we live our lives in and out of webs. Maybe some are more stuck than others, but we all thrash about and long to break free.

Day Nineteen

Robert and mother came today. It always seems to surprise me how vainglorious and self centered she really is. I suppose that I am too, but I didn't get it honest. My own brand of such austere is thanks to Tiffany and Chanel.

I know what they must think of me. I know what awaits me. There was a reason for our divorce and I didn’t shed any tears at their deaths. After all, I killed them.

Their presence together was not a coincidence. They had become lovers. I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but alas, it seems so.

Mother was a narcissistic money lover. Robert was at best a dolt and that’s putting it mildly. They were made for one another. In life, or death.

In the winter just before the war, one of them, I don’t remember which, Robert returned home fewer and fewer times until one day he decided to never return home at all. 

Oh, he thought he was smart. He thought I didn’t know. He wasn’t and I did. He had been seeing mother and the affair had been going on for several months.

I shot them both, Robert and my mother. I shot them dead as they both lied in their bed. I also smothered their little bastard child. I drowned him in their blood. I set their house on fire just for spite. They were already dead, but I smile hoping that they felt the heat of the flames.

I left and found a vagabond by the rail station. He ravaged me before I cut his throat. The poor always could fuck me better than the rich. The rich don’t fuck me, I fuck them.

Day Twenty

My mind is static. It’s a hum and there is no buzz. I’m not the mystery, you’re the anomaly. You hide behind your facades and your fear. You value your money and your possessions. You think you’re in love. That’s cute. Call my name while you beat them and while you smother them. Give them something to think about besides their fear.

Day Twenty Three

Fuck this. Fuck these people. This is a circus. A sideshow of morons. I wanted better. I didn’t think it would be this way. I fucking demand better goddamnit. This fucking doctor, this Hess. He wouldn’t know his ass from a goddamn hole in the ground. Don’t they fucking know who I am?

Sorry. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for even for my own thoughts. I beg your pardon.

Day Fifty Three

It’s been about a month since my last entry. This one will be my last. The treatments have worked, but they have not cured me of my sickness. I am one of them now. I’m part of the problem. What was left of my mind to lose has been lost, but they put it back. They made me and they made you. We are them and they are us.

I’m finished talking now. Maybe we’ll meet again someday. Maybe we already have. In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway. I wish I would just die already. I wish there was an escape. If you find one, you’re a liar. There’s no way out of here. There’s an answer to your questions, but you’re asking the wrong ones.