They’re not monsters, either. Not men you’d shrink away from on the street. On the contrary. They’re men you’d see at Mass, who’d give you a polite nod while they greet your husband.

If you remember nothing else of Susanna, remember how she speaks her truth. She knows it will cost her something. She’s not aware yet quite how steep the cost will be, but still she speaks her truth.

I can survive, a solitary creature. I have thus far. But just the thought that someone else might care what fate befalls me- it changes everything.

Words are power.

I take a length of cloth and hold it to my head – a wedding veil. I do not regret the days of make-believe, but for every time I played at bride I should have played at goddess, river, warrior queen.

I wish men would decide if women are heavenly angels on high, or earthbound sculptures for their gardens. But either way, we’re beauty for consumption.

No matter how many layers of paint pile one, I will always be the sketch beneath. Useful, even crucial, but never what’s admired by the world.

Because sometimes it doesn’t turn out the way you thought it would. Sometimes what you imagine in your head isn’t what comes out of the paintbrush. And then you start to realize something has gone horribly horribly wrong, and there’ll never be a way to put it back the way it was.

Not all stories have happy endings. I cannot promise this one will either. But I am certain you will be glad you stayed with Susanna to the end. She deserves that much – a witness, one who says I see you, hear you, I’m better for knowing your story.

I suppose it isn’t fair to fault my father, though he’s the one who used it, moved it, claimed it as his own because of course, he did. That’s just the way of things, I beg and fight and scrape for scraps while he just has to glance upon a thing to make it his.