Moon-Cursed Princess by Mark Twain 8
Chapter 8
“What sin did that girl commit to have a mother like that? If it weren’t for Suzan, she’d have died long ago.”
This villager’s face was full of pity.
Bryant seemed to lose all his strength, swaying on his feet.
When he steadied himself on the cage, a rusted barb scratched his finger.
His voice choked up as he asked, “You said that the girl had been locked in this cage since she was a child?”
“Yeah. Later, some city folks came and said they’d fix our houses. That’s when we learned the girl actually came from a rich family. Said they were grateful we saved her back then.”
The villager scratched his head, continuing, “We didn’t really do anything. Just pitched in a bit for the 15 dollars Suzan used to buy her.”
Bryant’s eyes filled with disbelief.
Later, he stumbled back to his car. “Marjorie, what have you been through?”
A tear slid down his cheek.
Looking at him, I said in my heart, “Bryant, isn’t it a bit late to start caring now?”
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He dug out our marriage registration photo-the only picture of us together in all these years.
Wiping away tears, he sobbed like a wounded animal, “Marjorie, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Let me make it up to you, please?”
His tone was soft, pleading. He’d never spoken to me like this before. The regret on his face was plain to see.
I never thought I’d see him-the dignified, aloof, rich young man-this broken, and it was for me.
I said inwardly, “It’s useless, Bryant. You’ll never get the chance to make it up to me.”
I couldn’t name the feeling in my heart at this moment. Bitter, probably…
What I couldn’t get when I was alive, I only got after death. But what was the use?
It was like a fan in winter, a padded coat in summer-always out of place.
Suddenly, a jarring ringtone broke the silence.
It was from the police station.
“Hello, are you Ms. Marjorie Jarvis’s husband?
“Marjorie has been confirmed deceased. Her condition is gruesome. Suspected homicide. We need a family member to come identify the body.”
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Long after the call ended, Bryant remained in a daze. He still held the phone, but his back was hunched.
He kept repeating, “No… That’s impossible…”
I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It was as if all the love I once had for him had turned to hatred in this moment.
I watched his grief-stricken expression shift from disbelief to utter devastation.
He tried to start the car but failed repeatedly.
His hands on the steering wheel trembled violently. Then his whole body began to shake. It was as if all the energy had left him.
He let out a helpless, anguished cry. “Marjorie, is this your punishment for me?”
I watched him coldly. How could he ask such a thing?
I endured all those years of suffering. Why would I choose to die for something as ridiculous as punishing him?
Almost teasingly, I leaned close to his ear. Then I said, “Yes. Punishing you for letting me die.
“Bryant, have you forgotten? You’re the one who let me die at the kidnappers’ hands.”
I followed Bryant’s panicked steps to the morgue. His long, defined fingers gripped the white sheet, trembling slightly.
Moments before, a staff member had told him, “Her family? Best to let her rest soon. She suffered inhuman torture. Poor girl, truly a hard life.
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10.18
“Oh, and she was pregnant. Did you know?”
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