Everyone always though she was so good. So perfect that when tragedy struck she had no choice but to bite her pain silently and suffer alone, inwardly crumbling because the world regarded her as strong and brave.

No one would know the fear that gnawed her inside, or the feel trembling flutter of her hands attempting to make sense of her darkened senses. At night when she lay next to the heavy, measured breathing of her sister, she wondered why such things had to be, clawing her small fingernails into the sheets, wanting to shred them beneath her as salty tears peppered the pillow supporting her head.

But she didn't say anything, because she couldn't. Mary Ingalls was a girl who got on with things, who made do. And so her smile simply waned a little, and the dimpled blush of her cheeks faded slightly with the startling blue of her eyes.

She resented Laura, the girl who moaned and cried that it was unfair she had to become a school teacher because now Mary couldn't. Didn't she see Mary hadn't wanted this to happen? That it was slowly tearing her apart to see her begrudging little sister embark on the dream now confined to the forgotten corners of Mary's memory.

She couldn't say anything, she remained stoic, perfect, the Mary Ingalls everyone knew, because good little girls didn't cry.


what do you think?

Laura's point of view next I think :)