I sat at the desk in my room, staring out the window. I was off my work shift at Boston's local brothel. I observed the crowd below from the window, my mind continuing to drift to thoughts of my beloved John. He was now deceased, and I missed him so. My hand floated over my neck, where my cross used to hang. I was used to grasping it habitually throughout the day. Since I'd moved into the brothel, it hanged no more. Rain began to wet the window, the weather adding to my wretchedness.
A knock on the door roused me from my negligence. I waited for either the inebriated shout to let me know it was a customer, or the vulgar calling to tell me it was the brothel proprietor. Neither came, but instead the soft whisper of Mercy Lewis' tone.
"May I intrude?" it asked.
"Yes," I sighed reluctantly, not wanting for company.
I watched as the wood door to my chamber creaked open, and Mercy slipped in. She scurried, not unlike a rodent, towards my bed and sat down. As I looked at my now only friend, I could not help but thinking about her past in the process. Mercy had resided in Falmouth, Maine when her parents were killed by Indians, as were mine. She eventually came to live with a Thomas Putnam, a distant relative of hers. She, as I, were involved in the cry of witchery in Salem.
"I have just finished work for the day. Have you as well?" Mercy inquired.
"Yes," I said monotonously.
"It be that day, yet again," Mercy sighed.
"What day is it?" I asked, not knowing of what she spoke.
"The beginning of the witch hunt. It was to-day three years past," she explained.
"It is?" I asked.
"Indeed. This is the day all of the tomfoolery arose. It seems but a distant memory to me now."
"We were but children. Immature ones, might I add."
"I can still remember the glow of the fire the night of the spell castings," Mercy mumbled.
" Twas all foolishness. Sweet Tituba lost her life over mere sport. I can still recollect her being beaten," I burbled.
"Maybe we should just forget about the past events," Mercy suggested.
I looked hard at my companion, my expression that of distress.
"Are you suggesting I disregard my recollections of my beloved?" I cried toward her, thinking of my dear Proctor.
"No! Not in the slightest, I was merely suggesting moving on from the stress and pain it cause us. Yet, you may not let go of the love you shared."
"Not to mention my loath for Goody Proctor," I grumbled.
"You merely loath her for loving your John," Mercy commented.
"And, what of it?" I crossed my arms 'cross my bosom.
"No need for you to be distressed," she rolled her eyes like the child she was.
"Forgive me. I do not know what has become of me," I sighed, still feeling the grip of distress on my body.
"I believe you need a rest. The brothel life can harden your soul quite a bit. Perhaps a respite would do you good," Mercy advised.
I thought on her comment for a moment. Some time away from my exhausting job might serve me well.
"Maybe you are right." I sighed, feeling a bit melancholy from the precipitation outside.
"Along with that," Mercy continued, "it wouldn't hurt to try and turn your thoughts to happier things instead of that horrid Salem."
"The brothel is not a place of joy, dear Mercy."
Despite Mercy Lewis' manipulative intentions, she was right. I needed to forget about my love, Proctor. Though I knew there would never again be another man like him, it was unhealthy to linger on my past.
"I shall leave you with your thoughts, then." Mercy said, slipping out of my room.
I'd hardly noticed her leave.
"Oh, John." I breathed, the window returning to my view once more.
How could I ever forget my one true love?