Pioneer's Daughter (Short Story)

The winter of 1876 found me on the cold, unrelenting streets of Boston. Alone, save the hunger that curled like a ghastly snake within my belly.  The child within me pressed angrily against my abdomen, angry at the starvation it was facing. I could do nothing but press my hand to that spot and pray that the child would forgive me someday.
I was young, no doubt about that, but I had found love. Some say that I was a foolish girl, taking to him the way I had. But, alas, the story played out how it would and I fell helplessly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love. Several months passed. They were of pure bliss. He and I, lost in a river of love and passion, were made for each other. Then one cold, cruel, unforgiving day came when I was alone. There had been an accident in the market and my beloved John had been taken away from me. Killed, by the careless strangers that drove their carts through town. Less than a month later, I found out that I was with child.
My father, ashamed of my pregnancy, forced me out of the house. I was disowned, abandoned, and heartbroken. John, my betrothed, had promised to take care of me. However, that would never be. So now, with the finality of my situation weighing upon my soul, I had a newfound determination.
It was cold, and dark. The snow came nearly to my knees. The streetlights were growing dim as the morning light arose. I pulled myself out of the ramshackle hut I had made of barrels and discarded wood and stretched. My bulging stomach protested under the strained weight of my child. I did not let it bother me. Instead, I pressed my hands against the small of my back ,releasing, momentarily,  the pain. Then, with a plan in my head, I started my day.
I took to the post office first, hoping that the letter had finally arrived. The letter that would be both my salvation and my damnation all in one. The small building boasted a Gothic archway, designed by Jean-Louise, a local French man set on remodeling the entire city after his homeland. I pulled off my woolen gloves as I stepped into the office, fearful that my hopes would be dashed once more. My heart soared into my chest when I was given a letter addressed to Miss Megan Gollman. It was postmarked from Miss Sarah Gollman, my father's spinster sister. 
I tore it open quickly and began reading:

My Dearest Megan,
I am terribly sorry to hear of your current plight and I am looking down upon my little brother for casting you out in such a distasteful manner. I believe that a woman, even in your situation, can become of great use to society. My darling niece, I ask that you come stay with me. At the very least until the baby is born. Here you can have a fresh start, a new life, away  from the rumors and discourse of your society. Darling, come to me. Live here and have a new, hopeful life.
Enclosed is money for passage. My dearest, accept my offer and join me.
Forever Yours,         
Sarah Gollman

Something about her letter gave me a queer, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. As if feeling this, my baby stirred.
I wasted no time in gathering my sparse belongings and locating the next caravan heading West. I paid the handsome fee and was lucky to gain board. We were to leave the next day. I went back to my ramshackle hut that night with renewed hope and a dream of the future. Little did I know then, I would never make it.
I awoke the next morning, bleary and groggy. I pulled myself out of the alley, with renewed vigor as I realized that it would be the day that my life would change forever. I hurried to the Station where we to leave from and was eagerly greeted by a young woman, only a few years older than myself, and her quiet husband. I was to gain passage with them for this journey. It was not long at all, and we were on our way.
Many days passed as I rode with these people. I began noticing the queer nature of their lives. The man stopped the wagon every night, a quarter mile away from the train. They did not associate with the others as a normal couple would. They communicated with snide comments and hateful looks. However, they retreated to the same mat every night, together. I thought it to be stress that made them react so coolly to one another and the wagon train. It was not until, one day when we were far behind the train, the man known as Lawrence stopped our wagon and decreed we would go no farther until he declared it.
I quickly became frantic. My time was nearing and my child would be arriving soon. I needed to be with Sara before such events took place. However, Lawrence would hear no complaints. It was that very day that my torture began.
My heart, longing for my own John, did not allow me to see the first tell-tale signs of cruelty they bestowed upon my pregnant body. Slowly, they began starving me, saying that we were running out of food though I could clearly see them stuffing themselves. More and more, the chores at our 'campsite' became mine to accomplish without help. Katherine, the woman, threw her back one night and had to remain bed-ridden. That left me handling the woman's chores. Then, Lawrence started complaining of an ache in his legs that hindered his movement. With that, all chores were mine.
They played this nicely at first, watching in silent glee while my form, once swollen from pregnancy, shrank to a diminutive size. It worried me greatly, but I could still feel my child squirming inside me stubbornly. A bundle of pure energy that would not be denied by the cruel captors we had chanced upon. For the baby's sake, I suffered through this torment. It was not until it got worse, brutally worse, that I began to plot escape.
It was late one night, spring was upon us now, and I lay beside the fire. No longer was I allowed the warmth of the wagon that Katherine and Lawrence shared. The air was crisp and cool, the fire threw ghosts upon the walls of the wagon, and owls cried out in calls of loneliness and agony. Silent suffering seemed to resonate from their voices. I heard a stick snap behind me. I paid it no attention, Lawrence had long since abandoned his feigned injury. It was not until I felt the hand across my face that I gave start.
Lawrence, drunk off the last of the mead, stood above me, breathing as if he'd just come off of a long run.  He held the bottle still in his hand, the firelight glinted off of it maliciously. He appeared enraged by something and this fear was confirmed when he shrieked into the sky. The birds from nearby trees took flight, frightened of the wild animal in their midst. Lawrence knelt beside me, jerking me up by the neck until I was mere inches from him.
He snarled at me and I was suddenly, irrationally disgusted by the stale, pungent odor of his breath. It was not until he spoke that I realized the danger I was in. “Megan...you've been brave through all of this, pet... We've beaten you, starved you, treated you worse than the common slave; And yet....you won't die....” There he released me, but rebounded with a sharp slap across the face that sent me sprawling back onto the earth.
“Why won't you die?!” he shrieked into the sky once more before dropping again to my side, “All we wanted is your baby, Megan. Just the baby. You have to die!”
The last part was screamed as he smashed the bottle against a rock, causing it to shatter into pieces. The jagged edge glittered in the firelight like a jewel, beautiful and precious in its ability to kill. Tears of fear streaming from my face, I turned my head away from the sight and caught a fresh shock.
Kneeling beside me, in a dress as white as the winter snow, a small girl stared up at the man above me. At first, I thought her an angel. Then, when rational thought again found me, I thought her to be a runaway from a passing wagon train. But, Lawrence made no heed of the child as he slashed wildly at my skin, missing often. The little girl turned her face to me and I inhaled sharply. Her eyes were the color of the deepest ocean and her hair of spun gold. In her face, she looked much like my darling John, yet her coloring was definitely mine. Could it be....? I thought in wonder.
The child spoke then, “Mother....” she said breathily, “You'll not die here tonight. Close your eyes now. When you wake, this will seem but a dream.” After much hesitation, I realized that the hacking at my skin had subsided. I looked back to realize Lawrence had passed out, bloody bottle in hand, near the fire. With a breath of relief, I turned to face the phantom girl at my side. Too late, she was gone. With a sigh, I closed my eyes and slept.

This routine continued on for many days without error. Every night, Lawrence would lash out at me with words, weapons, fists, and anything he could lay his hands on. Nightly, he beat me until I was sure I would die. Always though, my little phantom girl would appear and coach me through it. She treated me with reverence and looked upon Lawrence and Katherine with disgust in her eyes and often enough, I believe I saw hatred. Every morning, I awoke and went about my chores as usual, growing smaller and weaker by the day. I no longer felt the stirring of my child beneath my skin, but I was sure she still lived. How else could my phantom girl appear to me? How else? One day soon I would see her. I was sure.
Late one night, after Lawrence had left me, my phantom-girl stayed behind. I nursed my latest injuries while she sat and watched. Her cool blue eyes were calculating when at last she spoke.
“Mother, you can't live through much more of this....” she paused, studying my stomach, her voice was much lower went she went on. “Nor can I.” She reached out to touch my stomach and her skin was cold and clammy, almost waxy feeling, against my own. I shivered despite myself.
“We will make it, child....We will....” I murmured, drifting into sleep. My phantom-girl, my own little angel, looked at me in disgust as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The next night, while Lawrence beat me, I was alone. The night after that as well. Night after night for nearly two weeks, I was alone during these beatings. My phantom had abandoned me. This alone, caused more pain and strife than anything else. With my phantom-girl and my beloved both gone, I went into a state of shock. I moved through the days seamlessly. I took the beatings with no protest. Time began to blur together. Suddenly, time and space had no meaning. I was alone.
The first pains came late one afternoon. Spring was half-over and the days were getting longer and warmer. I was just finishing up my chores when I felt the searing pain. I doubled over, clutching at my stomach. My little angel.... was my only thought as another pain overtook me and I screamed. I heard Katherine's soft footfalls as she approached, stopped, then shouted in glee and raced off to find Lawrence.
This is it, I thought, This is it, darling. Our child is coming. Our daughter. My own angel. Then another thought struck me. Katherine and Lawrence. I'll never live to see her... They'll kill me the minute she arrives. I'll never see my baby girl ever again.
This thought propelled me forward. I found Lawrence's horse, still saddled from his hunting expedition. He never did care for a living being.... I thought as I gripped the animals reigns. Painfully, as another labor pain took me, I pulled myself onto the animals back. I urged him forward, hoping against hope, that it would do some good.
It was not long until I heard Lawrence in pursuit, the other horse we had brought carrying him quickly. Fruitlessly, I pushed the animal faster, pleading with anyone or anything that was listening to spare me for my child's sake. Please...Please... I begged silently, Please....
It was of no use.
Lawrence overtook me quickly. He wasn't suffering from the pains of labor as I was. He still had clear thought. Then, I saw something I had thought I would never see again. My little Phantom-Girl stood several feet in front of my horse, looking up at me solemnly. I halted the horse immediately and dismounted, never taking my eyes off of the ghostly child.
Without a word, she walked past me, to the saddle bags. She stuck her thin, pale arm into the bag and withdrew a large hunting knife, determination on her small, porcelain face. She looked at me once then turned to await our follower.
Lawrence arrived as I was again doubled over in pain, crying from the feeling of it all. Pain, hatred, hope, fear, and all other emotions roared through me, tearing up my insides and causing my heart to pound so loudly I was sure anyone could hear it. Lawrence looked stunned when he saw me.
“Wh-what are you doing...?!” he shouted at me.
I was confused. I didn't know what he was talking about. Then  I saw it. My little girl, My phantom child, turned into the Angel Of Death. She walked towards him with a grim determination. Hatred, pure and bright, shining in her young eyes. She raised the knife and let it gleam in the moonlight. Then, without hesitation, she plunged it, again and again, into his body.
Blood splattered everywhere, coating the child until she was nothing more than a crimson stain. All the while I screamed. My screams must have brought Katherine because the next thing I knew, my little girl was on top of the woman, slashing at her as well.  Death hung in the air when finally the shrieks grew silent. Still though, I yelled. It was not until I fell to the ground, writhing in pain, that my girl turned to me.
“Mother...we are well....” she whispered softly, covered in blood.
Then, I was screaming again. But suddenly, people were there, helping my pain. A woman with a kind face and a man with a soothing voice.
“Calm now, child. You're baby is on her way. Calm now.” The woman cooed.
In the distance I heard the man gag and gasp in alarm. I dazedly looked at him. He stared at me in utmost horror. I looked to see what he saw. Katherine and Lawrence, horridly mutilated, laying in pools of their own blood on the forest floor.
The woman saw this and shook her head and through my pain I heard her speak, “Calm now, child. We will not harm you. Give me the knife. Before the baby comes.”
Confused, I stared at her. I did not have the knife. My phantom child did. Surely they could see that.
“The girl has it. The girl killed them. Not I.” I hissed through the pain.
The woman, eyes full of pity, shook her head softly and gripped my arm. As she raised my arm, I looked on in horror as I realized I clutched a blood-stained knife. I looked down and saw the blood covering my body. My eyes flew to my phantom-girl, standing at my side.
“No...” I begged quietly, staring at her. Simply, softly, she smirked and faded away. I realized with horror... she had never been real.
The doctors at this facility where I have resided since that day say I never stopped screaming until well after my daughter was born.