if only-prologue

My mother’s dead and why? Because of me. All my live I have been the blame of her death, my father hasn’t nor shall he ever forgive me. Yet I don’t understand! Was it I who stop her heart from beating or prevented her lungs from their constant intake of air.
No, so why was I the blame? Well I’ll tell you.
My mother was called Catherine Miller; Her hair was wild and red; she was so exceptionally pretty and vastly intelligent. She was a great match for my father; they had married when my mother was just sixteen. I often wonder if she ever loved him. But I do know that I shall never find out
My father Henry Miller is such a perfectionist, that everything in his house is perfect with one exception, that is me I am far from perfect in his eyes. Everything I do is never done right. Whether it’s cleaning the floor or stitching up the holes in his socks. He is a reasonably handsome man but wrinkles have formed from the feeling of great loss. In his eyes I am an accident he only wanted a son so he wasn’t over pleased when my mother fell pregnant with me. So when my mother died in childbirth my father blamed me. He hasn’t forgiven me and I doubt he ever will.
There is only one person whom I can talk to, in my life that’s my best friend Edward. But I’m not allowed to go out, if my father ever found out that I went out other than to the market he would be furious, let alone if he thought I was seeing a boy. I mean we’re not together even if I wish we were. But I don’t think Edward even realises how I feel about him. I really do love him but I know that I can never share my feeling with him because if I ever lost him. Then I would rather die than to live without him.
My room is very simple; next to my door is my bed. Opposite to which is a mahogany chest of drawers, on which I keep my few but very special items this includes: a portrait of my mother, a small and simple ruby ring and a small collections of books. In the drawers I keep my bodices including my favourite one that is the deepest of red with a trail of blood red jewels around the bottom. I only wear this on Christmas day it is the only one, of which is good enough. Under my bed I have hidden the few letters from Edward, which I often re-read before I go to sleep.
Edward is different! He treats me like a real lady; He bows and kisses my hand every time we meet, so in return I curtsy back. I suppose it’s a private joke between us. It started when I first met him in the market. I had brought a load of vegetables to use for Sunday tea. I was just returning home when a little old man came up to me. He was only a short fellow with dark circles under each eye. His hands were covered in filth and blood. As I wondered where the blood had come from I saw a glimpse of a dagger, shocked I started to back away.

He charged towards me. Suddenly there was a dagger at my throat. For a split second I shamefully thought ‘ do it, just do it.’ Because at that time I had no one to talk to, there was only my hateful father in my life.
“You will come with me now.” He whispered.