Friday, May 21st, 1869

Dear Diary,

Oh, dear! Oh dear! I have killed, Diary. I have murdered. Look how my tears streak the page just as blood stains my wall and fl–


I have recovered myself somewhat, Diary, and seek now to provide a more restrained account of the shocking incident.

Do you remember when I intimated to you, early on in this volume, that a strange man intruded upon my privacy at home and demanded a kiss? This, I considered not only just punishment, but also a fair warning, in consideration of my recent freedom of association. Having not mended my ways as I intended, I suppose this most recent incident with an intruder is but further proof of the rightness of my assumptions.

I know of no easy or gentle way to narrate such a tale, so I think I shall just come out with it: I killed a man. There I stood, in nothing but my corset and pantaloons, innocently changing for an evening’s festivities at the Blue Mermaid. Innocent, I say! How can anything that takes place at such a house be called innocent? And yet I maintain my innocence upon this occasion, as there is no inherent guilt in dressing oneself, be the clothes what they may.

I looked up to see a man, a strange man, gazing at me not through a window, but from within my very chamber. I admit that I flamed out. Quite angrily, I demanded to know what business he had in my home. The man ignored my question. I fear he was quite mad, for he then proceeded to run about my house, bouncing off of walls as he went. He literally shouted obscenities and nonsense all the while. I told him in no uncertain terms to leave. This time, he answered. He told me no. He the began again to approach my bedroom. His visage, while human, seemed entirely not so, contorted as it was by emotions and desires at which I fear to guess.

Shocked and frightened, I reached under my bed and retrieved my steam powered shotgun. This, you know, is my weapon of choice for slaying air kraken and zombies. Air kraken and zombies! And possibly Miss Spearsong, has the she-wolf proven more hostile than friendly on further acquiescence. And now, it seems, this very shotgun is my method of choice for slaying humans. The man rushed toward me. I fired a warning shot, but he continued his approach. I aimed again. Just as I pulled the trigger, the man wildly asked after the exit. Well, I suppose I furnished a response, although I doubt it was the one he wanted. He fell over dead just as the words left his mouth.


I am sorry again for breaking off so suddenly. I find myself much overwhelmed by emotion while relating this tale. Oh, dear! I know not what I can possibly do! I dragged the body away from my bedroom door — the body! — and draped it (him) with the white linen of a table cloth. I brought a bucket of soap and water and have begun to clean the blood. But whatever shall I do with the body? Oh, how it smells!

What does one do with a body? Shall I bury him, I suppose? And who can I trust to help me with the lifting and digging?

Perhaps I should turn myself in to the catgirls. It was self defense, after all. But is my word to be believed? What will happen to dear Mary if I go to prison?

In the meantime, I try to attend social events as usual. I cannot seem to smile, though. I must also make an effort to dress in more colorful attire, as my mood lately tends toward black. And why should it not, that being the just color of mourning? I did not know this man. In the few moments that we spent together, I loathed and feared him. Still, I mourn his passing as though he were of my own flesh and blood. ‘Til now, I never knew what a bonding experience murder could be.

Still worse… no, not worse. To further complicate matters, I have Gordon’s voice in my mind, continually asking what is wrong and how she can help. Dear, me! I would not for my life ask her to clean up after a murder. Is that not one reason for which I so despise Mr. Plutonian, for forcing Gordon’s complicity in such matters? And now, acting on intelligence from Gordon, Mr. Plutonian is suspicious. He pries politely and I reply noncommittally, but I fear he will discover my secret.

I only hope that I can clean up the mess before poor Mary sees it. The dear child’s mind may be turned forever at seeing so grisly a scene at so tender an age!

Oh, Diary! I must go and dispose of the body, now. Perhaps the boat yard will do, yes? Until the deed is done, I remain:

Your Penitent,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

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2 Responses to Friday, May 21st, 1869

  1. Pingback: In Which I Call Upon Miss Puddlegum At Her Home (RP) « The Plutonian Letters

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