Dear William,

When I lie awake at night, unable to close my eyes in fear of the memories which snake their way through my thoughts, trembling at the visions I will meet lest I allow my guard to be dropped, I wonder, do you expect me to thank you? Yes you so kindly allowed me to roam the ships freely, clutching desperately the tiny hands of my two children, but when the moon shone reflecting angrily off of the forsaken water through which in our passage we treaded, did you still feel as if you were doing me a service? And when you did not wait even, for the sun to fall out of the sky, at least then, you could not have honestly termed your actions justifiable. Could you have? Of course, in your defense, it is true I cannot match the chafe marks on my husbands shackled hands with those of my own, and no I cannot rightly compare my own with his feelings of pure physical captivity and helplessness as he watches, in torture, the rape of his wife. I may not be physically bound, but you have placed me in prison. In hell. Each day I cannot walk freely past the embarrassing and excruciating pain between my legs. And as I put them to sleep, I cannot see past the fear in the eyes of my children. They are scared for me. Is it not I who should feel a fear to protect them? Each morning, as I pick myself up, locating the scattered portions of my soul like a vase carelessly shattered, I cannot hear past the thoughts of helplessness and despair which your actions so clumsily placed into my mind. And each day I cannot speak past the silence which has begun to inhabit the chasm my husband and I no longer find navigable. So when you explained, Master Snelgrave, that you couple the sturdy men together with irons, yet so compassionately suffer the women and children to go freely about, did you truly feel good about yourself? Did you expect me to thank you?

-woman in shackles