The Time I Watched My Friend Die during the Civil War

Last night I dreamt that I was a servant or slave or something to a family in the early 1860s. The family had some land, but their house wasn't like Tara at all. It was poky and dark, with only two bedrooms for the family, one bedroom for the housekeeper, and a few attic rooms for the servants.

My real-life friend was a seventeen-year-old daughter of the house, and kind of a tomboy. Her father wanted her married off and out of the house as soon as possible, so he dressed her up in some ill-fitting crinolined disaster and introduced her to his friend, a large, drunken, bearded lout—a classic wife-beating villain, basically.

Sort of like this guy, but meaner-looking.

She instantly convinced herself she was in love, and they married. The wedding party was planned for several days, so all her little brothers and sisters and all the servants, including the housekeeper, had to sleep on the floor up in the attic on thin quilts to accommodate the groom and his guests.

After the wedding, however, the groom barely looked at her, much less touched her or spoke to her. He was busy laughing and drinking long into the night with his friends. My friend was devastated. She tried to dress up pretty to get his attention, but she just looked pathetic in her ill-fitting patterned gown with stringy blond hair hanging limp around her rough, red face.

The next night, there was a storm, or maybe a battle, or possibly a battle and a storm. Also, one of the other slaves/servants and some of the children were ill. Everyone was huddled in the drawing room on the second floor. The groom, again, took no notice of his bride.

Something happened and then I was the bride. I went back up to the attic with my brothers, sisters, and servants, twirled in my blue-flowered dress, and collapsed in a heap, sobbing. The servant helped me get ready for bed, which was a corner of attic floor. We could hear music and drunken laughter through the floorboards.

Then I was the slave/servant again. "Look, she's getting worse," I said, dabbing a cool compress on a sick child's forehead.

"You'd better come over here," said the housekeeper, pointing to the bride. "She's dying."

I rushed over. The bride's face had purple shadows in it. She coughed, and it sounded like a rattle. "Tell my husband I'm sorry for offending him," she whispered. "Tell him I love him!" She breathed her last breath, and then I woke up.