Department of English

Spring 2008 High School Edition

Hester's Life Story (Based on The Scarlet Letter)

Cassie Hollingshead
Fiction (11th-12th)
Second Place
Beaver High School
Teacher: Marilee Eyre

I, Hester Prynne, was born December 8, 1622, to Josiah and Lydia Garlands.  I loved my life as a little girl, surrounded by six brothers and sisters and loving parents.  We weren’t rich, and our house wasn’t in the best condition, but my siblings and I made the best of it by working, attending school, and playing make-believe.  I loved to imagine that my family was rich, and that we all wore fine gowns like I’d seen the ladies in town wear.  My mother told me that my dream could come true when I got older and married.  I was happy and content until the day my mother was struck with scarlet fever; my whole world came crashing down.  My mother and two of my sisters died.  Something in me was lost along with their death— hope.

Several years later, two of my brothers had left to find work in another town, and we never heard from them again.  My father was not the same man I had known growing up.  He would spend hours at a time thinking about my mother and how his family had crumbled to pieces.  Now there were only two of his precious daughters left.  He became weary from his efforts to support my sister and me, and he lay on his death bed.  One night he pulled me to his bedside and laid his head upon my cheek.  I felt warm tears caressing my skin as he spoke to me saying, “My girl, Hester, my beautiful girl, I’ll be dying soon.  I’m so sorry that I haven’t been able to provide for you, or leave you anything at my death, but I’ve found a man that will take good care of you and will love you.  I can’t bear the thought of your living off the streets, and that is why I’ve arranged for you to marry this man.  He is a nice man, scholarly, and a little stricken in age compared to you, but I know he will provide for you.”  At that point I could only clutch my father close to my bosom and cry with him.

I met the man my father talked of.  His name was Roger.  He seemed nice at first glance, very proper and caring, but then we got married.  I never really loved him, but I thought that I could make the marriage work, after all, this is what my father had given me.  As time wore on, I knew I could never love him.  He sat in his study all day long.  I can envision his frame silhouetted by the fire, his shoulder that sloped, his smile that made me want to run away.  Inside I felt like a prisoner.  I don’t think he ever really loved me either, but he knew that a young beautiful wife would accent his wisdom.  I never really seemed to see him much as the months wore on; he was always out.  He’d come home so tired that my efforts at supper were snubbed.  I felt useless, almost like a servant to him.  Then came the day when he burst in the door, informing me that we were leaving.  I asked him where and he hurriedly replied, “America.”  I watched him as he tore around the house packing things here and there.  I questioned him as to why we were leaving, and in response he pushed me against the wall and bellowed, “Because I said so!”  The empty spot in my heart was filled with fear.  I never again questioned him.

We traveled two days to the coast.  He gave me my ticket and bade me farewell.  Apparently he wasn’t going to America with me, but in my heart I was glad, and I’ll say it again: I could not have cared less if I ever saw him again.  The boat was filled with strange people; some speaking in different languages.  The men would point and whistle.  I never felt so alone in my entire life.  We made it to America, to a place called Salem.  Never so glad was I to be on land, away from that filthy boat and its inhabitants.  I stayed in Salem for a month doing odd jobs here and there, when a nice woman informed me of a nice town called Boston, not far from Salem.  I decided to move there.

When I arrived in Boston, I was puzzled by this strange town.  All the people wore dark clothes and somber expressions.  I questioned a young woman near me as to the purpose of the clothing, but she only gazed at my dress, gave me a puzzled look, and moved on.  I made my way to the store to buy food to stock up my little home.  As I walked down the crowded streets, scarcely seeing a smile, a buggy lurched toward me, nearly plowing me over.  I stumbled and almost fell, but was caught by a strong hand that seemed to send shivers through me.  I looked up and found myself staring into the first smiling face I had seen since arriving in Boston. 

“Careful there miss,” he said.  “I’m Reverend Dimmesdale, and you are?” 

“Hester Prynne,” I replied. 

I was mesmerized by his eyes; it was as though I could see my own pain in his.  I felt we had a connection that I would never feel with another person.  He gathered my packages and helped me to my home.  From that time on he was my only friend.  We talked and shared stories of our lives.  He helped me fix up my home, in return for my doing his mending.  I learned the answer as to the strange apparel people wore here—they were Puritans.  I stood out among them with my fine apparel from Old England, my soft features, and beautiful figure.  It seemed that all the women looked upon me with distaste.  The only comfort I felt was when I was with Arthur Dimmesdale.

It had been three years, and before I knew it I was the talk of the town, my scarlet letter and I.  I hadn’t seen or heard from my husband, Roger, and I didn’t really care.  I stood on the scaffold accepting my punishment, wanting to run to Dimmesdale, but feeling as though I’d been betrayed by him.  Then I saw Roger.  I wanted to die.  He had this look in his eye that suggested he had the same plans for me.  My life became torture.

Weeks grew by, and I was no longer the same person I once was.  The vibrant energy I once had was lost, and any glimmer of hope had vanished.  I was hated, criticized, and alone.  I was a reject.  All that I had was my lonely cottage by the sea, my little Pearl, and the people who mocked me.  I thought back to childhood often thinking of how this could have possibly happened to me.  I’d pray day after day that I’d wake up and it would all be a dream, but it wasn’t to be.  That is how I lived the rest of my life, just a shadow in a glade of trees.