Lillian Olling hated America. She hated everything about it. She hated the way it smelled, smoking and oily, the air so

dirty at times with all the cars and trucks and factories, it clawed at her

throat.

She hated the noise, the clattering thrum of New York City that grated on her ears

and set her teeth on edge.

She hated how crowded it was.

The way people rushed up against her on the street,

bumping her out of the way as if she didn't matter,

as if she weren't even there.

The people here were so rude, so uncaring. Some people would later claim that

it was the other way around and that Lillian had the sort of prickly personality where she'd

snap at you just for looking at her the wrong way. She worked as a servant and her

employers treated her like well like a servant. The work was back

breaking and demeaning and she felt so tired all the time. Lillian hated the food,

the taste of it all so alien to her that it made her want to wretch at times.

She hated English, the way it felt thick and clumsy on her tongue, nothing like the sweet poetry

of her native language.

She hated being so alone.

So lost and alone it sometimes felt as if she were drowning. And all around her were a city full of strangers,

gleefully watching her sink into darkness.

She hated everything about this country she'd traveled so far to get to.

And now there was only one thing she wanted more than anything, more than anything in the entire world, to go home.

...