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: My story can never be told. I write it over and over, wherever we find shelter. I write of what I cannot speak: the truth. I write all I know of it, then I throw the pages to the wind. Maybe the birds can read it.
: Once upon a time, I was born. It is still a fact that the day you are born is the day you are most likely to be murdered. More human souls are killed by mothers' hands, than by the hands of strangers. My mother tried to murder me, but love confounded her.
: I remember everything. It's a burden.
: My mum said you came to see me when I was in hospital. She um... She thinks that... That you're my girl. Would that be so bad. Because I... Eleanor
: It would be fatal. Frank
: Look... I know - I know I'm ill and all, but... Eleanor
: No. For me.
: I am Eleanor Webb. I throw my story to the wind, and never will I tell it more. Another one begins.
: My mother did three things for me. One, she spared my life the day that I was born. Two, she paid for my upkeep on her knees and on her back. And three, she gave me the story I can never tell.