A Tragic Tale of Lovers
Eva
My window is evil. How clever she thinks she is, with her compliant bone trims and bright pane eyes. The imprisonment of the blue sky has been going on for too long, taunting my poor clouds with her square glimpses of the life outside her holding cell. My sky, that used to be as blue as can be, is frail and helpless and my devil window has no door, has no bail. What is left of my friend is only a pale corpse on the verge of tears.
It is a prison. But I have figured my evil window out. I know her next move. This morning, the sky is looking greyer than ever and she wants me to visit him, she wants to fool me into comforting my friend. And when I give in, she will capture me to. So I mustn’t go. I must stay indoors for another damned day.
It began sometime, somewhere, somehow, because of someone, but sadly, it is forgotten. Although it may seem improper, although it may be old, she was everything I thought about. I said her name over and over, whispered so she would not hear. I wrote it down, in the shadow of my palm so she would not see. I listened to her every move, the wind in her skirt, the scratch from her nails to the skin and her pen to the paper. But, of course, I fled my emotion by tossing hair in my face so she would not notice. But mostly, I just watched her.
She was beautiful. I could not describe her; I am no poet or artist. Only they, if anyone may, show you my darling one. With the features of an angel, the soul of a saint and the talent of a god, no man could have created her. In faith I am, because I have met the one of pure and simple divinity, my Licia.
You wonder what my name is, poor child. I am sorry that you have to be the one to read this, but I can stay silent no more. In old pains and new fears of my upcoming death, I no longer wish to cherish my memories. I want rid of everything that is me; my treacherous heart and soul along with my name. I so wish that no one will read this, will receive my guilt and my plague and the illness rooting deep in something I no longer have, but which place inside of me will never go away. But life has yet to treat me at all.
I remember the soldiers arriving by ship when I was little. My father took me down to the dock and we watched along with every other person on the island as the soldiers paraded proudly by us under cheers and clapping. They were real men, my father told me, the kind I would one day marry. I smiled to answer him. The wounded and sick were carried ashore by the stronger and my mother wrapped me in her shawl and asked me to look at her, look away. Everything smelt like jasmine and I felt warm as she held me tighter. She made me promise that I wouldn’t turn around for another while, not until all the bad was gone. I said I promised, but turned anyway. There was a man, carried on a stretcher. He had no legs and his head was wrapped in bandage. He kept fondling the swollen stubs, like he was looking for his legs. In a challenging try to get up and walk away he fell off the stretcher and I looked away again. I wished as hard as I could for a pair of legs for the man, though I did not know him. I wished he could be well and walk with pride. The jasmine once again filled me with a sense of safety.
She is my legs and I am the soldier. I was proud, but now I’m blind. Love is my battle. But I am done hurting, done fighting. I’ve fumbled with the bandages over my eyes and legs for too long, and my stretcher is tipping. But unlike the soldier, I will not get up again.
My heart is nowhere to be found, my soul is ripped in two. My name is Evangelina Valora Pavli.
It is a prison. But I have figured my evil window out. I know her next move. This morning, the sky is looking greyer than ever and she wants me to visit him, she wants to fool me into comforting my friend. And when I give in, she will capture me to. So I mustn’t go. I must stay indoors for another damned day.
It began sometime, somewhere, somehow, because of someone, but sadly, it is forgotten. Although it may seem improper, although it may be old, she was everything I thought about. I said her name over and over, whispered so she would not hear. I wrote it down, in the shadow of my palm so she would not see. I listened to her every move, the wind in her skirt, the scratch from her nails to the skin and her pen to the paper. But, of course, I fled my emotion by tossing hair in my face so she would not notice. But mostly, I just watched her.
She was beautiful. I could not describe her; I am no poet or artist. Only they, if anyone may, show you my darling one. With the features of an angel, the soul of a saint and the talent of a god, no man could have created her. In faith I am, because I have met the one of pure and simple divinity, my Licia.
You wonder what my name is, poor child. I am sorry that you have to be the one to read this, but I can stay silent no more. In old pains and new fears of my upcoming death, I no longer wish to cherish my memories. I want rid of everything that is me; my treacherous heart and soul along with my name. I so wish that no one will read this, will receive my guilt and my plague and the illness rooting deep in something I no longer have, but which place inside of me will never go away. But life has yet to treat me at all.
I remember the soldiers arriving by ship when I was little. My father took me down to the dock and we watched along with every other person on the island as the soldiers paraded proudly by us under cheers and clapping. They were real men, my father told me, the kind I would one day marry. I smiled to answer him. The wounded and sick were carried ashore by the stronger and my mother wrapped me in her shawl and asked me to look at her, look away. Everything smelt like jasmine and I felt warm as she held me tighter. She made me promise that I wouldn’t turn around for another while, not until all the bad was gone. I said I promised, but turned anyway. There was a man, carried on a stretcher. He had no legs and his head was wrapped in bandage. He kept fondling the swollen stubs, like he was looking for his legs. In a challenging try to get up and walk away he fell off the stretcher and I looked away again. I wished as hard as I could for a pair of legs for the man, though I did not know him. I wished he could be well and walk with pride. The jasmine once again filled me with a sense of safety.
She is my legs and I am the soldier. I was proud, but now I’m blind. Love is my battle. But I am done hurting, done fighting. I’ve fumbled with the bandages over my eyes and legs for too long, and my stretcher is tipping. But unlike the soldier, I will not get up again.
My heart is nowhere to be found, my soul is ripped in two. My name is Evangelina Valora Pavli.