Regina Saxony
on the topic of grief
In the lonesome emptiness of her unshared apartment, she paints. In a series of deep violets and stunning crimsons, she paints a world that warped her into this shadowy shell of a bright yellow canary she used to be. Oh god, the nights in the dark without her or him or anything but the teacups and the vodka saddened her to a point where crying became meaningless. This world that had changed her ambers into grays and her corals into ultramarines allowed for no signs of weakness, none of humanity, none of anything besides a metallic, steely nothingness that dissipated any hope or chance her heart would flutter slightly at the sight of anything trivial.
Her paints and brushes ravaged the canvas, wildly spreading the colorless color as far as her arm could extend. In nature, it was very abstract and ebb and flow, but her recent downfalls had caused for the action of painting to become less vivacious and more… Reflective. Now, it wasn’t about enjoyment or expression, but rather ensuring that she would not be forgotten. That this oh-so-tangible sadness was not something that would fleet with her memory in old age.
Regina crafts the cheekbones, the tiny upturned nose, the shadows that carried the darkness of the world with what they had seen—Regina could only imagine what those eyes had seen. Had. Had.
It made her unspeakably morose.
With the majority of her hours spent at the bakery, her nights were full of this personal torture she’d put herself through. Then, it would be back to the labor that was so absent-mindedly carried out she swear she would fall further into a mental sleep with each bread she kneaded. This form of sleep was more peaceful than the actual sleep she’d attempt to get. Usually the nightmares and the realism would consume her in sweat and she’d cry out.
Ilya wrote when he could. Many times, his letter would contain only a paragraph so as to recount his day to her. He’d comment on how much better the food was, how he hoped she was safe, and he’d write sloppier when he became excited and passionate about the men talking of revolution. Regina would only become more ill with each time he mentioned the Bolsheviks. Each time he mentioned the Tsars. Each time he’d prompt her to think about things that were too serious for her to grasp.
So she just continues to paint and live in her host of a body while her personality decimates into some gray, blasé background of meaninglessness.
Her paints and brushes ravaged the canvas, wildly spreading the colorless color as far as her arm could extend. In nature, it was very abstract and ebb and flow, but her recent downfalls had caused for the action of painting to become less vivacious and more… Reflective. Now, it wasn’t about enjoyment or expression, but rather ensuring that she would not be forgotten. That this oh-so-tangible sadness was not something that would fleet with her memory in old age.
Regina crafts the cheekbones, the tiny upturned nose, the shadows that carried the darkness of the world with what they had seen—Regina could only imagine what those eyes had seen. Had. Had.
It made her unspeakably morose.
With the majority of her hours spent at the bakery, her nights were full of this personal torture she’d put herself through. Then, it would be back to the labor that was so absent-mindedly carried out she swear she would fall further into a mental sleep with each bread she kneaded. This form of sleep was more peaceful than the actual sleep she’d attempt to get. Usually the nightmares and the realism would consume her in sweat and she’d cry out.
Ilya wrote when he could. Many times, his letter would contain only a paragraph so as to recount his day to her. He’d comment on how much better the food was, how he hoped she was safe, and he’d write sloppier when he became excited and passionate about the men talking of revolution. Regina would only become more ill with each time he mentioned the Bolsheviks. Each time he mentioned the Tsars. Each time he’d prompt her to think about things that were too serious for her to grasp.
So she just continues to paint and live in her host of a body while her personality decimates into some gray, blasé background of meaninglessness.
♠ ♠ ♠
the only chapter that is somewhat coincides with the timeline.