Regina Saxony
on the topic of now
They walk around in the park, Ilya’s crutch under his arm and the wind ruffling his shorter hair and bristly neck. The sun peeks in and out of the clouds disdainfully, as if it is a chore to make today somewhat temperate, somewhat enjoyable. She clutches his hand, staring up into the canopy for some kind of divine inspiration. Or maybe, she enjoyed watching the sparse chirping birds flit to each branch, harmonizing with the orchestra of nature. “It really is a beautiful day.”
“Only if the sun would stay out,” Ilya mutters. He knows that she is walking slower for him. He can feel her twitch with anticipation as she points places for them to stroll by, to go poke their short attention span at.
Regina sighs this dramatic sigh, as if to make some poignant, searing remark to Ilya. When nothing comes of, he simply leaves it be. With lips pursed and an utter determination to enjoy and ignore, Regina juts her chin further towards the sky in an innocent haughtiness.
He sighs.
“What?”
Ilya knew that she’d be the one to point out things he could let go. “Nothing.”
Squeezing his hand, her eyes widen with this sense of caring for him, and it reminds him of when they’d sneak into the city together. When they were younger, dumber, and hadn’t a care for anything. When the most pressing issue was finding Regina a palette or a paintbrush after she had ducked out of the ornate villa her mother kept a vice grip on. “Do tell me,” Regina ethereally beckons.
He shakes his head, hoping that she would forget about it. Hopefully, he’d be able to forget about it all someday. “Ilya.”
“I’m just remembering it how it was,” he snips at her, stopping abruptly as she sharply redirects herself to his teary eyes.
With not so much of a blink, she responded, “It’s never going to be how it was.” He hated that. She seemed to always have the right things to say and the right ways to say them.
Ilya removes his hand from hers, affectionately tucking a strand of hair behind her tiny ears. He’s shaking and alive simultaneously, something enviable and raw, something that not everyone on this earth can be moved to feel all at once. Brutally alive, he suffered in this numbing sense, this knowing that he should feel something, but nothing but some cool fog covered him. The hollow shells of that war took his humanity, shredding it into indelible chunks as it scattered him into the sea, she couldn’t fix that and he stopped expecting her to. “But the world is beautiful right now Ilya, though you are hurting, it is still beautiful. Now. Ilya. Focus on now,” she impatiently preaches.
“Only if the sun would stay out,” Ilya mutters. He knows that she is walking slower for him. He can feel her twitch with anticipation as she points places for them to stroll by, to go poke their short attention span at.
Regina sighs this dramatic sigh, as if to make some poignant, searing remark to Ilya. When nothing comes of, he simply leaves it be. With lips pursed and an utter determination to enjoy and ignore, Regina juts her chin further towards the sky in an innocent haughtiness.
He sighs.
“What?”
Ilya knew that she’d be the one to point out things he could let go. “Nothing.”
Squeezing his hand, her eyes widen with this sense of caring for him, and it reminds him of when they’d sneak into the city together. When they were younger, dumber, and hadn’t a care for anything. When the most pressing issue was finding Regina a palette or a paintbrush after she had ducked out of the ornate villa her mother kept a vice grip on. “Do tell me,” Regina ethereally beckons.
He shakes his head, hoping that she would forget about it. Hopefully, he’d be able to forget about it all someday. “Ilya.”
“I’m just remembering it how it was,” he snips at her, stopping abruptly as she sharply redirects herself to his teary eyes.
With not so much of a blink, she responded, “It’s never going to be how it was.” He hated that. She seemed to always have the right things to say and the right ways to say them.
Ilya removes his hand from hers, affectionately tucking a strand of hair behind her tiny ears. He’s shaking and alive simultaneously, something enviable and raw, something that not everyone on this earth can be moved to feel all at once. Brutally alive, he suffered in this numbing sense, this knowing that he should feel something, but nothing but some cool fog covered him. The hollow shells of that war took his humanity, shredding it into indelible chunks as it scattered him into the sea, she couldn’t fix that and he stopped expecting her to. “But the world is beautiful right now Ilya, though you are hurting, it is still beautiful. Now. Ilya. Focus on now,” she impatiently preaches.