Regina Saxony
on the topic of mess
She lied on his bare chest, nestling her smooth skin against his coarse chest hair, which was more soothing than any pillow she could rest upon. His ribs were visible, she fed him the best that she could. At night, she’d sometime hear rumbling and she didn’t know whether it was him or her own stomach speaking, and she’d shed a tear every single time.
Before the war, she wasn’t one to cry, she wasn’t one to do much of anything. Merely a little girl, she only knew of a life where she painted and opposed her mother. Now, she’d seen the horrors of war, she’d loved and loved someone irrevocably broken. Running a hand down the panes of his chest, she exhales in some sort of blissful content. “Ilya?” She whispers, knowing he isn’t asleep just yet.
“Ilya?”
“Regina,” he replied groggily, the open bottle of vodka teetering on his nightstand, the liquid sloshing around with the slightest movement. Ilya stunk of the stuff and Regina didn’t mind. “My Regina,” he strokes her hair, twirling a finger around each individual corkscrew.
“Ilya, what are we going to do?”
“We’ll keep on going, I guess,” He sighs, kissing the top of her head. The canvases laid in their mess, the remnants of what had occurred earlier. Regina had refused to check them, refused to acknowledge her paintings slashed and thrown from the walls to a heap on the floor. It wasn’t necessary to point out his flaws—she sure had her moments.
Everything. Everything she’d worked for, she’d worked to create, lay in a tethered mess on the floor. Lay in a tethered mess on the bed. It was all a tethered, inconstruable, beautiful mess that she couldn’t separate or compartmentalize or even handle at the very moment. It was beautiful in the way she knew it was going to end. It was beautiful like the birch trees, like the stars on that unforgiving night, like the galaxies spewed across the skies beyond what was there, fathomable, and utterly real, beneath it all, Regina regretted each happy moment as much as she regretted these moments. She regretted it all in this bittersweet way that only a woman would understand, not the girl she once was. A malleable girl with fickle spirits like the plebians in Julius Caesar.
It’s too much to digest and she’s just taking their moments in silence as a gift. “I’m scared, Ilya.” Those two words crack her, fissures forming in her hardened, crustacean-esque shell. The hardened person she had become was coming away like old paint under a fingernail.
“I am too,” Ilya continues to stroke her hair in a festering solace. She almost believed him. “I want to take you away for a while.”
Regina nods.
Before the war, she wasn’t one to cry, she wasn’t one to do much of anything. Merely a little girl, she only knew of a life where she painted and opposed her mother. Now, she’d seen the horrors of war, she’d loved and loved someone irrevocably broken. Running a hand down the panes of his chest, she exhales in some sort of blissful content. “Ilya?” She whispers, knowing he isn’t asleep just yet.
“Ilya?”
“Regina,” he replied groggily, the open bottle of vodka teetering on his nightstand, the liquid sloshing around with the slightest movement. Ilya stunk of the stuff and Regina didn’t mind. “My Regina,” he strokes her hair, twirling a finger around each individual corkscrew.
“Ilya, what are we going to do?”
“We’ll keep on going, I guess,” He sighs, kissing the top of her head. The canvases laid in their mess, the remnants of what had occurred earlier. Regina had refused to check them, refused to acknowledge her paintings slashed and thrown from the walls to a heap on the floor. It wasn’t necessary to point out his flaws—she sure had her moments.
Everything. Everything she’d worked for, she’d worked to create, lay in a tethered mess on the floor. Lay in a tethered mess on the bed. It was all a tethered, inconstruable, beautiful mess that she couldn’t separate or compartmentalize or even handle at the very moment. It was beautiful in the way she knew it was going to end. It was beautiful like the birch trees, like the stars on that unforgiving night, like the galaxies spewed across the skies beyond what was there, fathomable, and utterly real, beneath it all, Regina regretted each happy moment as much as she regretted these moments. She regretted it all in this bittersweet way that only a woman would understand, not the girl she once was. A malleable girl with fickle spirits like the plebians in Julius Caesar.
It’s too much to digest and she’s just taking their moments in silence as a gift. “I’m scared, Ilya.” Those two words crack her, fissures forming in her hardened, crustacean-esque shell. The hardened person she had become was coming away like old paint under a fingernail.
“I am too,” Ilya continues to stroke her hair in a festering solace. She almost believed him. “I want to take you away for a while.”
Regina nods.