The Evening of the Betrothal

So when he was with her, she was nothing but happy, and when he was gone she slowly went crazy. She lost sleep and grey circles began to frame her eyes (they got bigger and bigger and that was slowly driving her crazy too). It was as if she was losing control of her own life: they had been at a carnival together, oohing and aahing at the fireworks, but suddenly her life was running in front of her and it was becoming hard to see it, obscured by all the people and the darkness and God she couldn’t keep running after it and here she is falling to her knees in defeat, her life has left for good, forever out of her supervision.

When she would kiss him, her thoughts became more preoccupied with the 23 hours of insanity that would follow. After making love, he would lay in her bed, half asleep, and she would brush his hair to the side with a shaking hand.

She couldn’t do this anymore. She had to leave. Beatrice rolled over in the bed, away from his body; he looked over at her with narrowed eyes before resting again. He would leave and not come back for four more days. When he finally returned, he barely recognized her. Perhaps the most disorienting facet of her appearance was the raging fury behind her eyes. Suddenly Felix was afraid.

As he should have been. She swifly kneed him in the tenderest of spots and dragged him into the apartment by his head. Slamming the door shut, she spun around and looked upon him, radiating vengeance. Beating him unconscious, she cut his throat with a steady hand. The anger had drained from her eyes and was replaced by tranquility.

Throwing his body out the door, she thought for a minute before killing the lights and falling fast asleep.

The Marriage-Feast

The creak of the floorboards became music to her ears. Muffled birds would chirp like jazz trumpets off in the distance. The turn of the doorknob, that rich and vibrant pitch, squawked once a day, signaling the return of Felix. Her eyes would widen with expectations, and he would stride in, flicking his jacket to the side, placing a small basket of food down to the right of the door, and then he would grab her and show her just how much he loved her.

The first time he had shown her, let’s not split hairs, she was scared. Soon she came to understand that this was how men showed their appreciation for women, and she felt very fortunate that he loved her as much as he did. He showed her every day, and she came to rely on it. She probably lived for it, twiddling her thumbs all day, combing her hair, eating the fruit he had brought the day before, waiting for him, waiting for his love.

As his footsteps faded down the wooden steps outside the flat, the saddest part of the day would overwhelm Beatrice. For a time, she would simply sit and imagine him here, holding her, and that would be enough. Soon she found this was not enough, and that idea worried her. Was she becoming ungrateful of his love? Oh, if he ever found out that thinking of him was (horrors) boring her, he might stop loving her, he might leave her here for weeks on end without his touch.

So she redoubled her efforts. She thought only of him. When she found her mind wandering, she chastised herself. She would think of food, of the sun, of Father Tötges, of her long lost homeland. Then she would scream at herself: this kind of thoughts would get her in trouble.

Ever Quite as Clear IV

She woke up dry; the sun had lovingly wrung her clothes of the fierce downpour from last night. Mud was caked onto her side. She stared at it with sunken eyes, and then slapped at it, breaking it apart, abandoning it to gravity and the ground from whence it came. Clawing up the side of the embankment, she stumbled back into the town.

Stoke-on-Trent was a quiet port town; the sailors never got too rowdy, the mayor pleased most of the people most of the time, and everyone seemed content to live their lives out here. So when raggedy-old Beatrice dragged her feet through their main street, a few people looked her way. Oblivious or uncaring about their stares, she continued until she reached the fountain in the city square, where she let herself sit, and drink of the cool water.

While she was washing her face, a tall, imposing figure blocked out the sun, his huge shadow covering her as a proud oak tree would. He introduced himself as Lucius Felix, and extended his paw of a hand toward Beatrice. This olive branch seemed as though from God, and she took his hand quickly, without thought. Once he had her, he lead her in great haste to a single room apartment on the south side of the town, near the ships, away from the square.

He put her up here, caressing her cheek, calling her a beautiful sunset. She must not leave this place, he said, for she was a stranger and might be thrown out. But he would bring her food and other goods. Oh yes. He would bring her things.

No Ocean’s Waves III

Beatrice moved perpetually north–she had no idea where her home was in relation to Adini, except that a vast expanse of water existed between the two. She figured her only choice was to move in one direction, and hope that someone knew of her people’s customs, and would know the land from which she came. It had been so many years, honestly, she had no idea what her land’s name was, what direction it was in: but she avoided thinking about it too much because if she did, waves of depression crashed over her, anxiety breathed upon her like a hulking dragon, hopelessness grabbed her and shackled her and sold her for a quick buck to cruel slave traders who would take her to work in deep dark mines way under the ground, no light, no friends, just endless unending work, shut up little girl, get back to work, you’re daydreaming again aintcha bitch.

So she couldn’t think about it, she just walked. And eventually she came to a town on a vast expanse of water. Surely someone here would know where she had come from. As Beatrice walked around the town, pressing her questions, she received answers that gave ground to her worst fears. No one knew what she was talking about. No one had heard of House Adini. Soon she was roaming the streets, destitute, and worse, the slave traders of her soul were knocking on the door.

Walking out of town, she couldn’t feel anything. She had been on the move for days, eating nothing but bread and water, drawing energy from the knowledge (the hope, the faith) that she would be able to go home again. With that gone, she had nothing else: the death of everyone she had known for the last six years slapped her in the face, and she crumpled into a beaten heap under a wooden bridge as it began to rain.

She didn’t give two shits if she drowned, or if she was carried out to sea like a piece of worthless flotsam.