Author | Audiobook narrator | Singer
Frozen in place, I stood there as if time itself had stopped, while the poem was fixated on me. Never in my life had I felt such insignificance in my own existence.
While my desires and admirations were fighting over what was left of me, his face was expressionless. The eyes that harbored the warmest of my feelings were cold, like those of a killer.
This night was like many others. She was preparing her space to write poetry. It was as if she was preparing to worship a God of a sort – with a bottle of Shiraz on the table and Chopin on the recorder, she set orange and cinnamon-scented candles up in her room.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know that he wasn’t good for her or that he would never stay the night. It was that she had hope. She believed that in the depths of his heart, he had loved her all along, and one day he would choose her. The hope kept her eyes in a protective pink film every time she looked at his face. And all she wished for was to lay in his arms and to wake up to him stroking her hair.
With her fingers lightly gripping the quill, the black ink smeared on her fingers and across the paper, if I may paint her clumsiness and lack of etiquette, she tried to write him another letter. But what was there for her to write about? After all, they had never met. She had seen him once from the crowd as she watched his fingers dance across the keys of a pianoforte while clutching her mother’s hand to calm her nerves.
The smell of cinnamon in the room, a burnt candle on the bedside table, an empty bottle of Shiraz on the floor beside the ivory bed, and finally… a lady clutching onto a tattered book while tangled in her silken sheets with a tear running down her cheek.
I prayed that the wooden floorboards wouldn’t creak under my weight as I got out of the bed, because God knows that hell had no fury like her majesty awoken suddenly from her slumber.
I used to believe in something, like stars being the souls of the lost—my father being one of them. I also used to read fairy tales over and over again. I believed that I would spend an eternity loving the same boy I fell for when I was nothing but a child. I had my whole life written in fantasy and laid out in front of me. On some days, I fought dragons; on other days, I cradled the scorching sun in my arms and called it a lover.
Evan didn’t know how long he had been lying there with his arms crossed on his chest and the sandalwood incense burning his nostrils, to him it seemed as if the flow of time had slowed down or didn’t exist altogether and even if he could hear the clanging of what appeared to be dishes in the next room – he hadn’t moved much since he lost his sight and the seer had led him to a bed.
Evan could have done with a little more luck but it was as if he had been on a stroke of misfortune his whole life, maybe that is why he found himself on that chair knuckle cracking and waiting for the seer to give him something.
Perhaps a new faith in the set of Gods to make his life better – a rune to magically make him fall in love with the world, a potion or a numbing cream for his aching soul, something, anything to make him feel like a human being again.
“You are a weird one, aren’t you?”
His words echoed in my brain as I had been decrypted and my secrets, they flung from the pages onto which I had been painting my love for him – with droplets of the sweetest words that I had accumulated over the years.
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