The Girl With The Everlasting Gaze
“I remember the last time we gathered roses in the garden, I found my wits, but truly, you lost yours.” - I forgot the author.
I
She collects stories like she collects her books, at random but with a central theme; she likes her stories to be tragic.
“Life,” she once said, “is a tragedy, whichever way you look at it.”
She treasures these stories like scars in her mind, indelible and something to be looked at again and again. Sometimes she would go through her collection and allow herself to go through every cursive sadness contained within them. She would relive the heartaches and the sea of tears that were shed as if they were her own.
“It’s so sad,” she’d say, and then indulge herself with a good cry.
II
Over time, she stopped seeing things. She would walk the streets to her office not noticing the sidewalk vendors selling cigarettes and gums, nor the frantic jostling of cars whose honking were muted by the conversations going on in her mind.
Her stories have become so entrenched in her consciousness that she can no longer distinguish where these stories end, and where her existence begins. Her eyes have taken on a fixed, glacial quality that pierces through people as if they were some kind of a mirage and she can see through them.
III
She had once dreamed of raising a family, and have little ones running all over her backyard. She was so much younger then, and possessed with a love that was so much more than love. She loved fiercely and was loved equally in return. Like everyone who has drank from the fountain of that intoxicating drink, she was, no longer hers; she was only a half person, having given the best part of herself to someone she swore she would perish for.
Her days were filled with giddy conversations and at night she dreams of sleeping forever, her beloved by her side. There was no happier girl than her. Too happy in fact that some felt it was obscene. With all the suffering in the world, some believed that no one person should have that kind of happiness.
IV
She was picking roses from her garden, choosing those yellow ones who have audaciously attempted to spread their petals after a few days of budding. She marveled at their form and gushed at how beautiful they looked.
“One more,” she thought.
Grasping her gardening shears with her right hand, she steadied the rose’s stem by holding its base with her left.
“Aww!!” She quickly withdrew her hand. A thorn has pierced through her gloves pricking her index finger. She felt a grim sense of foreboding as she removed her left glove and saw her finger bleeding profusely.
V
Somewhere in the city, her beloved stopped by a grocery store to buy strawberries. He knows how she loved strawberries. He was smiling as he paid the counter.
He was admiring the berries he bought as he stepped off the curb to cross the street to where his car was parked.
“They’re so red.” He said, before he was lifted off the ground, his body thrust up in the air, his head violently snapped back. He felt himself flying, looking at the perfectly blue sky as it slowly turned red, then purple, then black.
VI
“I’m sorry miss.”
She was still holding her gardening shears when the two policemen came to her house.
“The car came out of nowhere.”
It was all she needed to hear.
VII
When she came to, she prayed that it was all just a bad dream, but looking at all the anxious faces surrounding her, she knew that the worst had happened.
She didn’t know that such kind of pain could exist.
“It would be better if I’m torn from limb to limb, then somehow, I know that there would be a medicine I could take to lessen the pain.” She told her mother after the funeral.
“But this,” she bit her lower lip as a fresh batch of tears rolled down her cheeks, “this pain is alive, and it’s burning me from the inside.”
VIII
She went through her husband’s journals one day and found a heavily marked book of short stories lodged between them. She started reading it. Without pause. Until she finished the entire book. It was already dark outside.
“Thank you.” She said softly, as she slowly closed her eyes.
I
She collects stories like she collects her books, at random but with a central theme; she likes her stories to be tragic.
“Life,” she once said, “is a tragedy, whichever way you look at it.”
She treasures these stories like scars in her mind, indelible and something to be looked at again and again. Sometimes she would go through her collection and allow herself to go through every cursive sadness contained within them. She would relive the heartaches and the sea of tears that were shed as if they were her own.
“It’s so sad,” she’d say, and then indulge herself with a good cry.
II
Over time, she stopped seeing things. She would walk the streets to her office not noticing the sidewalk vendors selling cigarettes and gums, nor the frantic jostling of cars whose honking were muted by the conversations going on in her mind.
Her stories have become so entrenched in her consciousness that she can no longer distinguish where these stories end, and where her existence begins. Her eyes have taken on a fixed, glacial quality that pierces through people as if they were some kind of a mirage and she can see through them.
III
She had once dreamed of raising a family, and have little ones running all over her backyard. She was so much younger then, and possessed with a love that was so much more than love. She loved fiercely and was loved equally in return. Like everyone who has drank from the fountain of that intoxicating drink, she was, no longer hers; she was only a half person, having given the best part of herself to someone she swore she would perish for.
Her days were filled with giddy conversations and at night she dreams of sleeping forever, her beloved by her side. There was no happier girl than her. Too happy in fact that some felt it was obscene. With all the suffering in the world, some believed that no one person should have that kind of happiness.
IV
She was picking roses from her garden, choosing those yellow ones who have audaciously attempted to spread their petals after a few days of budding. She marveled at their form and gushed at how beautiful they looked.
“One more,” she thought.
Grasping her gardening shears with her right hand, she steadied the rose’s stem by holding its base with her left.
“Aww!!” She quickly withdrew her hand. A thorn has pierced through her gloves pricking her index finger. She felt a grim sense of foreboding as she removed her left glove and saw her finger bleeding profusely.
V
Somewhere in the city, her beloved stopped by a grocery store to buy strawberries. He knows how she loved strawberries. He was smiling as he paid the counter.
He was admiring the berries he bought as he stepped off the curb to cross the street to where his car was parked.
“They’re so red.” He said, before he was lifted off the ground, his body thrust up in the air, his head violently snapped back. He felt himself flying, looking at the perfectly blue sky as it slowly turned red, then purple, then black.
VI
“I’m sorry miss.”
She was still holding her gardening shears when the two policemen came to her house.
“The car came out of nowhere.”
It was all she needed to hear.
VII
When she came to, she prayed that it was all just a bad dream, but looking at all the anxious faces surrounding her, she knew that the worst had happened.
She didn’t know that such kind of pain could exist.
“It would be better if I’m torn from limb to limb, then somehow, I know that there would be a medicine I could take to lessen the pain.” She told her mother after the funeral.
“But this,” she bit her lower lip as a fresh batch of tears rolled down her cheeks, “this pain is alive, and it’s burning me from the inside.”
VIII
She went through her husband’s journals one day and found a heavily marked book of short stories lodged between them. She started reading it. Without pause. Until she finished the entire book. It was already dark outside.
“Thank you.” She said softly, as she slowly closed her eyes.
posted by Urgello at 6:12 PM
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