MEMOIRS OF THE
FORLORN
It’s a story you need to read; A tale as old as time. It’s a
dramatic and diametrical reverberate of the cliché diatribe that is “happy ever
after”; the lullaby which preceded the pillow-influenced snores and baby drools
that characterised our childhood.
64 B.C.
JANE -Blurry picture…
I sit on a stool, my hair covered by a hood. My buff-
coloured skirts fall short of my calves, and my bloody shirt melds with my
skin. This grabby fashion is not of my choosing, I am a woman forced by life to
hide my bruises; destined to be clothed in rags of my once glorious apparel.
Through seasons and times, I, who was a princess in my castle, have been bought
for mere coins and sold for even less.
Inside my head lives a tale; its spin, as potent as the product
of Rumpestilskin’s wheel. Its prick, as poisonous as snow white’s bane.
I am a slave to the flickering candle light in my prison.
Her fire shakes violently, as if her flame is unsure of how long its seat is
assured.
When the sun comes out, my vision is covered so as to dowse
whatever hope its light may spring in my soul.
One day, before my guards were woke, I sneaked a peak at the
sky’s blue and all I saw was black. The sun was dark; I felt its heat on
bruise, yet my eyes could not see its light. I should move even just to view
the shine of the sun through my dim eyes. Maybe the blurry picture would answer
the question that ticks in my brain like a grenade with no ring. “Why am I
still alive?”
17 A.D.
ELIZABETH- beauty and BEAST…
I’ve been introduced to a dual nature- Happy and hate; Pain
and please; Safety and dread; Beauty and Beast. With finesse, he flattered his
way into my heart. His charming manner paved a path, broke down my defenses,
killed my reasons and… snuffed out my light. I have no definition of day and
night. My will to fight has been crushed. My future is nought, my words lost.
Joy comes and stays, for a few days, and then before my eyes it turns to hate.
Hate springs up, startling me, its angry horn bursts out
through his hair, and oh!, his once beautiful brown eyes turn green like the
leaves. I stare at the apparition, and dreadfully await its strike.
The beast is hungry, his taste bloody. His eyes focus on
prey and its predator feeds on my fear. He lunges and retreats, his demented
mind joyful for my hiccups and horror- filled starts. He growls and roars,
fists lifted in a typical attack manner. All I hear is a tiny screeching sound
that has melted itself to the atmosphere around.
3rd December, 1665’
Bella- Broken to bits…
Beauty makes a rare appearance.
He oohed and aahed, and cleaned my wounds. He pampers me
with baubles and decorates my hair with ribbons. He nurses me back to health,
and promises to rid me of my nightmare. He promises to come back with soup and
slaves and buckets of hot water.
I nod uncertainly at his rare benevolence. He blows me a
kiss, and exits the room, adjusting his postiche and simultaneously humming.
Slowly,
I drag my scattered pieces to the vanity to look at my image.
I wonder when this became my normal;the broken doll look
attached itself to my expression. When have I began to welcome the demented look
on his face, even with the knowledge that it could only make my body shrivel
and my flesh, tear.
“Leave Him!!! Run away!!” My soul cried, but my body disobeyed
as it recalled the BEAUTY in the beast. I mistook his rough handling for love
pats and my re-configured brain chose to misconstrue the obvious facts. My
body betrayed my soul while my spirit lay dead.
My red-rimmed eyes smarted, and my abused lips were swollen.
My battered body ached, yet I didn’t feel the pain. I have become wonder woman
without the will to fight back. My feelings are a maze of complicated lack. The
future seems like a road map of dead ends and deep gullies. My past is now the
future I wish I’d held unto desperately. Oh, I’m afraid I’m accustomed to this
dreadful nightmare that is, my reality.
3rd
October, 1738
Desiree -Beautiful Pain
How can pain be beautiful??
But, it is.
I came to this conclusion when I heard the sound… the sound
of the whip shook my ear like thunder in the quiet after rain. Pain… the
implication of the noise my soul had come to accept. Adaptation has become
acceptation.
Stalker… Stealthy… Scary.
All these become the personality of my dread.
He crouched like a lion, His claws curved as he smiled with expectation.
I looked at the beast and my heart beat for his ugly. Disgust became the slime
crawling on my skin even as I longed for the horror.
He flung the whip through
the air again, but this time the sound that broke the quiet was loud, long and
horroful. It took me a while to realize that it was my brokenness screaming out
for salvation under the weight of my pain, while my tormentor relished the
sarcastic ecstasy of shedding my blood.
His smile widened as my voice receded. At last, I drifted
into the safe haven of unconsciousness, shocked at the realization that this
was my normal, and it’s okay.
Pain has become my escape, my getaway card, my OUT.
13th
September, 1972.
AURORA- INTENTIONAL
CAPRICE.
It’s the 19th century, and still the dark ages. Maybe not to the universe, but then the globe is a miniature meadow that has
lost its gardens and butterflies. At least that’s how my aching eyes see it.
I found this diary hidden beneath my temporal dwelling, and I’ve
found comfort in the knowledge that it not just me, though I am pained for
these women who have been victims of the beast.
I’m to be dragged by my hair down a valley, and up a
mountain. They will light my skirts with flames, and watch my hair conflate
with the dust of the earth. I am to be hanged for committing the sin of saying
NO. However, I am unafraid. I’ll tell you why.
Few days ago, after another experience with the beast in
which he kicked my second child out of my belly, I decided to give up. I bled
till consciousness was a fading memory and when I stood between the space of humanity
and eternity, I was shown myself.
I shuddered at the image of what I am; I saw the beast
hidden beneath my beauty. I was so sure I was the victim. When did my certainties
collapse beneath me? All that remains is a bitter understanding. Would that I could
make it vanish.
I looked at the personality of purity which held my whole
life in the palm of His hand, and I hid my ugly from his potent gaze. He urged
me to look at his other hand, and I saw piercings as deep as it was raw. I was
amazed at the phenomenon which was out of place in the midst of His perfection. I looked
past the beast in me, and I saw the cross.
Bits of me, pieces of
mine, scattered and lit my heart with pain.
Bits of me came together, and like
the dry bones of Ezekiel, my weak, sniveling bits have become a strong whole.
This book will be discovered one day, and I came
back to change the little I can with my words. My blood and a feather have I used
to pen these words, please, don’t let this sacrificial prill be in vain.
You are reading these memoirs written by the forlorn in time
and ages past, which were subject to the mishap of a person who transcended times,
and seasons and only gives death. These people succumbed to the illusion of
power that the beast had over them, they gave in to minority, when they had
only to scream out their authority. Do not follow blindly, the status quo. You have
been made to sail the storm. You are more than societal labels. You are… more…
Alas, these words are empty if you do have HIM. He’s the
fuel to the empty tank of life’s roller coaster. I do not speak of the dual
personality of man, but the Mighty supremacy of God.
Seek Him, you’ll surely find Him.
Farewell.
19th February,
2018.
JADE- TREASURE IN THE
RUIN.
Today, the sky is overcast, and threatens to drench my
droopy parade. The trees beg the rain for her release, while I wish she
ceases her drizzles. Under my sweater is a healing slice; an unprofessional
incision made by shaking hands, a temporal relieve to the wrenching pain
within.
Depression becomes the sun setting on my evening, her wide spread
tentacles have dulled my mind, and quickened my defenses. My blurry vision
looked straight ahead,, and for once, my eyeballs were in agreement with what
they view.
The ruin called out to my ruin, and I hurried up its
unsteady steps into its debris. The gentle breeze shook the walls of the once
furnished fortress, and it echoed through the house and emitted a sound akin to
the scary chimes of an ancient gimmal. I lingered a while, and wondered why my
dull mind pricked its ear and woke up at the sight of the atrocity I currently
stood on.
I bent to pick the attraction, and discovered it held within
its pages, my kind of treasure. I read its horrors, and now, I’m woke.
Tonight, my knees are on the floor, and my clasped
hands on the bed. I uttered these words, “I believe. Jesus, my Lord, I believe", and my life has changed.
I have been touched by a tale as old as time.
