There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to tell you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say; perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy woman is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature in the world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her! She has suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own undeserved shame. And she is not guilty—oh God! Every moment she bemoans and bewails herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt, that she is the victim of circumstances—the victim of a wicked libertine. But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it herself—remember that she will believe nothing but that she is a guilty creature …
The chilly air bites my cheeks and hands. I feebly lean on the porch and my iPhone accidentally drops out of my hands and onto a stone tile. Splat!
They are going to kill him. He is going to kill him … and then he’ll kill me …
My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly, slowly swallows me whole.
The tall, ethereal birch stands out in the otherwise withered, colorless vineyard. A light wind plays with the fringe of its outstretched tassels and tiny snowflakes flash and burn in the golden fire of the low, dazzling sun, heralding the start of the winter.
They cover the cold, dirty land in a silver mantle, purifying all the sins of summer and autumn … the managed chaos we are thrown into – a great source of power for people like Akbar … those who, without a blink of an eye, would do anything, even commit the most ruthless act of violence, just to protect their business interests.
Do you know why I left him? To prove what is not true—that he is base. Perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize that in the perpetual admission of guilt he probably finds some dreadful unnatural satisfaction—as though he were revenging himself upon someone. Now and then I was able to persuade him almost to see light around him again; but he would soon fall, once more, into his old tormenting delusions.
Now it is all a fresh canvas … the whiteout … protecting the new growth already under way, making space for a new life.
Indulgently, I rejoice at the sun. A new day has begun. I am breathing its freshness. There is nowhere to run. Everything I need is right here … in my heart … in my bleeding heart … Even if it stops beating, no one can ever take away the feeling … of my head in your hands.
One always wants the beauty of living … but something always gets in the way. Nothing prevents the beauty of death though … but only a few use this opportunity.
If I should die today, I shall taste that beauty.
Everything slows down in the drowsy quietness. I smile at the daybreak lazily starting, at the snow on the twigs, at the happiness of my soul only he could read … even before I could do it myself.
If I cannot save him, I can at least tell the story …