“When you’re at your worst, remember your best,” my mother would whisper to me, a delicate inflection warming her familiar tone.
I tried to remember the sun, recalling how it felt, my eyes closed against the intensity of its heat, as it bathed my form in a gorgeous, golden-yellow glow. I would sit at the edge of the highest cliff, its point penetrating out into the sleepless ocean. An ocean who desired nothing more than to exist undisturbed, commanding the tides and painting the earth with its aqua-blue hue.
I remember thinking that the Earth wasn’t so bad in those moments. Because if I were to die the next day, then I would miss this sort of tranquility. When I was completely, and unequivocally, happy.
However, I also wondered what would happen if I were to jump from the cliff and become another part of the water. If I could escape the parts of my world that were ugly in favor of those that were breathtakingly beautiful. You see, the world isn’t so bad then, wrapped in the cool wetness of the ocean, savoring the gentle bumping of waves against my skin. If only that could be my life instead, then I wouldn’t have to pretend anymore, to be that perfect flower they all expect of me, waiting to bloom at the right time.
Think about that instead, because this can’t possibly last forever.
But what else? My mother used to tell me stories when I was younger. One of my favorites was about a beautiful maiden named Drusilla, whose fiery red hair and emerald green eyes were the envy of all the other girls in her village. She was destined to marry the Prince, a handsome and powerful man. She would become a queen one day and would rule the kingdom and all of its villages. She would save her family from poverty, and secure a life for herself outside of the confines of the village.
If there was one thing Drusilla could count on, then it was her good judgement. Drusilla always did what she was supposed to do, and she was always careful and cautious when it came to protecting what was hers. Unfortunately, even one moment of distraction is enough to ruin everything. That’s what my mother told me before she revealed Drusilla’s untimely demise. You see, one day, Drusilla decided to take a shortcut to the village fountain she visited to collect water for her family. The shortcut would take her through the woods behind her cottage.
Drusilla entered the dark and carnal woods without a second thought, because nobody thinks about the bad things that could happen. Sometimes, they expect fate to just play them a favorable hand because it’s what they deserve for being so meticulous. Don’t think that way, my mother had told me because when she emerged from those woods, Drusilla was no longer destined to become queen.
I wonder what she thought about in that moment of regret? In that brief moment when her life was utterly destroyed because of one miscalculation. When she saw him waiting for her in those woods, without any means of escape. In my moment, I looked up at the stars, admiring one of the few things in my world that never changed. Constancy is frequently taken for granted in favor of progress. Neither is bad and, in my opinion, more worthy than the other. Constancy is nice because it is familiar just as progress is nice because it is different. I think a healthy balance of both is essential. However, too much change can completely turn one’s life upside down, like in Drusilla’s case.
Have you ever seen a beautiful blanket of white snow? When I wake up in the morning and discover the fresh snowfall, I am almost afraid to join the other children and caper along its downy carpet. For something so pure, it is almost sad to ruin it. To take away that purity and make it almost revolting, a mess of mud and water, especially when it never asked for its purity to be taken. Those other girls, those adolescent boys, they just took it without asking. The men are the worst because they want to get rid of it, violating the velvety snow with careless precision. Whereas, at least the young girls and boys attempt to sustain it, even if only to prolong its impurification. But I guess those kinds of things are never meant to last, and the way they’re taken? That’s another matter altogether.
It is painful when I didn’t think it would be.
I never felt guilty the first time I walked through the snow, even though I left behind brown, dirty footprints. At least, I didn’t think I was causing harm, and I know for a fact that I wasn’t causing anyone pain. My mother never complained of pain and my older sister, thinking herself quite surreptitious, did not scream in pain from behind the closed door of her bedroom. Maybe, since they did it the right way, they were spared the experience of pain.
I never intended to walk into those dark woods.
I thought, by doing as I was told by my mother, I was spared misfortune. You see , I had walked to the central market many times as a favor to my mother, who found herself ailing considerably. It was never with intention if I did something out of the ordinary, especially given the Chancery badge on his finely pressed shirt. However, like Drusilla, I was a victim of letting my guard down, of expecting something that I shouldn’t have. In this world, you have to protect yourself at all times, because one slip will send you down a path that nobody will risk following you down.
He had seemed nice, with his well-dressed manner and handsome countenance. His eyes were a startling blue, but only because I had never seen anything so completely blue before. I tried to recollect, but no color provided an accurate analogy. It was like the sky at midnight, that rare kind of blue that you can only see on clear, cloudless nights, illuminated by the pure light of a thousand tiny specks. It was hard to look away from something so novel. He also had a dark beard that matched his dark hair, short-cropped like many government officials. I secretly admired his proud cheekbones and his charming accent.
He offered to take my basket, overflowing with the goods my mother had requested for me to purchase. The very same basket since then abandoned on the barn floor next to me. He had walked with me to the elegant barn, leading me inside, promising a shortcut through the crowd. He subdued me rather easily and, now that I think about it, perhaps if I had only fought back harder, then I would be home now with my mother, possibly tending to dinner.
“You’re so beautiful,” he had whispered to me, his body looming over mine like a shadow. I reclined back against a bail of hay, deciding that fighting back was now fruitless, especially against a man of authority. My mother always complained that I was too beautiful, and that this would only get me into trouble. She tried to disguise it as best she could, like cutting my long, brown hair to resemble my father’s, or forcing me to wear tattered and dirty clothes, unlike the other girls who wore their petite dresses and skirts. I discovered that working around the house tended to dirty my hands and face, and my mother never bothered to wash it off. Of course, I suppose that sometimes a clever man can see through all of that.
Through the tears and smudge, I trained my eyes on anything else except for him. I didn’t need a second look for his image to burn itself into my memory. I simply waited, knowing it would eventually have to end. Alas, if only it could be that easy, but I am not stupid. I know the implications of this violation far exceed the boundaries of this darkened barn, with the numerous holes dotting the ceiling, just like the stars parading the night sky.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he finally said, crooked smile violating his deceivingly innocent features.
Perhaps I could, but it would be far more difficult to forgive myself.
