My Love- A Short Story
A story I penned for he cover reveal.
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A story I penned for he cover reveal.
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I still
remember the first time I saw her. She sat under the tattered shadow of the
oak, combing her serpentine locks. Locks that looked alive, moving of their own
accord, or was it the wind playing with them? When I had seen her that night, I
had been but a child. I did not understand what it was that drew me to her but
drawn I was. Right from the moment I laid my eyes on her, I was reeled in like
a fish on a hook. From then on, every night I sat by the window, as the sun
dipped below the horizon. My gaze would linger on her silhouette as she sat
combing her long hair that draped around her like a veil, cocooning her in a
miniscule world of her own. I knew not whence she came or who she was; all I
knew was that she was meant for me.
I tried to
show her to my father, but he had scoffed at my childish fancies. Pretend play,
he called it and the dutiful child in me agreed. I convinced myself that she
was not really there. Closing the window, I attempted to shut my reality out.
Days turned to months and months turned to years, but the window remained
bolted. However, closing one’s eyes to the truth does not make it go away. Cut
away from my anchor, I floundered like a rudderless boat in the stormy seas,
slapped around by the waves. Hapless and untethered, I gasped and heaved as
life tossed me hither and thither.
Years later,
an unfortunate event in a series of unfortunate events drew me back to the home
of my childhood. As I wandered in the lonely rooms of my erstwhile home, the
longing which lay dormant in my soul surged forth. The feelings that gushed
through me were akin to the bursting of a dam. I finally opened the window that
had stayed bolted for years, just as the sun was ending its day’s journey. I
opened the panes and there she was — sitting under the gnarly skeleton of the
oak long gone. Still she sat, combing her tresses as they twisted and turned
and weaved with a mind of their own. I stood transfixed, unable to shake the
overwhelming feeling of belonging. I was home.
Over the next few days, I slaved over a love ballad, trying
to put in words all that I felt, but it was akin to trying to capture a raging
tempest. It would not happen. By the time full moon came by, sloppy, amateurish
lines were all that I had managed to conjure up. I sat by the window, waiting
for her to come. Every moment passed like an eon as I waited for the one I had
loved all my life, not knowing a thing about her.
And then, just as the moon peeked from behind a cloud, she
was there, combing her hair as she was wont to do. Trepidation filled my heart
as I ventured out with the love ballad in my hand. I reached her and spoke. On
and on I went, my love for her waxing eloquent. And yet she uttered not a word.
She heard me though, I knew, for her hands stilled. I strove on undeterred but
as her silence stretched, my bravado faltered. Haltingly I asked why she would
not say anything. In response, she turned and my
shriek rent the night. Where there should have been eyes, there were none. Nose
and mouth were gone too. All she had was a smooth expanse of flesh. The love of
my life was faceless.
Today I sit under the tattered shadow of the oak tree, every
day after sundown, combing those serpentine locks. They really do move on their
own for they have bound me to them. I cannot get out.
