The Stranger III

Chapter 3

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul

Bram Stoker, Dracula

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Miley turned in front of the tall mirror and looked at herself in the amber glow of the chandelier. The curtains were drawn, and one could only make out that it was early morning by the soft light that ringed the curtains in the window of her quarters generously provided by Count Stephan.

The figure in the mirror posed like a manikin, frozen in a pensive gaze. The eyes in the reflection assessed her with a skeptical look and a face that spoke of no hope that some admirable quality would appear in the warm lighting.

She made love to Stephan throughout the night and still, she found their relationship wanting. What was it? What needed to change? Deep down she knew she was the one that had to change. He already had the perfect girl, and Miley wanted to be her, nothing else.

The bed covers were thrown about the bed, the sheets had wrinkles pressed into sharp creases from too many nights under her restless weight. On the floor among a pile of clothes, shoes, and adorned underthings, paper wads of handwritten notes collected like dust bunnies. The dresser was piled high with lotions, perfumes, make-up left open, and powder spilled on the dark wood and faded linen cover from the night before.

The figure stirred in the ancient mirror, fingered the two curious blood spots on the neck, and turned away. Miley – she called herself Miley because her real name was too hard for others to pronounce or remember – looked at the small desk by her bed at the sheets of paper in a loose pile and more thrown on the floor. It was hopeless. She was too attached. She could not document the Count’s genealogical dictations without inserting herself in this ancient family’s lineage.

She wanted him for herself. Miley wanted to be the forty-seventh Countess Radu cel Mare and become a leaf on this 541-year-old family tree. For a moment, Miley contemplated starting over and then the crushing thought of all that time making love to Stephan, and wrapping her life in a story about him was just too much. She had to let go and let him go back to his Anna and his beloved estate steeped in legacy and mystery so she, the Scribe of Vlad Stephan cel Mare could finish the story. His story, not hers.

The rest of the morning Miley thought about him. While she showered, dressed, and applied her makeup, she thought about him. The more she thought, the more she wanted, and the more Miley wanted, the more hopeless she became. The Scribe thought about how she could change him as she rifled through her catered breakfast spread for some tiny morsel to eat.

The troubled girl settled on Greek yogurt that already had the spoon sunk into it and a cup of coffee growing chill on the ornately engraved silver platter. Miley didn’t know why she fell in love so easily or why she always wanted the man meant for another. It wasn’t going to work out. It never did. She went to the desk and picked up her papers and stuffed them in her waste bin with the others she had read then rejected as woefully inadequate for nobility.

After a few minutes of pulling the papers out and putting them back in the bin, she realized she was late for her morning meeting with the Count’s staff. She set her body of crumpled work back on the table. She could change it. Miley decided she could make Stephan love her. She hurried out the door happy with the decision to make it work. Quick footsteps echoed down the hall of the castle’s residential wing.

A shaft of light cut through the crack left by the open door to Miley’s living quarters. On the floor under the side table, a sheet of paper glowed in the light. It was curled from age and neglect with a fine layer of dust.

“Dearest Miss Miley Nikolavska,

I welcome you to my estate in the historic Carpathians. I look forward to your arrival and employment to capture the historical accomplishments and family tree of my lineage. 

I hope your journey from Bulgaria is enjoyable and that you have rested well. I have made arrangements for you to travel by train to stay in the tiny village of Vadu Oii when you arrive in my country.

I will pick you up at the hotel the next day at eight pm and bring you to my beautiful land in the mountains. I’m sure you will be enchanted by the countryside and enjoy your stay with me.

Your friend,

Stephan.”

The Stranger II

Chapter II

I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.

Bram Stoker, Dracula

Image source: peperusso_fotografia via DOLCE & GABBANA

Count Stephan gazed out of the high arched window of his bedroom across the rugged snow peaks of the mountains. Blue-gray clouds obscured the valleys below under a blanket of velvet mystery and ethereal quiet. The violet haze of nearing twilight obscured the details of the distant peaks. The sun was below the mountains, and the shadows comforted the Count’s, anxious heart.

“Will you be dining in tonight, my lord,” came the silky voice of a young maiden. The Count turned and took up the portrait of her delicious yearning brushed with a pinkish hue on her porcelain face. He smiled as thoughts raced through his mind on how the dining-out pleasures met with his desire to take his sustenance here and now.

The seemingly undernourished girl realized her mistake as long fingers lightly stroked her cheek, forcing her to stare nervously at her feet.

“I’ll take dinner here on the Buffett. The fireplace is especially inviting tonight, don’t you think? “

“Yes, my lord.”

“Please have my Coachman ready to depart at precisely 7:00 pm. Oh, and I’ll take my evening coffee up here as well.”

“It is my pleasure, Sir Stephan.”

“And you are my eternal pleasure, Anna.” The Count lifted her chin with commanding fingertips until her eyelashes fluttered and opened to the laser penetration of two orbs of black glass dancing with the reflected light of the fire. She felt a disquieting tingle race down from her stomach into her loins. Stephan released his spell on the maiden, and Anna hurried from the Count’s chamber.

Deep laughter reverberated off the tapestry-covered walls as the Count sat by the fireplace. “That delightful Anna gives me hope for the future of her family. They have served our house for as long as this castle has stood. The modern world has nothing to compare to such devotion.”

“Now, I must turn my attention to Miley. How can I convince her to come to this distant outpost to be my personal scribe? Our meeting was not the most cordial as it seems Miss Miley has many troubles. Perhaps escape and solitude is what she needs, and I can give her that which she desires most.”

The Stranger

we must treasure the dream whatever the terror

N.K. Sandars, The Epic of Gilgamesh

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Miley sat on the edge of the brick planter outside the ice cream shop and indulged in her caramel macchiato sundae. It was a reward for living in denial. She denied herself enough food, rest, love, companionship, and gentle thoughts of doing nothing. Life was about goals and achievement, being heard and seen. She denied herself solitude, fearing silence was not golden but a terrible curse that she couldn’t escape. Some day she would have what she most wanted in life, and when Miley knew what that was, she could set her goals and devour the time to get there.

A man walked by and stopped in front of Miley, facing her left as if looking down the street. She almost asked him if he was looking for something. She stopped, berating herself for opening up for pointless conversation and the fight to get rid of him. She kept her eyes on her cup of sinful decadence and pretended to study where her spoon should dig next. 

The stranger was dressed all in black. It matched his long raven hair. This mysterious fellow obscured Miley’s view with the side of his hip – well muscled. His legs were strong, his shoulders broad. Just what she didn’t need; another muscle man jackass to rip her insides out and leave her alone with her pain and regret. 

“Miley,” his voice assaulted her awareness like the slow rumble of distant thunder.

Miley shuddered. How could he know her name?

“May I sit down with you,” he asked.

“It’s a public place. Set where you like,” she replied. Her voice seemed foreign and full of rude subtleness. She watched as he blotted out the sun and descended to the brick border of the planter. He sat a respectful distance away and leaned forward, his face in his hands, thinking about something – Miley had no clue. “How did he know my name?” The thought haunted her with unease and made her ice cream seem cloying and sticky in her mouth. A memory of her subversion by another man’s passion slid across her mind’s eye and she felt nauseous. She scooted over, just a few more inches. 

The man didn’t look up or move. He didn’t acknowledge her. The black-clad figure sat with his face in his hands, tortured by something she couldn’t imagine and didn’t want to know. 

“Don’t do it, Miley,” her inner voice scolded.

“Who are you? How did you know who I am?” She asked with a timid voice full of dread. 

“I warned you girl,” The voice in her head fumed at her weakness for curiosity. 

He lifted himself up and looked into her face. He was calm and expressionless. Miley tried to read him. Her heart raced with the fear a woman has when she falls under the gaze of a stone-hearted predator.

His gaze held her frozen, not knowing what would come next. Miley’s mind urged her to run away. The interloper’s posture held her captive, like the squirrel waiting for the hawk to leave. He looked down at Miley’s trembling fingers. She pushed them into her lap and abandoned her ice cream. Those eyes. They looked through her. They were like black obsidian gemstones fixed into twin settings; the eyes of Horus, she thought. It spoke and Miley felt the voice resonate in her chest.

“I am everything you fear and everything you need and nothing you want. I am the thing you look upon with disdain and give thanks you are not me. I am the beggar you taunted and the wealthy gentleman whose confidence you stole, thinking he had plenty of money left to carry him away in more luxury than you could afford. I am the love you never had and the pain you suffer to deny. I am the opposite of you, Miley. I am love in the darkness and I am only seen by you.”

His words came to her like a reading of some ancient manuscript that revealed some astonishing secret about her only she had known. It was the poem of Gilgamesh, the Poetic Asatru Edda. As she fell unwittingly into listening, into captivation, into mute silence, his voice shifted and she felt the words and saw them in her mind. His story showed her in the embrace of Krishna stretched out on a tiger’s pelt in a park where the trees were in the full bloom of spring. The air was sweet and fragrant and they practiced the enlightenment of pleasure according to the Kama Sutra.

“I am the boy you admired along the Danube river as our Tribe pushed west across Europe to Scandinavia to escape the Hordes from the Steppes of Asia as they swept everything aside like the floods of angry storms. I am the boy turned to the man who left you at the shore of Bergen Norway as our longboat sailed from the Fjord to Britain in search of glory and wealth.”

His story unfolded in epic vistas of history. She did not know when he had come closer and lifted her hand buried between her tightly held thighs. The hand that drew her into a spell swallowed her fingers with a touch soft and warm. Miley was afraid to look at what they were doing in this strange park where trees cast flower petals like snow. She felt no fear, only longing; the longing she had worked so hard to flush from her life. Now it was back stronger than ever.

The captivated tribal girl tilted her head down and listened as he neared her ear and whispered things; lovely things she didn’t want to hear, and could not resist, nor look away.

“I am the kiss, the bite, the intensity of striking your skin and spontaneous sounds unbidden.” 

Miley felt his tongue barely touching the peach fuzz on her skin. He drew mandalas on her with fingers that burned. She felt the licks and bite, the rhythm of men in their frenzy of lovemaking. “What the hell is going on?” She thought, but it was too late. 

“And who am I in your fantastic story,” she asked.

“You are the innocent girl across the river, the virgin mistress in the park adorned in the silk and spun cotton of your Lord and Master. You are the betrothed whose man has abandoned you for the glory of war, the dutiful wife, the mistress, the madame, the woman divorced from her divine nature.”

The obsidian eyes paused and waited. Miley read hunger in the reflection of her face in glossy pupils blown out to the edges of equally black irises. Did she pick up the faintest scent of his clothes; patchouli? Sandalwood, evergreen forest, wet stones, forest moss, and something sweet like masala chai wafted across her as a breeze from a passing car stirred the air. 

“Would you like to come with me to my place? I want to hear more about us, about you,” Miley asked.

“Not yet, he said. When your heart is full and you have found that the love inside you is the greatest gift you possess, I will come back to you, and this time, I’ll take you with me.”

Miley’s eyes stung from the rejection. She was ashamed for stepping out of her guarded nature to risk her heart with a stranger. Worst of all, Miley had no idea why she asked this goth-looking asshole to stay with her. She could not look at him. She would not show him how he won her over with his charming story and when she gave in, he rebuked her. 

Miley’s breath came in a shudder and she grew angry she might cry. She looked up to confront this cruel trick, but the man was gone and all she could see or hear was the people busy with each other, the sounds of commerce, and the songs of insects in the air. Her damned ice cream melted too.

“Have courage and be kind, Darling..”

My mother used to tell me this when I was little. Back then I couldn’t really fathom its depth, neither what it meant to me, nor how it would have an impact in my life. Until a surprising event altered our lives—and my life as an only child.

Let me tell you a short story. A story of my life.

My mother was a chain-smoker and a frustrated writer. She didn’t get to publish her creations, but to me she was the best writer in the world. She has written countless fiction stories that she would read to me during bed time. She’s so creative, her imagination is limitless. She told me I was her inspiration, that most of the qualities of the protagonists in her stories are the ones she hoped I would have one day when I grew up. Sadly, I didn’t get any of them. I grew up disappointing her for being the girl who did not possess such character of a princess of strength. I just couldn’t be who she wanted me to be. I tried, but I failed. Expectations unmet, promises undelivered. I promised her I will continue what she has unfinished. That I will write stories that will change the world. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it.

She would usually say, “Write a novel and put your heart in it. A fiction with words that would speak of love and inspiration.” Not the exact same words and tone of voice because for sure, she would have said it better. She’s my idol, but I despise the idea that she smokes two pack of cigarettes a day. She said that it helps her become more creative, hence I wasn’t able to do anything to stop her.

Unfortunately, it has taken its heavy toll on her.

Fast forward to today, my mother couldn’t even remember me. She has Stage 4 breast cancer and dementia, as per the doctors, which they said has nothing to do with her smoking that much cigs. How come? And why her? Every single day from the time we found out she was very sick, I have anticipated the nightmare of losing her and being alone. I’m scared, really scared. Nevertheless, I’m happy that she’s still with me, that I could take care of her, even though my Idol in her was now gone.

She would usually call me Ella or Mina, some of the girls from her stories. And then last night, I came home and saw her lying in her bed, staring blankly out of nowhere. I took advantage of that moment to study her, to remember all the memories we have shared when she was still sane. I felt that pinch in my heart, like a stab in the chest, but no blood came out. I then wished my mum comes back, even just for a short while, I murmured.

And even before the tears run down, she looked at me as if she’s calling me to come right beside her. So I did. I held her hand and closed my eyes as I rub them in my cheeks. My way of telling her how much I miss her and her bedtime stories. And when her left hand brushed my hair, I could no longer hold the tears from falling. They fell hastily like a bird who needs freedom. I freed all the tears my eyes could release. And she spoke to me the words she would always tell me when I was young:

“Have courage and be kind, Darling..” she wiped my tears and smiled after saying those words. My wish was granted. My mother’s sanity was back, she’s back and she remembered me!

Ah, really? Guess not…

“Ella, call your father and tell him the dinner is ready!”, she said in peremptory fashion, just like how Ella’s mother in her stories would do. I just sighed in utter frustration. Subsequently, she kept on coughing non-stop, I quickly prepared a glass of water and searched for her meds—there I saw a bunch of them scattered in her drawers. My mother has been cheating, she hasn’t been taking her meds all this time. Guess she really wants to leave, to leave me, and she left me with such words that used to be blurry.

That same night, she closed her eyes, so peacefully I could almost see an angel giving her wings so she could fly.

And now that I’m alone, I get it. To have courage and to be kind would probably be the only thing I could instil in me, and this time, I won’t disappoint her.

I promise, Momma, I will have courage and be kind. Always. 

************************************

#totallyfiction

(This story was inspired by the Cinderella movie I just watched an hour ago through Fox Movies Channel. The title was mentioned several times it got stuck in my head I had to write it down this way. Thanks for reading!)

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Fresh eyes (Part 1)

This is the most nerve-racking moment in her life. By the time she woke up, she felt like she slept in a pond of sweat. She hurriedly wiped it with her bare hands as soon as she saw a seemed-like-a-slow-mo drop of it from her chin down to her lap. She suddenly panicked so she rapidly got up from her tangled bed, threw away her blanket and ran towards the mirror. She was startled to see her reflection but at the same time she felt some sense of relief. She looked normal, no bruises, no wounds, no blood.

“It was just a dream, Amma, ok? It will never come to life.” She said to herself whilst zooming herself in and out, looking for some sort of physical damages, examining her face and her body in the mirror. She tried to lift herself up with those words of affirmation but she’s utterly aware of a familiar scary possibility.

It all started when she was 16. Amma lost her parents due to the famous 2011 suicide plane bombing.She has a 10 year old sister, at that time, named Emma, who just turned 17 last December. It’s been exactly seven years since they passed away but the effect of this tragic event is still fresh in her memory. That was also the time she realized her gift that she sometimes refer to as a curse—because Amma can’t help but to blame herself, she thought she could have used her gift to warn her parents about what she has seen in her dreams. She could have went there and informed everyone she knew what’s going to happen, heedless of  whether they believe her or not—she could have saved her parents and 100 more innocent lives. But she didn’t. For she knows it’s absurd to believe that she could see the future through her dreams.

The premonitons that show up when she’s asleep are not usually bad dreams per se. Oft times it’s good and funny and sexy but last night’s dream was intensely terrifying. In this dream, Amma saw herself drunk driving, on her way home, with an unknown guy in the passenger seat who was laughing crazily, a bottle of Nils Oscar beer in his right hand, his left on her hips and as he was about to kiss her, she saw a silhouette of a man who’s about to cross the street, so she quickly turned the steering wheel to her right, unable to anticipate the ten-wheeler truck coming in the same lane she’s in. The unknown guy shouted at her, Watch out!, but Amma recklessly lost control and then BAAAM!

To be continued…

(Photo credit to the owner)

The missing piece

For a moment, she closed her eyes. Even before she could open her mouth so she can tell Him her agonies, her heart spoke to her and said, He knows what you’re going through. It’s not something atypical, it’s a relatively old feeling. It usually happens to her when she starts overthinking, when she worries about tomorrow, when she’s incapable of adding words to form a message that could describe her current painful stage. God knows precisely what she’s thinking, what’s been bothering her. He told her, Just be patient.

She has almost everything she could ask for. But there’s only one thing that’s untraceable, nowhere to be found. It seems as though destiny has been playing with her heart for a quarter of a century now. She’s trapped in a list of several facets. She’s poisoned with a smell of false hopes. She’s blinded by some inauthentic human behaviour. Hence she’s literally clueless of how and where to find it.

God can read her mind. He knows how much she worries about finding it. He knows how confused she gets, everytime there’s divergent faces of options lined up before her eyes. He knows when to speak to her whenever she falls onto the ground. Just like what He did just today.

And she recurrently falls heavily—with so much gravity that pulls her down. He saw her almost drowning in her ocean of tears. Ironically, He heard a loud shriek from her but it carries no sound.

She cursed her whole being, overlooking the bountiful fruits that surround her. Oblivious to the flowers that bloom despite her pain. She forgets everything else whenever she remembers that piece of puzzle that seemed to be so tough to find.

She almost capitulated to the idea of finding it. She’s even quite uncertain if the piece exists in the first place.

And then she closed her eyes again. In a few seconds, the wind blew all the strength it has to be able to lift her. It destroyed the sinister scene she created due to the negative voices that broke her. It blew hard she was thrown on the surface of the universe and it hit her. It hit her hard. It was painful—but a kind of pain she needed to wake up from a live nightmare. Like ice cold water busted upon her dreary face. Like some electrical shots given to her at such a high frequency.

She was awoken by the wind God used as an instrument to remind her of the beauty of life. That it’s beautiful inspite the enigma of an incomplete puzzle. That the missing piece is just out there, that one day she’s going to be able to touch it—she just have to keep the faith.

(Photo grabbed from Pinterest)