Short Stories

Twin black eyes

Mid-day. Heavy rain is pouring from a dark sky. The drops are long and sharp, falling like knife blades from the charcoal clouds. A strong wind moves the tall, dead grass that covers a wide field surrounded by nothing but lines of horizon: the edge of the world to the left and the edge of the world to the right.

In the middle of the field, a large tree with barely any leaves stands tall, bending under powerful winds, with its grey bark soaking wet. Lightening and thunder threaten to split it apart and set its wood ablaze.

In the midst of that desolate landscape, a young girl dressed in succinct clothing of cotton and linen, holding a piece of paper in her left hand, looks at the tree with her twin black eyes.

Her gaze is soaked in sadness, the type of pain that comes from an unhealed wound. Melancholy, the sweetest red wine, the softest velvet.

She has been coming to the same spot for many years, looking at the tree dying slowly. The wind blows her long dark hair, revealing her tears melting with rain. The earth beneath her bare feet is a sea of mud and puddles.

The woman’s eyes are fixated on the tree. Menacing lightening and the monstrous roar that follows it do nothing to distract her. She feels no fear, no cold and no discomfort, only the pain of a broken soul. Her heart had no power to heal this sort of wound, neither did her mind. A shattered soul can only be healed when its pieces are put together once more. But only after leaving one’s mortality behind can this happen. Only then, we are together.

She blinks and, without moving her body, the young woman traverses part of the field. She blinks again and her body moves across the wet and muddy ground once more. Through her eyes closing and opening, the woman eventually reaches the tree.

Softly, her right hand reaches the tree, touching its hard and cold bark. Its branches move, pushed by the storm. She looks up at the few leaves that are left: brown and dark orange, they struggle to remain part of the tree, but the wind blows them away. The leaves turn to ashes as they are ripped from their branches.

The woman then bends her head and opens up her left palm, where the piece of paper, wet and dirty, reveals a short text written in dark blue ink: “…and my hopes will be blossoming flowers on your grave.”

Her twin black eyes close, as she prays for eternity to take her.

Categories: Short Stories

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