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Trust
Fiction: The eyes of a trapped soul.
He tried to get to know her better. He asked her what her favourite colour was. Black. Her favourite music? Soul. Her favourite word? Trust. He told her that he liked trust too. That it provided the foundations for friendship. That it provided hope. She said she liked it because it remained a mystery. No explanation. A naked half answer.
He searched for time. Struggling to grasp the edges of a fabric he failed to see. He asked her if she really thought that the grass was greener on the other side. The sun brighter? The feelings lighter? He asked her if she was sure. No one can ever be sure, she replied. He sighed - a sigh of relief perhaps, but no one can be sure. But, she said, the people there are safer. The people there are happier.
Once more he was stuck for words. Words to comfort. Words to help. He felt like a goldfish drowning in oxygen. Chewing air. The silence was heavy. Profound. His eyes rested on her. Her copper curls followed the wind. Chasing its breath. Like a waterfall of autumn. Cascading out. Caught in a current, trying to escape. Trying to escape, yet pulling her back. Restraining her fragile form. Limbs a deathly ice pale. Too skinny. Too frail.
The sharp breeze nipped at his face. Clawing at him. Pawing at him. Tempting him to resign. His eyes watered, his face smarted like a sharp slap across his cheek. Her own face was turned out against the city. He could not see it. Glassy eyes stared out over an ocean of blinking lights and melancholic streets. Out past the lonely rooftops to linger on the faraway horizon.
He let his gaze shift from the almost hypnotic rhythm of her hair to the city below. He watched the tall shadows of sisterly buildings, leaning close together, offering support. He watched the dying sun fade out past the bay. The grey roads and coal black corners. Engines in cars. Engines in people. He watched and wondered why so many of those great men, those never lost for words, preferred the hills of green and the crooked sheep. Why they sought respite from this great, sprawling creature. The heart that beats continuously. Whose pulse flows through the alleys and streets and streets and alleys. Whose beauty is of a different genre.
His wrist watch beeped. Twice. Signalling six o’ clock. Signalling a jolt back to the present. Almost simultaneously, the bells of church and cathedral rang out. Echoing through the air. Proclaiming the marriage of a country to its beliefs.
Do you believe in God, she whispered. I do. I shouldn’t. But I do. He took everything. My love, my dignity. I should have given up. But I never did. For the first time, she turned to him. Just her head. For the first time he saw her face. He saw the scars. He saw the hate. Hate etched permanently into her skin by the hand of another. A mesh of red and pink scratches. Scratches that dug deep. The right side of her face told of a former beauty, a former princess. She studied him. Studied his eyes. Curious eyes that had lit upon a fire escape left ajar. Tired eyes. Sombre eyes. The eyes of a trapped soul.
They stood motionless. Time halted. The bells ceased to toll. He stretched out a hand. She glanced at it. A peace offering? Please, please. Silence. The hand remained empty. Please. She took a step back from the ledge. Just one. She turned her body and stopped. He stepped forward, arm still outstretched. Please, he said. Please, just trust me.
By: Anonymous
