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Over a decade has slipped by like sand through my fingers, leaving me here, my hand trembling above the blank page, memories swirling in a chaotic dance of horror and confusion. They’re like ghosts haunting the corridors of my mind, except for one vivid, chilling memory that stands tall amidst the fog of forgetfulness. But isn’t it true that the most tumultuous storms of emotion in our lives are also the hardest to grasp when we try to hold onto them?
Every now and then, in stolen moments snatched from the monotony of life, my enchanting yet enigmatic friend would reach for my hand with a warmth that pulsed like a heartbeat; her cheeks would flush with a delicate rose tint as her half-closed eyes, ablaze with a feverish intensity, met mine. Her breath would come in passionate bursts, making her gown ripple like the waves of a restless sea. It felt like the fiery embrace of love—intense, slightly unsettling, yet irresistibly commanding. Drawing me closer, her fervent lips would trace a path across my face, leaving behind trails of fiery kisses, while her whispers bordered on desperate pleas: “You are mine; we are destined to be together forever.”
Then she would retreat into her chair, her petite hands covering her eyes, leaving me to shiver in the aftermath.
“Do we share the same blood? Why do you torment me like this?” My voice would waver. “Is it because I remind you of someone you loved? But please, I can’t bear this unease; your intense gaze and passionate words overwhelm me.”
She would sigh wearily at my resistance before turning away, releasing my hand.
Faced with these bewildering displays, no rational explanation seemed sufficient—not deception nor strategy. It was as if raw emotions and buried instincts were clawing their way to the surface. Despite assurances from her mother, doubts crept in—was madness creeping into her life uninvited? Or was this all a carefully crafted performance? Stories from the past flitted through my mind—of secret lovers donning disguises with the help of wily conspirators. Yet reality often punctured such romantic fantasies—especially mine—because none of the charming gestures that men often use in courtship were directed at me.
In between these enigmatic bursts of passion, where a melancholic flame flickered within her eyes, fixated solely on me, she seemed to regard me as invisible. Amid these episodes, there stretched vast stretches of ordinary moments—moments of light-heartedness, ponderous gloom, or sheer girlishness, with an underlying weariness uncommon for someone of her youth and vitality.
Her quirks were peculiar in some ways, though perhaps not as remarkable to a refined city lady as they seemed to us rustic folk. She often appeared quite tardy, sometimes not appearing until the clock struck one, showing no urgency for sustenance but content with a cup of chocolate. Then, we would venture out for a leisurely stroll, a mere amble, yet she would soon tire, seeking solace either back at the schloss or on one of the scattered benches nestled among the trees. Despite her languid physicality, her mind never mirrored this inertia. She sparkled in conversation, her intellect casting a brilliant light on every topic.
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Occasionally, she hinted at her origins or shared a tale of an adventure or custom, offering brief glimpses into a world of strange traditions and distant lands. These clues hinted at a homeland far more exotic than I initially imagined.
It was during one such languid afternoon, as we lounged under the twisted branches of the trees, that a solemn procession passed by. It was the funeral of a young maiden, often seen in the tender care of our beloved ranger. The grief-stricken father followed the coffin, his sorrow palpable as he mourned his only daughter.
Peasants marched behind, their voices heavy with grief as they sang a mournful dirge. Moved by respect, I stood, paying my respects as they passed, my voice blending with their mournful melody.
To my surprise, my companion abruptly interrupted, her tone sharp and cutting. “Do you not sense the discord?” she demanded.
“I find it rather melodious,” I replied, irritated by the interruption and hoping our discourse went unnoticed by the mourners.
Undeterred by her interruption, I collected myself swiftly and resumed my position. Yet once again, I found myself interrupted, this time with a touch of anger in Victoria’s voice. “You assault my ears,” she declared, delicately sealing her ears with slender fingers. “And how can you assume that your beliefs align with mine? Your rituals disturb me, and I have a strong aversion to funerals. What a fuss! In the end, we all face mortality—every soul must yield. And often, in death, there’s a strange peace. Let’s go back home.”
“Father went with the clergyman to the cemetery. I thought you knew today was the burial,” I replied, my confusion evident in my tone.
“She? I pay no attention to commoners’ troubles. I don’t know who she is,” Victoria retorted, her gaze sharp like lightning.
“She’s the unfortunate girl who thought she saw a ghost a fortnight ago. Her health declined rapidly until she passed away yesterday,” I explained solemnly.
“I have no interest in ghost stories. If you continue, the night will bring no peace,” Victoria dismissed with a wave of her hand.
Despite her dismissal, I persisted, “I hope no illness or plague strikes us; this all feels eerily familiar.” My words found agreement, “The swineherd’s wife died just a week ago. She believed something was choking her in bed, and within a week, she was gone. Father says such hallucinations often come with certain fevers. She was perfectly fine the day before.”
Victoria sighed in relief, “I hope her funeral was dignified and her requiem peaceful. I don’t want any more unsettling disturbances. Please, sit beside me; come closer; hold my hand firmly.”
We moved to another bench, finding a bit of solace in the quietude.
She settled back, and in that instant, her demeanor transformed, sending shivers down my spine. Her complexion darkened to a ghastly shade, her teeth clenched, and her hands balled into fists. Frowning deeply and pressing her lips together, she stared fixedly at the ground, trembling as if caught in an unyielding shiver, reminiscent of ague. It seemed as though every ounce of her being fought against an impending fit, a struggle evident in every strained breath. Finally, a subdued cry of agony slipped past her lips, and gradually, the hysteria ebbed. “See! This is what happens when hymns suffocate people!” she exclaimed, her voice strained. “Hold me, keep me steady. It’s passing.”
And indeed, it did; perhaps in an effort to dispel the heavy atmosphere lingering from that haunting episode, she became unusually lively and talkative as we made our way home.
This incident marked the first time I saw tangible evidence of the delicate constitution her mother had spoken of. It was also the first glimpse of her temper.
Yet, these traits faded like a fleeting summer cloud; and only once more did I witness a brief flare of anger from her. Allow me to recount that moment.