Searing Hearts

Genevieve was a striking beauty, her honey brown eyes filled with such innocence, yet they held a deep fire that could melt your heart at first glance. The features of her face were perfectly proportioned, her lips a full, deep red and her nose small and perfectly angled. Her cherry red hair curled around her slender body in beautiful loose ringlets.

It was no doubt that she was one of the most desirable maidens in the small town, but her fiery spirit was what had drawn so many to her doorstep. Ever since she had become of age there had been men, young and old, asking permission from her father for her hand. Though she may have thought the men fairly handsome, none of them had a barely tolerable personality. She would have none of them, refusing each as if they were bits of trash.

She kept up her stubbornness until one day when a dark figure appeared on their doorstep, requesting an audience with her father. Genevieve peered through the slightly cracked open door to her father's study, intently listening to the conversation. From what she could hear the boy was asking for a job in the fields they owned. She was baffled. She had expected the boy had come to ask for her, although she was slightly relieved that he did not come seeking her.

From what she could see, the boy looked no older that twenty, with messy mousy hair and deep blue eyes. He was tall and well built, good for working and heavy lifting. He stood, leaning on his right foot with terrible posture, yet he held his head high. He looked very proud for someone who asked for work, yet was not too thick skulled not to ask for work when needed. Genevieve tiptoed away as she heard the conversation come to an end; he had won the job.

As the months wore on, she saw the boy on a daily basis. Scott Banit was his name, and oh how she loved it. She would speak with the boy whenever possible, bringing him cool water on hot days in the fields and warm clothes on chilly days. The boy intrigued her, as she did him. He was bewildered by her beauty and kind composition; and he enjoyed seeing her and speaking with her. Soon they found themselves deeply tangled in one another's heartstrings. But their young love would not last for long; a war had been raging on, and the government called for young men to serve his country. It was not long before he received his letter calling him into battle.

It was their last meeting together before he was to leave for the training required of all the young soldiers. Inside she was being torn apart into a million pieces, but she refused to show any sign of discomfort. He was preparing to leave, standing before the thick oak doors. He turned, taking her small, cold hands into his own large ones, warming them as he did so. He gazed at her for a moment before asking her one simple favor.

"Wait for me?" he asked, the love he felt for her flowing into his eyes, intertwining with his words as they slipped from his lips.

It was obvious she knew he cared for her as she did him. Though she was unbelievably joyous, but her joy turned to unmistakable fear. She knew the risk of promising herself to him; she knew the risk that he was taking by going to war. She stared at him blankly, and then reacted in such a way that shocked Scott.

She ripped her hands from his tender grasp and proceeded to shout insults, repeatedly asking him why he was doing this to her. She screamed at him until her cheeks were flushed and her breath was coming in short gasps. Scott stood stiffly, staring at her before smiling and shaking his head.

He leaned down towards her; brushing his lips against hers in a brisk kiss murmuring, "Wait for me." With that he spun on his heel and glided out the door.

She let out an aggravated yell as she slammed the door. She slid to the floor; the hot tears she had so desperately held back now flowing freely down her rosy cheeks. She choked out a sob, wrapping her arms around her abdomen.

"Always," she whispered as her body was racked with her sobs of anger and sorrow.

Days turned into weeks, weeks melded into months, and still no word from her love. She spent her days sewing by her window, leaping to her feet whenever a telegram would come to the house.

One morning her father requested her presence in his study. She slowly trudged into the room, settling in a leather chair before her father's desk and folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her father's back was turned to her as he smoked his pipe; the pungent smell filling the room. He slowly turned, his face grim, staring at her as if thinking of what to say to her.

"Genevieve, it's Scott, he's…" he shook his head roughly, clearly upset about what he was trying to tell her. Grasping a piece of paper and holding it out to her, his eyes turned misty and sad.

She did not have to set her eyes on the paper's content once; she already knew. She began screaming hysterically, throwing herself to the floor. Tears drenched her pale cheeks as her screams tore her throat to shreds. Her father dropped to the floor beside her, wrapping his arms around his little girl, while whispering apologies and telling her how much he loved her. Though it was all in vain, nothing could ever console her.

She was lying on her bed, an empty shell, her face stained with tears of grief. She was broken beyond repair; everyone in her house knew it. They had given up hours before and decided it was best she be alone.

Suddenly a brilliant white light erupted in the middle of the room, frightening her. She scrunched away, her back pressed firmly against the headboard of her bed. She shielded her eyes from the light with one of her shaky hands. When the light died down she looked toward the foot of her bed, her blood ran cold. It was the personage of her lost love standing there before her in the flesh she knew he did not have. She smiled at her, shaking his head and he strolled to the side of her bed and sat down next to her.

He grabbed her clammy right hand, bringing it close to his face, "You have waited for me as I had asked. Now I ask you to live your life happy." He whispered, "I love you."

He kissed her palm, and disappeared in the blink of an eye. Her palm burned with a searing sensation sending shivers down her spine. She peered at her hand only to see black scorch marks burned into her skin. She leaned back; closing her eyes and took a deep breath, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

Ever since that night, she did try to live her life as happy as she could. She grew old and later died of natural causes. But if you were to look back at every portrait ever taken of her, you will always be able to spot the mysterious velvet black glove over her right hand.