Inked - Maria
She scrawled thick spidered ink across her page (boy).
The last time a pen pressed its head to her fingers.
She wrote letters you could publish in five-hundred-year-old newspapers with even the language just like it would have been then.She outlined her name at the bottom with a red heart,the ink was blood,she couldn't get red ink so long ago.The ink was her servant's blood,there wasn't much since her signature was small.The red worked perfectly,intriqued a kind of mystery about her.The kind that circulated rumors about her butchering her servants to write her letters,her bleeding herself dry so that she could just write two initials,MS.
The S was curved strangely,jagged,and it never looked as graceful as she wished.Especially sinced she was writing with the tip of a sword.
She wrote all day,all night,she cried onto her letters,her smiles dried them onto the cracked paper.She sat in gardens,she sat on windowsills,she knelt and begged her beautiful mistress for paper.She helped as though she was a saint,she promised as though each promise was a blade of grass and she lived in fields.
She drew with flourished lines of exagerated blue for the sky,a mirror image to the scene she watched with quenching dark-brown eyes.She almost never painted,now.
She wrote.Everything she ever felt or breathed or read,she scrawled in thick spidered writing across the walls of her rooms,everywhere she stayed.Everything she ever aquired she wrote mottos on,so many that she couldn't remember every single one's translation in latin.She used letters to block everything out.
Drop your pen.
She walked with her eyes downcast as if she didn't want to see anything,she would never touch anything for very long as if everything but her own hands and her pens were made of fire.She ignored omens and azure crosses against the moon.Maybe......she was w r o n g to?.
She eventually married a count when she was twenty-three.Weddings.She was scared,she kept her voice as low as possible and her pen pressed to her hands.She was plunged into some other life which she'd never seen before,didn't understand.Love.Without writing.Without ink.Was that p o s s i b l e?
She would look at him and think for the first time in her life as if suddenley she wasn't so allergic to anything but pens ink.
She actually was a person,somebody.Without writing.
She thought her life over in her head.Was it a life before she met h i m? Was she real???
A summer day was hazy against her windows.She cleaned as though she was a normal person,she lay in the grass with nothing but a blue silk scarf covering her as if she were a saint,someone in an ancient portrait.She rolled over,the pen still in her hand.
It had never left her warmth,her ice.A river flowed down by the end of her garden,it laughed hollowly as it flowed down,down the hillside.She walked over to it,sat by it,dangled her feet in it.
Her hands grew tired from keeping her up,she lay down,her head an inch away from the water.She raised her arms,her muscles loosened in the heat.Gradually,a timestopping second,the pen slipped from her hands.
She didn't realise.
Bit by bit,she slipped into a glove of tears.She never saw h i m again,whether he was dead,or alive,she neither knew nor could care (anymore.) Her soul died that day,slipped into the sort of state of mind she used to have,only..........so empty.Had she lost something?
She spent the rest of her life alone,hidden.Plunged into some sort of strange grief for no reason.She ached to write her letters all over the walls.But
she couldn't find the pen.
She lay by the stream on a summer day,
The last one before the rain.