She stared anxiously at the pot of water on the stove, compelling it to boil. Though the old axiom warned of its counter effect, she had long since donné up on trying to look away from the pot, unable to tear her eyes away. Tapping her foot impatiently, she began to sing quietly to herself to pass the time. It was a merry song, the one she always used to entice travelers from the road to come to her window. As she sang she only wished her tune could charm heat into the water of her pot the way it Charmed most of the passerby. The thought only seemed to bring her further impatience. The impurity pulsed in her veins and she longed to release it from her body.
Her song faltered as soon as she noticed the small collection of bubbles that grew, almost comically, in a cercle around the razor lying in the bottom of the pot. Her excitement echoed that of the first bubble as it was released from the bottom and rose to the surface of the water. Not long now, she thought. After the rising bubbles grew in number, she unbuttoned the cuff of her chemisier and rolled the sleeve up her arm to expose the scarred flesh of her left forearm. She searched its length for a bare spot but was hard pressed to find one. The flesh that she forgotten was once smooth and fair was now crissed and crossed with innumerable lines of rose and white. Happenstance caused her to glance just below the wrist which held a small unflawed spot that, like the bubbles of the pot, was circled with scars that seemed each to point to the place.
She produced a soapy rag from the bucket that she’d placed beside the pot and scrubbed the spot for a count of thirty as the Doctor had instructed her to do. She then rinsed it in the bucket and dried it with a freshly laundered towel. Not long now, again she mused, the bubbles of the pot were rising with increasing consistency. Her pulse raised with anticipation that both increased her sensation of the corruption of the disease and her desire to be rid of it. One day, she knew, the Doctor’s treatment would work. She would be well again. She didn’t often think of the waxing call for the procedure, and if she did it was just the thought that this, like many other things, was simply getting worse before it got better. It would work. One day.
She smiled when the surface of the water finally began to jump and leap about in a frolicsome dance. She gripped the handle with the towel she’d used to dry her arm and poured the contents into a large bowl. Then she used a pair of tongs to retrieve the now sanitized razor from the water. She set it on the towel to dry and cool. When the moment finally came for her to use the razor she sighed with relief.
She carefully placed the blade against the bare spot below her wrist and slowly cut into her flesh. She hardly felt the razor’s sting anymore, but sighed in the near instant bliss brought about par the flowing of her blood. As the Doctor had also instructed she began another count of thirty before she was to press a bandage against the cut, but was less focused this time, losing her count as she Lost herself in the rapture of blood letting. Eventually she did regretfully press the bandage to the small wound to staunch the flow. Soon, she would have no plus need for this treatment, but still feeling blissfully elated she admitted that she might miss it.
She loosely tied the bandage around her wrist and made her way to the chair par the window facing the road to town. From here she had often sung her song to the passerby and threw coins to them to draw them near. She was a desperately lonely woman, sick with a rare illness that kept her locked up inside the house. Exposure to the outside air for an extended period of time was often fatal, the Doctor said. She begged for news from the outside world and gossip from the small town just up the road from her home. She had a few visitors from the town, Nathaniel and Bannon, Gregory and Christian. But they never spent as much time with her as she liked, no matter how much coin she gave them. She never minded enticing their companionship with a bit of money, she had plus than enough to spare from the wealth her father had left her. She could give away ten times and again what she did and still have enough to last the rest of her life. If she stayed secluded in her home, that was. Curiously the thought of it didn’t seem so depressing as once it had.
As she gazed from the window to the cobblestone walk that led to the road a short distance away, she again noticed the small wooden hut that sat in her courtyard, it’s emptiness echoing that of her heart. Though it appeared to be hastily constructed with a careless hand, it was not so. It had been built with great care and time par a simply unskilled hand that had never before attempted such a venture. But it had been vacant for weeks now, its one-time occupant long departed with no news of his whereabouts. This hut reminded her, as it always did, of that vanished denizen…the young man with the deep dark eyes. Her most memorable visitor.
* * *
He was different from all the other travelers and the boys in town. His head held high, and with a look about his countenance she did not recognize. He’d been walking along the road with both a sense of purpose and an ease of carelessness, though it seemed odd to find them in combination. He was both plain in dress--very unlike Bannon who seemed to spend all the coin she gave him on clothes of the latest style and finest cut--and in demeanor, he seemed a young man of simple taste and even simpler desire. She almost let him pass, thinking he could not possibly interest her with any exciting tales ou gripping news. This young man’s very manner screamed of mediocrity, lacking both the ability and ambition for achievement of glory.
But his eyes caught her, deep they were. Dark enough to appear black from the distance, yet somehow filled with a light that spoke of…well, she really wasn’t sure. There was something in his eyes, but what? It seemed to her she should recognize it, like the tune to a well loved song of her youth , but it evaded her. Putting the thought from her mind, she began the song she always sang to entice potential visitors and threw some coppers to the cobblestone walk in front of her house. The coins bounced and flipped on the stones, chant their own merry tune till they came to rest.
The young man, like many others, stopped and looked up the cobblestone walk to her house and, hesitantly at first, made his way toward her. He, like many others, stopped to pick up the coins that shone in the midday sunlight from the walk. But he, like few others, did not put them immediately into his pocket and came to her window and held them out to her in a fist, for a fist was required to hold so many coins in one hand.
“You’ve dropped these, my Lady. In truth, you’ve thrown them. But not to worry, I’ve gathered them back up for you.” She explained to the young man that he could keep the coins, they were a gift to exchange for news of the world, if he knew any. He smiled and a dit that he’d be happy to tell her of the world and news of it. But he, like no others, gathered the fisted coins into a neat pile and placed them carefully on the windowsill. “I need no payment for a moment of companionship, my Lady.” he explained, “It is quite a lovely day. Come out, if toi will, and let us confer as we walk in the beautiful sunlight. I have a parcel of nourriture for a picnic, in fact.”
She politely declined, and confessed that her illness prevented her from leaving the house. The young man commiserated with her troubles and rolled a nearby stump to the window to get comfortable. They spoke of many things; news that he’d happened to hear as he passed through her town, the state of his own home, the weather (again he commenté on the beauty of the jour and mentioned that he’d not heard of an illness that fresh air and the sun’s life-giving warmth could not help) and his plans for his trip. He was an artist, a painter. He was traveling to the city in hopes to study under a master painter who resided there. She found him pleasant enough, he had a soothing voice and kindness flowed within his words. He did lack Nathaniel’s way with words, though, who could rapporter a tale of excitement and adventure from the most mundane news and spin webs of intrigue from the smallest rumor. She often suspected he fabricated many of these tales from the fancies of his own mind, though she did not object.
She found herself growing tired of the young man’s musing, pleasant as they sounded, and feigned a few yawns behind her hand. She apologized that her ailment had left her weak and weary but bid him keep the coin on the windowsill for his time and lovely conversation. He bowed, expressed his hopes that he might see her again at a sooner date, rather than later, that she might bless his ears and cœur, coeur with her song and prayed her health return quickly. With that, he smiled and turned back to the road, leaving the coins where they lay. What sort of peculiar young man was this? Clearly unfortunate in wealth, with no exciting life ou aspirations to greatness--she had no interest nor understanding of art. Yet he held no interest in her money.
She did not think long on him, for she found Gregory making his way down her walk with daisies and tulips in hand that she was sure would not be as flowery as his expressions of his l’amour for her always proved to be. Gregory was one for sonnets and poems and made a great play at being scandalized at her offers of money to him, though he always succumbed to her insistence if only to stop her from exerting herself and give her peace. ou so he claimed were his intentions.
Gregory was not the only boy from town who professed his l’amour for her, though he was the most articulate. Gregory was also different in that money did not satiate his desires for her time. He longed for her to share her beauty with him through the window. He eloquently convinced her to montrer him the angelic curves of her neck, the portrait of heaven itself with her hair let down, and, during moments of particular boldness, the wondrous shape of her bosom to rival that of Aphrodite and Venus. She succumbed to his desires as often he succumbed to her insistence that he take her coin, fair trade in her mind. She sent away for dresses of the most scandalous sort to wear for the days she knew Gregory would come. That jour was another that she found herself posing for him from the window and, a short while later, he left with a flushed face and full purse.
Somewhat flushed herself, she withdrew from the window and prepared her home. For the Doctor who would be coming that afternoon for her blood letting treatment. The disease was…well, she could not actually say what it was, but the Doctor assured her it was life-threatening. He a dit it was not quite a demonic possession but an evil in the blood, treatable par blood letting. Weekly and whenever she felt the corruption build up in her body. He a dit there were many symptoms; depression, feeling overly lonely, abrupt anxiety caused par no apparent reason, general uneasiness with one’s place in life, and a host of others. She’d known there must have been something wrong with her for she had those symptoms in spades.
Could it be cured, she’d asked? Certainly it could, so the Doctor claimed, through regular and faithful treatment. He lamented that one could not claim to foresee when it might work, that she would know it was cured when a happiness filled her soul with it’s nectar to replace the evil corruption. He warned against moments of “false happiness“ as he called it, brought on par joyous events in life. For the joy which the cure would bring would not relent as the fleeting jubilance of life always does. It all sounded wondrous, and she’d immediately paid him a large retainer to be her personal physician. From then on he came once a week for blood letting and whenever she called for him. That day, again the Doctor came and went, and the coffers she kept beneath her accueil were lightened another purse-weight.
Less than a fortnight passed when she heard a rapping on her window. The young man with the deep, dark eyes had returned and entreated her come out and perambulate with him. The day, though covered in cloud, was fine, he’d said, and the air fresh from a summer rain had anointed the earth not a heure gone. Again she explained her condition and bid him a good morrow, but as she turned from the window he begged her bless his ears and lighten his cœur, coeur with her song. She hesitated only a moment, pondering whether she might be encouraging the plain young man beyond that which she desired, but indulged him. He complimented her in a plain-spoken way, again dissimilar to the flattery offered par Gregory and Nathaniel, but with a fervent conviction that spoke of the truth of his veneration.
They conversed again, of this and that and the young man’s failed effort of apprenticeship with a master. He a dit that the master had already found a neophyte but he’d not let this stop his art, he’d learn from himself and his own mistakes. A slower process, perhaps, but no less fruitful. He’d find employment while he worked toward his goals, possibly here in her town. She found that they talked mostly of herself, for his desire to learn about her seemed insatiable. They spoke of her childhood, the father that left her wealth beyond imagining upon his departure, and the desires of her heart. She avoided talking about her illness, beyond that of insisting her condition would not allow her to leave till she was well, though she was not certain why she hesitated to go into detail.
He seemed on the verge of gently urging plus on the subject when he turned to find Christian, arms laden with a basket of nourriture from the grocer, meat from the butcher and bibs and bobs of this and that from the peddler. Christian set the container on the window and, as he often did, recounted the trouble he’d had on procuring the items within. Meat of this quality was increasingly rare, he reported, as were the collection of fruits and herbs and produce he’d obtained from the grocer which all, it seemed, were out of season. He’d traveled to three towns to gather all the necessary baubles from many different peddles, but it was all plus than worth the bother for but a smile from her lips, he’d claimed. A smile, of course, she provided willingly along with three sizable purses of coin that could nearly have replaced the contents of the basket he’d passed through the window.
The young man, whose blue-black eyes further darkened in a suspicious way as he listened to the tale Christian told of the hardship of his labor, scowled at him as Christian thanked her with a bow and promised to return for her liste of necessities the week following.
Before Christian had made his way out of earshot the young man said, “Forgive me, my Lady, but I did happen to glance inside the berceau, couffin toi took from the lad and I daresay you’ve paid well beyond it’s value. The quality of the beef, lest it came from a beast with honey for lard and wine for blood, is far from rare. This fine, late summer jour is, invariably, perfect season for all your grocer’s items, and if toi send your boy with a liste for market every week then he’d had been hard pressed for time to visit the three towns he claimed to have ventured to. In truth, I would say toi paid him enough for a wagonload of such necessities, if not two.” She glanced at Christian up the walk, whose face was red with a combination of anger and mortification and whose fists were clenched, shaking as he glared at the young man’s back. She worried a moment that the boy from town might come back demand retribution for standing impugned, but a moment later he whirled and stomped away back toward town.
She told the young man that he should not have a dit those things. Christian was a good lad, whom she’d know a long while now and she felt not the least slighted in giving him the gratuity she had and often did. He apologized for overstepping his place and made his regards of farewell. Though he had upset Christian so, she still tried to give him a bit of coin before he left. Again he declined and promised to call on her again soon.
And he did, often, over the weeks that followed; and each time he implored her come out and see the glorious day. Each day, regardless of the weather, was glorious, so the young man claimed. As late summer gave way to autumn he sung the praises of the rains and storms that often left him drenched as he stood at her window. The life-bearing rain was refreshing, so he claimed, and the thunder with its bolts were wonders to behold. As the autumn storms gave way to winter snows he cajoled its purity and the crispness it gave the air. Come out, he evermore implored, what jour could be better suited to receive toi than this glorious one?
Over the time he spent at her window he had met each of her frequent visitors for the town and was as disenthralled par each as he’d been for Christian. Nathaniel’s flowery tongue, he felt, was far better suited to politics than standing at her window awaiting a handout. “It would not be an honest living,” the young man said, “but it would be a living.” When he met Gregory, who seemed very hesitant to call with the young man at her window, he was immediately put off par him and his polite requests for privacy. At least, she felt they were polite. “Any Lady not duly wed nor properly engaged cannot profit from privately meeting a lad with such ill intentions as he surely has. Nor any Lady, for that matter.” the young man shouted to Gregory’s back after being turned away with an empty bourse, sac à main and face flushed for very different cause than at any time before.
And Bannon…Bannon he found utterly useless. He probed the boy from town with questions; Why was he here? What service did he offer in exchange for the coin he always procured from the Lady? What service did he offer anyone at all? For the young man had lived in town for months now and had never seen Bannon working any trade, holding any office nor selling any wares. At the very least Nathaniel offered news as a poor excuse for coming round, and Gregory offered his “love” to her though the young man greatly suspected that l’amour was for her wealth and beauty rather than her heart. Did he live completely off the coin stolen from the hand of a woman struck par illness? Bannon, flustered and unable to justify actions he had never thought he would have to answer for, was thrown bodily from her property par young man whose eyes were dark with fury and exasperation and was told never to return. She felt quite sorry for poor Bannon. Though, she had to confess, when put the way it had been, she was unsure why Bannon came calling either. Still, he was very pretty.
And he met the Doctor. Oh, the Doctor. Initially the young man was respectfully minded as concerned to the Doctor. He left them in private to administer her treatment, though he did oft beg her tell him plus concerning her sickness, for he could see no sign of it himself. It was not till after he had beseeched her hand in marriage that he confronted the Doctor and demanded to know all the particulars. She had not accepted his proposal, well, not precisely. She told him she would accept once she was cured of the affliction, though she’d not thought that would affect the young man to demand conference with the Doctor at the time.
When first confronted, the Doctor demeaned the young man with words of condescension. The Doctor told him that even were he inclined to break with propriety and confide the details of the ailment with him, he had not the understanding to comprehend the complexities of medicine. The young man would not be deterred and upon each of the Doctor’s visits he would solicit him to reveal his diagnosis. At last, upon threat of involving the magistrate, the Doctor complied. She watched from the window as the Doctor spoke of her infirmity and its treatment, not long after the account began, the young man’s eyes widened and lifted his brows to his scalp. When the Doctor had finished, the young man’s eyes and mouth both were slits. The slap that made her cringe was followed par a shout that should have rattled her window, “Remove yourself, Charlatan! If I see ou hear of your presence amore, it is your blood will be let!” The Doctor retrieved himself from the cobblestone and staggered, hurriedly away.
The young man immediately made his way to her door and firmly rapped upon it. “Come out, my Lady love,” he implored, “I have sent the Deceiver off! Be not fooled par his hoax any longer. toi committed to accept me your husband upon your wellness, and well toi are! Come out!”
But she would not come. Anger welled up in her and she screamed at the young man from the door. She was not well! And now that the Doctor was sent away, never would she be! He tried to explain that the Doctor had fooled her, pleaded with her that there was no corruption in her blood, that he, like everyone else she knew, was simply a thief preying on her and using his flapping tongue to convince her of his need. Part of her thought he might be right, it was not inconceivable, in fact, if she allowed herself to hear it, it had the ring of truth, but she had so longed for the cure as the Doctor had described it and, therefore, commanded the young man’s departure. Nevermore did she wish to see him. But, inexorable as he had ever proven to be, the young man would not leave. “I shall await at your doorstep, my Lady love, until toi come out and awaken to the truth.”
That is when he built the hut suivant to her cobblestone walk near the window. The midwinter weeks he spent on its construction were filled with snows and storms that did as little to dishearten him as did her attempts at deprecation. He sung praises to the bleary weather as he worked and beckoned her, come out. She would not. When the hut was complete he gazed upon its sad, ill constructed architecture with pride and commenté on the care with which he built it. Just as the snow and cold held their own glory and beauty, so did the fulfillment of simple goals and tasks if one but put one’s cœur, coeur into them. As delighted as he was for the end result, he bid her supersede its necessity. See the truth, he called to her, see the day.
Eventually she stopped demanding his departure and let him live in his hut on her walk. Through the young man’s insistence, Nathaniel stopped bringing his news, Christian was replaced with a courier of his own employ, Gregory was reduced to sending his professions of l’amour via the postman and she’d not seen Bannon since he’d been heaved to the cobblestone par his scruff and belt. The Doctor had attempted to come round once ou twice until he had noticed the structure par the walk and realized that the young man would not be leaving at any time anon. She had wondered why the doctor had not returned with the constable, for such was his right. The answer to that question was one she felt hesitant to contemplate and put it forcibly from her mind. He also sent post with instructions for her to self-administer the treatment. He reminded her to do it whenever she felt the corruption build up within her body, as often as necessary. And so she did, though it seemed, coincidentally, that over the last months she’d not felt its necessity with the regularity she had in the past.
The young man, as often as he pleaded with her to open her cœur, coeur to the truth, begged her confide in him why she would not. “The truth should hold no fear for you, my love. It waits to illuminate toi and welcomes toi with the joy it has to share. Why do toi hide from it?” he would ask. Finally, weary of his constant entreaties, she resolved to explain that always she had felt the symptoms the Doctor had described and never before had a hope for a life free of their constraints. She would not entertain the notion that his diagnosis was false, for the treatment was her only opportunity for happiness. True happiness was lasting beyond the momentary jubilance within life’s mediocrity.
“Oh, my Lady heart,” the young man retorted with conviction strong in his voice and empathy deep in his dark eyes, “Do toi not see the lie of your words standing before your very window? Lasting joy is not found in the dream of a charlatan’s concoction. Nor the practice of archaic procedure. Do I not find delight in the rain, felicity in the sleet and rapture in a darkened sky every bit as much as in a luminous summer’s day? When I constructed my hut, did I not find fulfillment within the labor itself as much as in its completion? Have toi not wondered how it is that I, a simple man of poor means and uncomplicated desires, can achieve this? There is joy within every part of life, my love, if toi would but not hide from it. If toi would but open your eyes, life would reveal its wonders to you. toi must see the joy as much in grand events as in the most mundane daily chore, for it is the latter that will consume the greater part of any life.
“Do not hide from mediocrity, for the word itself is a lie. Those who find joy within each jour could never be called mediocre, however dull their lives might appear to those who seek naught but for the suivant grand adventure, the suivant sweet for their mouths, the suivant romantic l’amour affair, the suivant and the suivant and the next. Do not long for everlasting blissful rapture and suppress the myriad of feelings your cœur, coeur has to offer. For just as I cherish a storm alike with a cloudless sky, so do I cherish sorrow alike with joy. There is a time for every feeling the cœur, coeur has to give, and to live without sorrow ou anger, loneliness, ou fear, pain ou even boredom, is not to live at all. Do not hide from these emotions. Feel them. Feel them every jot, every trace. Let pain and sorrow fill toi up for all the feelings have to offer and let them subside in their due time, for if toi suppress and hide from them toi will never know the joy they have to offer. Yes, my Lady love, there is joy even in pain and sorrow. The joy is life itself. Once toi discover the joy of life in all things, sorrow, pain, snow, hail and rain, even the mundane, then will toi have lasting happiness.
“Come out, my love. See what life has to truly offer. See what I have to offer. I can promise no adventures, no l’amour affair from a fairy tale, no endless days of summer. But I give toi all I do have to offer; my life, my art and my love. Come out.”
But she did not. The weeks came and went and she did not come out. The young man waiting with inhuman patience, but she resisted him with inhuman stubbornness. Not long after being banned from her property, Gregory started to send letters to her containing just as many words of passion and longing as ever he had spoke to her. She wrote him back cordially and neither acknowledged nor dissuaded his professions of love. And it was these letters that sparked the final confrontation that Lost her the l’amour of the young man with the dark eyes.
It was almost spring when the young man rapt urgently upon her window, waving letters held in a fist. He’d stopped the postman before he drop the letters off through the slot in her door. He demanded to know why she allowed Gregory to so flagrantly woo her, an engaged woman. She raised her hands defensively and told him there was nothing to do to stop him, Gregory simply was as he had always been. The young man asked if she had written him back and explained the impropriety of his messages and whether she had ever tried to dissuade him. She couldn’t, she explained, Gregory was a dear friend and she could not offend him so. The young man, who she was certain would argue his point as had ever had in matters such as these, simply shook his head and walked back to his hut.
Later he returned to her window and knocked lightly this time. She did not come to the window this time for she was in the middle of a blood letting treatment, the rapture she felt as the corruption spilled from her veins left her unaware of him. But he saw her. “Stop, my lady!” he commanded, “Do not do this!” He pounded upon the window as he shouted but she ignored him.
The young man had had enough. He came around to her front door and thrashed upon it while commanding that she open it. Finally she shouted to him to go away, but he would not. He kicked at the door and threw himself against it to knock it down. A few plus times and the door would loose from its hinges. Why did he hate her so, she implored to him. Why would he not understand that this was all she could do to be happy? Go away, she charged him. If he knocked down her door she would send for the constable and have him detained. He stopped and listened to her in silence as she told him that she did not l’amour him, had never loved him, and if he loved her he would get himself from her property and never return.
A long time passed as they both stood at either side of the now battered door. “No,” he quietly declared at long last, “I’ll not leave you. How could I leave the lady I l’amour while she is ill? For I now see, that ill toi are, my heart. Through a sickness that no blood letting could cure. In truth, your archaic treatment for a fantastic illness is but a symptom of your true disease. I’ve tried to do all I can to cure you, my love, but alas I am no physician. So I will look for one for toi that can help, while I stay at your side.”
With that he calmly walked back to his hut. A fear entered her cœur, coeur whose origin she could not place. Was it fear of the young man’s wild attempt to force entry into her house? No, she knew he could never hurt her. Was it fear that she would never again live life as she had once known it, always to have the young man barring those he thought would use her from seeing her? No, it was not that either. What she did fear in the recesses of her cœur, coeur was that he would do as he claimed. He would seek out another doctor who would try and cure her. And it was that, though she’d not admit to herself, that she feared. She would be cured of the sickness of her mind and would know that the Doctor had fooled her concerning the illness he had designed ou her… and she would consequently never know the lasting joy of the Doctor’s dreamt up cure. She sat at a écriture bureau and composed a message to send to the Doctor.
It did not take long for Bannon and Nathaniel, Christian, Gregory and the Doctor to assemble on the road at the entrance to her property. They came within the heure of her post reaching the Doctor. The Doctor, on her advice, brought the constable with him, and the six of them together made they’re way up her walk and stopped before the young man’s hut. The constable rapt twice, called his name and demanded he come out.
The young man immediately complied and respectfully asked what this was all about. The constable told him that he was a trespasser on this property and was commanded to leave. Should he return, he would be detained par the law. The young man looked with contempt into the faces of each of his confronters and then dashed par them to her window.
“Lady, do not do this!” he implored, “Do not be deceived par these fools!” They rushed after and grabbed him par the arms to force him back from her window but he struggled against them, calling “Face me, my love, come to the window and look upon me.”
Though her eyes welled up with tears, she came to the window and saw him standing still at her window with a strength she did not know he possessed to keep from being dragged back to the road par the six of them. When he saw her he made a final plea. “Choose me, my love. Forget all that has happened and chercher your heart. It is I who truly loves you, toi can see that if toi but open your eyes. Choose me over these thieves and charlatans. Choose me!”
Though the constable and the boys from town seemed not able to make him budge, they still stopped their struggling and all looked on her for her answer. “No.” she a dit and turned from the window. She could hear the boys struggle again to remove him though her face was held in her hands as she sobbed. The young man with the dark eyes made one final call to her, “Heed me, my Lady heart, I will abide par your choice. But remember all I have a dit to toi and all I have shown. Though my cœur, coeur is broken and sorrow consumes me, I’ll not hide from this pain. For even in this pain I will, as I ever have done, find joy. For this is life and I’ll not hide from it as toi do!”
He was silenced with the thud of the constable’s club as it came down upon his head and they finally dragged him away. That was the last she saw of him. Now she could continue her treatment. Now she could return to the life she knew. Now she could find the cure and everlasting joy.
* * *
She sat at her window in a giddy trance as the blood letting treatment still held its hypnotic sway over her and as she recalled the events brought about par the young man. It was only when Nathaniel came to her window and said…something she couldn’t quite make out…that her mind was brought back to the present. She smiled blissfully at him as he continued to talk in a strange way. It was hard to focus on him but he seemed to be talking quickly and as excitedly as he ever did, yet his words seemed slow and far away to her ears. What was the matter with him?
She put it from her mind and tried to stand to go retrieve a bourse, sac à main to give him. She laughed quietly at herself since it took three attempts to get up from the siège at her window. She looked at Nathaniel to see if he was laughing with her at her momentary silliness, but now he held a concerned look upon his brow. His lips moved as she as if he were talking but she didn’t hear a word of it. What game was he playing? Oh well, she thought as she stumbled to the chest where she kept her spending coin. She felt the loose bandage around her wrist slip off and she stared at the cloth as it lay on the floor. It was seeping with blood, so she reminded herself to apply a new one later. But right now she had Nathaniel to think of.
Quite some time later, she finally made her way back to the window and held out a fist of coins for the boy. But he did not take them. He backed slowly away from the window with a horrified expression. She was put out par this, it was difficult to hang on to the fisted coins because the blood that lubricated her hand was causing them to slip from her grasp. She couldn’t stand there all jour holding them, so she dropped them to the ground and they clanged on the cobblestone. But this time, instead of dancing and clicking along her walk, they fell to the ground and bounced only once ou twice until they wetly stuck to the dirt.
She noticed that Nathaniel had started to run down her path back to the road without a word of farewell. Well, she thought, that was rude and not like him at all! She sat back down on her siège and soon forgot what was irritating her, just as she forgot all about the seeping bandage laying in a puddle of blood a few feet away. The rapture she felt from blood letting continued to overcome her. Vaguely she thought that it was strange for the feeling to last this long as this. It usually went away after only a few moments.
If she had had the strength to gasp, she would have. Was this it? Was this the permanent feeling of joy the Doctor told her would come? Was she cured? It must be! She was giddy all over and the feeling didn’t go away…it was building!
Wait…what building? What was she just thinking on? The hut outside her window? Where was the young man today, anyway? Oh well, she thought, I’ll see him later. She’d tell him that they could finally be married because she was finally well. Finally cured. Then she noticed that she felt woozy and sleepy. Well, again she thought, I’ll tell him after I wake. Wait…tell him what? Oh yes, I am cured. With that thought she fell asleep.
Her song faltered as soon as she noticed the small collection of bubbles that grew, almost comically, in a cercle around the razor lying in the bottom of the pot. Her excitement echoed that of the first bubble as it was released from the bottom and rose to the surface of the water. Not long now, she thought. After the rising bubbles grew in number, she unbuttoned the cuff of her chemisier and rolled the sleeve up her arm to expose the scarred flesh of her left forearm. She searched its length for a bare spot but was hard pressed to find one. The flesh that she forgotten was once smooth and fair was now crissed and crossed with innumerable lines of rose and white. Happenstance caused her to glance just below the wrist which held a small unflawed spot that, like the bubbles of the pot, was circled with scars that seemed each to point to the place.
She produced a soapy rag from the bucket that she’d placed beside the pot and scrubbed the spot for a count of thirty as the Doctor had instructed her to do. She then rinsed it in the bucket and dried it with a freshly laundered towel. Not long now, again she mused, the bubbles of the pot were rising with increasing consistency. Her pulse raised with anticipation that both increased her sensation of the corruption of the disease and her desire to be rid of it. One day, she knew, the Doctor’s treatment would work. She would be well again. She didn’t often think of the waxing call for the procedure, and if she did it was just the thought that this, like many other things, was simply getting worse before it got better. It would work. One day.
She smiled when the surface of the water finally began to jump and leap about in a frolicsome dance. She gripped the handle with the towel she’d used to dry her arm and poured the contents into a large bowl. Then she used a pair of tongs to retrieve the now sanitized razor from the water. She set it on the towel to dry and cool. When the moment finally came for her to use the razor she sighed with relief.
She carefully placed the blade against the bare spot below her wrist and slowly cut into her flesh. She hardly felt the razor’s sting anymore, but sighed in the near instant bliss brought about par the flowing of her blood. As the Doctor had also instructed she began another count of thirty before she was to press a bandage against the cut, but was less focused this time, losing her count as she Lost herself in the rapture of blood letting. Eventually she did regretfully press the bandage to the small wound to staunch the flow. Soon, she would have no plus need for this treatment, but still feeling blissfully elated she admitted that she might miss it.
She loosely tied the bandage around her wrist and made her way to the chair par the window facing the road to town. From here she had often sung her song to the passerby and threw coins to them to draw them near. She was a desperately lonely woman, sick with a rare illness that kept her locked up inside the house. Exposure to the outside air for an extended period of time was often fatal, the Doctor said. She begged for news from the outside world and gossip from the small town just up the road from her home. She had a few visitors from the town, Nathaniel and Bannon, Gregory and Christian. But they never spent as much time with her as she liked, no matter how much coin she gave them. She never minded enticing their companionship with a bit of money, she had plus than enough to spare from the wealth her father had left her. She could give away ten times and again what she did and still have enough to last the rest of her life. If she stayed secluded in her home, that was. Curiously the thought of it didn’t seem so depressing as once it had.
As she gazed from the window to the cobblestone walk that led to the road a short distance away, she again noticed the small wooden hut that sat in her courtyard, it’s emptiness echoing that of her heart. Though it appeared to be hastily constructed with a careless hand, it was not so. It had been built with great care and time par a simply unskilled hand that had never before attempted such a venture. But it had been vacant for weeks now, its one-time occupant long departed with no news of his whereabouts. This hut reminded her, as it always did, of that vanished denizen…the young man with the deep dark eyes. Her most memorable visitor.
* * *
He was different from all the other travelers and the boys in town. His head held high, and with a look about his countenance she did not recognize. He’d been walking along the road with both a sense of purpose and an ease of carelessness, though it seemed odd to find them in combination. He was both plain in dress--very unlike Bannon who seemed to spend all the coin she gave him on clothes of the latest style and finest cut--and in demeanor, he seemed a young man of simple taste and even simpler desire. She almost let him pass, thinking he could not possibly interest her with any exciting tales ou gripping news. This young man’s very manner screamed of mediocrity, lacking both the ability and ambition for achievement of glory.
But his eyes caught her, deep they were. Dark enough to appear black from the distance, yet somehow filled with a light that spoke of…well, she really wasn’t sure. There was something in his eyes, but what? It seemed to her she should recognize it, like the tune to a well loved song of her youth , but it evaded her. Putting the thought from her mind, she began the song she always sang to entice potential visitors and threw some coppers to the cobblestone walk in front of her house. The coins bounced and flipped on the stones, chant their own merry tune till they came to rest.
The young man, like many others, stopped and looked up the cobblestone walk to her house and, hesitantly at first, made his way toward her. He, like many others, stopped to pick up the coins that shone in the midday sunlight from the walk. But he, like few others, did not put them immediately into his pocket and came to her window and held them out to her in a fist, for a fist was required to hold so many coins in one hand.
“You’ve dropped these, my Lady. In truth, you’ve thrown them. But not to worry, I’ve gathered them back up for you.” She explained to the young man that he could keep the coins, they were a gift to exchange for news of the world, if he knew any. He smiled and a dit that he’d be happy to tell her of the world and news of it. But he, like no others, gathered the fisted coins into a neat pile and placed them carefully on the windowsill. “I need no payment for a moment of companionship, my Lady.” he explained, “It is quite a lovely day. Come out, if toi will, and let us confer as we walk in the beautiful sunlight. I have a parcel of nourriture for a picnic, in fact.”
She politely declined, and confessed that her illness prevented her from leaving the house. The young man commiserated with her troubles and rolled a nearby stump to the window to get comfortable. They spoke of many things; news that he’d happened to hear as he passed through her town, the state of his own home, the weather (again he commenté on the beauty of the jour and mentioned that he’d not heard of an illness that fresh air and the sun’s life-giving warmth could not help) and his plans for his trip. He was an artist, a painter. He was traveling to the city in hopes to study under a master painter who resided there. She found him pleasant enough, he had a soothing voice and kindness flowed within his words. He did lack Nathaniel’s way with words, though, who could rapporter a tale of excitement and adventure from the most mundane news and spin webs of intrigue from the smallest rumor. She often suspected he fabricated many of these tales from the fancies of his own mind, though she did not object.
She found herself growing tired of the young man’s musing, pleasant as they sounded, and feigned a few yawns behind her hand. She apologized that her ailment had left her weak and weary but bid him keep the coin on the windowsill for his time and lovely conversation. He bowed, expressed his hopes that he might see her again at a sooner date, rather than later, that she might bless his ears and cœur, coeur with her song and prayed her health return quickly. With that, he smiled and turned back to the road, leaving the coins where they lay. What sort of peculiar young man was this? Clearly unfortunate in wealth, with no exciting life ou aspirations to greatness--she had no interest nor understanding of art. Yet he held no interest in her money.
She did not think long on him, for she found Gregory making his way down her walk with daisies and tulips in hand that she was sure would not be as flowery as his expressions of his l’amour for her always proved to be. Gregory was one for sonnets and poems and made a great play at being scandalized at her offers of money to him, though he always succumbed to her insistence if only to stop her from exerting herself and give her peace. ou so he claimed were his intentions.
Gregory was not the only boy from town who professed his l’amour for her, though he was the most articulate. Gregory was also different in that money did not satiate his desires for her time. He longed for her to share her beauty with him through the window. He eloquently convinced her to montrer him the angelic curves of her neck, the portrait of heaven itself with her hair let down, and, during moments of particular boldness, the wondrous shape of her bosom to rival that of Aphrodite and Venus. She succumbed to his desires as often he succumbed to her insistence that he take her coin, fair trade in her mind. She sent away for dresses of the most scandalous sort to wear for the days she knew Gregory would come. That jour was another that she found herself posing for him from the window and, a short while later, he left with a flushed face and full purse.
Somewhat flushed herself, she withdrew from the window and prepared her home. For the Doctor who would be coming that afternoon for her blood letting treatment. The disease was…well, she could not actually say what it was, but the Doctor assured her it was life-threatening. He a dit it was not quite a demonic possession but an evil in the blood, treatable par blood letting. Weekly and whenever she felt the corruption build up in her body. He a dit there were many symptoms; depression, feeling overly lonely, abrupt anxiety caused par no apparent reason, general uneasiness with one’s place in life, and a host of others. She’d known there must have been something wrong with her for she had those symptoms in spades.
Could it be cured, she’d asked? Certainly it could, so the Doctor claimed, through regular and faithful treatment. He lamented that one could not claim to foresee when it might work, that she would know it was cured when a happiness filled her soul with it’s nectar to replace the evil corruption. He warned against moments of “false happiness“ as he called it, brought on par joyous events in life. For the joy which the cure would bring would not relent as the fleeting jubilance of life always does. It all sounded wondrous, and she’d immediately paid him a large retainer to be her personal physician. From then on he came once a week for blood letting and whenever she called for him. That day, again the Doctor came and went, and the coffers she kept beneath her accueil were lightened another purse-weight.
Less than a fortnight passed when she heard a rapping on her window. The young man with the deep, dark eyes had returned and entreated her come out and perambulate with him. The day, though covered in cloud, was fine, he’d said, and the air fresh from a summer rain had anointed the earth not a heure gone. Again she explained her condition and bid him a good morrow, but as she turned from the window he begged her bless his ears and lighten his cœur, coeur with her song. She hesitated only a moment, pondering whether she might be encouraging the plain young man beyond that which she desired, but indulged him. He complimented her in a plain-spoken way, again dissimilar to the flattery offered par Gregory and Nathaniel, but with a fervent conviction that spoke of the truth of his veneration.
They conversed again, of this and that and the young man’s failed effort of apprenticeship with a master. He a dit that the master had already found a neophyte but he’d not let this stop his art, he’d learn from himself and his own mistakes. A slower process, perhaps, but no less fruitful. He’d find employment while he worked toward his goals, possibly here in her town. She found that they talked mostly of herself, for his desire to learn about her seemed insatiable. They spoke of her childhood, the father that left her wealth beyond imagining upon his departure, and the desires of her heart. She avoided talking about her illness, beyond that of insisting her condition would not allow her to leave till she was well, though she was not certain why she hesitated to go into detail.
He seemed on the verge of gently urging plus on the subject when he turned to find Christian, arms laden with a basket of nourriture from the grocer, meat from the butcher and bibs and bobs of this and that from the peddler. Christian set the container on the window and, as he often did, recounted the trouble he’d had on procuring the items within. Meat of this quality was increasingly rare, he reported, as were the collection of fruits and herbs and produce he’d obtained from the grocer which all, it seemed, were out of season. He’d traveled to three towns to gather all the necessary baubles from many different peddles, but it was all plus than worth the bother for but a smile from her lips, he’d claimed. A smile, of course, she provided willingly along with three sizable purses of coin that could nearly have replaced the contents of the basket he’d passed through the window.
The young man, whose blue-black eyes further darkened in a suspicious way as he listened to the tale Christian told of the hardship of his labor, scowled at him as Christian thanked her with a bow and promised to return for her liste of necessities the week following.
Before Christian had made his way out of earshot the young man said, “Forgive me, my Lady, but I did happen to glance inside the berceau, couffin toi took from the lad and I daresay you’ve paid well beyond it’s value. The quality of the beef, lest it came from a beast with honey for lard and wine for blood, is far from rare. This fine, late summer jour is, invariably, perfect season for all your grocer’s items, and if toi send your boy with a liste for market every week then he’d had been hard pressed for time to visit the three towns he claimed to have ventured to. In truth, I would say toi paid him enough for a wagonload of such necessities, if not two.” She glanced at Christian up the walk, whose face was red with a combination of anger and mortification and whose fists were clenched, shaking as he glared at the young man’s back. She worried a moment that the boy from town might come back demand retribution for standing impugned, but a moment later he whirled and stomped away back toward town.
She told the young man that he should not have a dit those things. Christian was a good lad, whom she’d know a long while now and she felt not the least slighted in giving him the gratuity she had and often did. He apologized for overstepping his place and made his regards of farewell. Though he had upset Christian so, she still tried to give him a bit of coin before he left. Again he declined and promised to call on her again soon.
And he did, often, over the weeks that followed; and each time he implored her come out and see the glorious day. Each day, regardless of the weather, was glorious, so the young man claimed. As late summer gave way to autumn he sung the praises of the rains and storms that often left him drenched as he stood at her window. The life-bearing rain was refreshing, so he claimed, and the thunder with its bolts were wonders to behold. As the autumn storms gave way to winter snows he cajoled its purity and the crispness it gave the air. Come out, he evermore implored, what jour could be better suited to receive toi than this glorious one?
Over the time he spent at her window he had met each of her frequent visitors for the town and was as disenthralled par each as he’d been for Christian. Nathaniel’s flowery tongue, he felt, was far better suited to politics than standing at her window awaiting a handout. “It would not be an honest living,” the young man said, “but it would be a living.” When he met Gregory, who seemed very hesitant to call with the young man at her window, he was immediately put off par him and his polite requests for privacy. At least, she felt they were polite. “Any Lady not duly wed nor properly engaged cannot profit from privately meeting a lad with such ill intentions as he surely has. Nor any Lady, for that matter.” the young man shouted to Gregory’s back after being turned away with an empty bourse, sac à main and face flushed for very different cause than at any time before.
And Bannon…Bannon he found utterly useless. He probed the boy from town with questions; Why was he here? What service did he offer in exchange for the coin he always procured from the Lady? What service did he offer anyone at all? For the young man had lived in town for months now and had never seen Bannon working any trade, holding any office nor selling any wares. At the very least Nathaniel offered news as a poor excuse for coming round, and Gregory offered his “love” to her though the young man greatly suspected that l’amour was for her wealth and beauty rather than her heart. Did he live completely off the coin stolen from the hand of a woman struck par illness? Bannon, flustered and unable to justify actions he had never thought he would have to answer for, was thrown bodily from her property par young man whose eyes were dark with fury and exasperation and was told never to return. She felt quite sorry for poor Bannon. Though, she had to confess, when put the way it had been, she was unsure why Bannon came calling either. Still, he was very pretty.
And he met the Doctor. Oh, the Doctor. Initially the young man was respectfully minded as concerned to the Doctor. He left them in private to administer her treatment, though he did oft beg her tell him plus concerning her sickness, for he could see no sign of it himself. It was not till after he had beseeched her hand in marriage that he confronted the Doctor and demanded to know all the particulars. She had not accepted his proposal, well, not precisely. She told him she would accept once she was cured of the affliction, though she’d not thought that would affect the young man to demand conference with the Doctor at the time.
When first confronted, the Doctor demeaned the young man with words of condescension. The Doctor told him that even were he inclined to break with propriety and confide the details of the ailment with him, he had not the understanding to comprehend the complexities of medicine. The young man would not be deterred and upon each of the Doctor’s visits he would solicit him to reveal his diagnosis. At last, upon threat of involving the magistrate, the Doctor complied. She watched from the window as the Doctor spoke of her infirmity and its treatment, not long after the account began, the young man’s eyes widened and lifted his brows to his scalp. When the Doctor had finished, the young man’s eyes and mouth both were slits. The slap that made her cringe was followed par a shout that should have rattled her window, “Remove yourself, Charlatan! If I see ou hear of your presence amore, it is your blood will be let!” The Doctor retrieved himself from the cobblestone and staggered, hurriedly away.
The young man immediately made his way to her door and firmly rapped upon it. “Come out, my Lady love,” he implored, “I have sent the Deceiver off! Be not fooled par his hoax any longer. toi committed to accept me your husband upon your wellness, and well toi are! Come out!”
But she would not come. Anger welled up in her and she screamed at the young man from the door. She was not well! And now that the Doctor was sent away, never would she be! He tried to explain that the Doctor had fooled her, pleaded with her that there was no corruption in her blood, that he, like everyone else she knew, was simply a thief preying on her and using his flapping tongue to convince her of his need. Part of her thought he might be right, it was not inconceivable, in fact, if she allowed herself to hear it, it had the ring of truth, but she had so longed for the cure as the Doctor had described it and, therefore, commanded the young man’s departure. Nevermore did she wish to see him. But, inexorable as he had ever proven to be, the young man would not leave. “I shall await at your doorstep, my Lady love, until toi come out and awaken to the truth.”
That is when he built the hut suivant to her cobblestone walk near the window. The midwinter weeks he spent on its construction were filled with snows and storms that did as little to dishearten him as did her attempts at deprecation. He sung praises to the bleary weather as he worked and beckoned her, come out. She would not. When the hut was complete he gazed upon its sad, ill constructed architecture with pride and commenté on the care with which he built it. Just as the snow and cold held their own glory and beauty, so did the fulfillment of simple goals and tasks if one but put one’s cœur, coeur into them. As delighted as he was for the end result, he bid her supersede its necessity. See the truth, he called to her, see the day.
Eventually she stopped demanding his departure and let him live in his hut on her walk. Through the young man’s insistence, Nathaniel stopped bringing his news, Christian was replaced with a courier of his own employ, Gregory was reduced to sending his professions of l’amour via the postman and she’d not seen Bannon since he’d been heaved to the cobblestone par his scruff and belt. The Doctor had attempted to come round once ou twice until he had noticed the structure par the walk and realized that the young man would not be leaving at any time anon. She had wondered why the doctor had not returned with the constable, for such was his right. The answer to that question was one she felt hesitant to contemplate and put it forcibly from her mind. He also sent post with instructions for her to self-administer the treatment. He reminded her to do it whenever she felt the corruption build up within her body, as often as necessary. And so she did, though it seemed, coincidentally, that over the last months she’d not felt its necessity with the regularity she had in the past.
The young man, as often as he pleaded with her to open her cœur, coeur to the truth, begged her confide in him why she would not. “The truth should hold no fear for you, my love. It waits to illuminate toi and welcomes toi with the joy it has to share. Why do toi hide from it?” he would ask. Finally, weary of his constant entreaties, she resolved to explain that always she had felt the symptoms the Doctor had described and never before had a hope for a life free of their constraints. She would not entertain the notion that his diagnosis was false, for the treatment was her only opportunity for happiness. True happiness was lasting beyond the momentary jubilance within life’s mediocrity.
“Oh, my Lady heart,” the young man retorted with conviction strong in his voice and empathy deep in his dark eyes, “Do toi not see the lie of your words standing before your very window? Lasting joy is not found in the dream of a charlatan’s concoction. Nor the practice of archaic procedure. Do I not find delight in the rain, felicity in the sleet and rapture in a darkened sky every bit as much as in a luminous summer’s day? When I constructed my hut, did I not find fulfillment within the labor itself as much as in its completion? Have toi not wondered how it is that I, a simple man of poor means and uncomplicated desires, can achieve this? There is joy within every part of life, my love, if toi would but not hide from it. If toi would but open your eyes, life would reveal its wonders to you. toi must see the joy as much in grand events as in the most mundane daily chore, for it is the latter that will consume the greater part of any life.
“Do not hide from mediocrity, for the word itself is a lie. Those who find joy within each jour could never be called mediocre, however dull their lives might appear to those who seek naught but for the suivant grand adventure, the suivant sweet for their mouths, the suivant romantic l’amour affair, the suivant and the suivant and the next. Do not long for everlasting blissful rapture and suppress the myriad of feelings your cœur, coeur has to offer. For just as I cherish a storm alike with a cloudless sky, so do I cherish sorrow alike with joy. There is a time for every feeling the cœur, coeur has to give, and to live without sorrow ou anger, loneliness, ou fear, pain ou even boredom, is not to live at all. Do not hide from these emotions. Feel them. Feel them every jot, every trace. Let pain and sorrow fill toi up for all the feelings have to offer and let them subside in their due time, for if toi suppress and hide from them toi will never know the joy they have to offer. Yes, my Lady love, there is joy even in pain and sorrow. The joy is life itself. Once toi discover the joy of life in all things, sorrow, pain, snow, hail and rain, even the mundane, then will toi have lasting happiness.
“Come out, my love. See what life has to truly offer. See what I have to offer. I can promise no adventures, no l’amour affair from a fairy tale, no endless days of summer. But I give toi all I do have to offer; my life, my art and my love. Come out.”
But she did not. The weeks came and went and she did not come out. The young man waiting with inhuman patience, but she resisted him with inhuman stubbornness. Not long after being banned from her property, Gregory started to send letters to her containing just as many words of passion and longing as ever he had spoke to her. She wrote him back cordially and neither acknowledged nor dissuaded his professions of love. And it was these letters that sparked the final confrontation that Lost her the l’amour of the young man with the dark eyes.
It was almost spring when the young man rapt urgently upon her window, waving letters held in a fist. He’d stopped the postman before he drop the letters off through the slot in her door. He demanded to know why she allowed Gregory to so flagrantly woo her, an engaged woman. She raised her hands defensively and told him there was nothing to do to stop him, Gregory simply was as he had always been. The young man asked if she had written him back and explained the impropriety of his messages and whether she had ever tried to dissuade him. She couldn’t, she explained, Gregory was a dear friend and she could not offend him so. The young man, who she was certain would argue his point as had ever had in matters such as these, simply shook his head and walked back to his hut.
Later he returned to her window and knocked lightly this time. She did not come to the window this time for she was in the middle of a blood letting treatment, the rapture she felt as the corruption spilled from her veins left her unaware of him. But he saw her. “Stop, my lady!” he commanded, “Do not do this!” He pounded upon the window as he shouted but she ignored him.
The young man had had enough. He came around to her front door and thrashed upon it while commanding that she open it. Finally she shouted to him to go away, but he would not. He kicked at the door and threw himself against it to knock it down. A few plus times and the door would loose from its hinges. Why did he hate her so, she implored to him. Why would he not understand that this was all she could do to be happy? Go away, she charged him. If he knocked down her door she would send for the constable and have him detained. He stopped and listened to her in silence as she told him that she did not l’amour him, had never loved him, and if he loved her he would get himself from her property and never return.
A long time passed as they both stood at either side of the now battered door. “No,” he quietly declared at long last, “I’ll not leave you. How could I leave the lady I l’amour while she is ill? For I now see, that ill toi are, my heart. Through a sickness that no blood letting could cure. In truth, your archaic treatment for a fantastic illness is but a symptom of your true disease. I’ve tried to do all I can to cure you, my love, but alas I am no physician. So I will look for one for toi that can help, while I stay at your side.”
With that he calmly walked back to his hut. A fear entered her cœur, coeur whose origin she could not place. Was it fear of the young man’s wild attempt to force entry into her house? No, she knew he could never hurt her. Was it fear that she would never again live life as she had once known it, always to have the young man barring those he thought would use her from seeing her? No, it was not that either. What she did fear in the recesses of her cœur, coeur was that he would do as he claimed. He would seek out another doctor who would try and cure her. And it was that, though she’d not admit to herself, that she feared. She would be cured of the sickness of her mind and would know that the Doctor had fooled her concerning the illness he had designed ou her… and she would consequently never know the lasting joy of the Doctor’s dreamt up cure. She sat at a écriture bureau and composed a message to send to the Doctor.
It did not take long for Bannon and Nathaniel, Christian, Gregory and the Doctor to assemble on the road at the entrance to her property. They came within the heure of her post reaching the Doctor. The Doctor, on her advice, brought the constable with him, and the six of them together made they’re way up her walk and stopped before the young man’s hut. The constable rapt twice, called his name and demanded he come out.
The young man immediately complied and respectfully asked what this was all about. The constable told him that he was a trespasser on this property and was commanded to leave. Should he return, he would be detained par the law. The young man looked with contempt into the faces of each of his confronters and then dashed par them to her window.
“Lady, do not do this!” he implored, “Do not be deceived par these fools!” They rushed after and grabbed him par the arms to force him back from her window but he struggled against them, calling “Face me, my love, come to the window and look upon me.”
Though her eyes welled up with tears, she came to the window and saw him standing still at her window with a strength she did not know he possessed to keep from being dragged back to the road par the six of them. When he saw her he made a final plea. “Choose me, my love. Forget all that has happened and chercher your heart. It is I who truly loves you, toi can see that if toi but open your eyes. Choose me over these thieves and charlatans. Choose me!”
Though the constable and the boys from town seemed not able to make him budge, they still stopped their struggling and all looked on her for her answer. “No.” she a dit and turned from the window. She could hear the boys struggle again to remove him though her face was held in her hands as she sobbed. The young man with the dark eyes made one final call to her, “Heed me, my Lady heart, I will abide par your choice. But remember all I have a dit to toi and all I have shown. Though my cœur, coeur is broken and sorrow consumes me, I’ll not hide from this pain. For even in this pain I will, as I ever have done, find joy. For this is life and I’ll not hide from it as toi do!”
He was silenced with the thud of the constable’s club as it came down upon his head and they finally dragged him away. That was the last she saw of him. Now she could continue her treatment. Now she could return to the life she knew. Now she could find the cure and everlasting joy.
* * *
She sat at her window in a giddy trance as the blood letting treatment still held its hypnotic sway over her and as she recalled the events brought about par the young man. It was only when Nathaniel came to her window and said…something she couldn’t quite make out…that her mind was brought back to the present. She smiled blissfully at him as he continued to talk in a strange way. It was hard to focus on him but he seemed to be talking quickly and as excitedly as he ever did, yet his words seemed slow and far away to her ears. What was the matter with him?
She put it from her mind and tried to stand to go retrieve a bourse, sac à main to give him. She laughed quietly at herself since it took three attempts to get up from the siège at her window. She looked at Nathaniel to see if he was laughing with her at her momentary silliness, but now he held a concerned look upon his brow. His lips moved as she as if he were talking but she didn’t hear a word of it. What game was he playing? Oh well, she thought as she stumbled to the chest where she kept her spending coin. She felt the loose bandage around her wrist slip off and she stared at the cloth as it lay on the floor. It was seeping with blood, so she reminded herself to apply a new one later. But right now she had Nathaniel to think of.
Quite some time later, she finally made her way back to the window and held out a fist of coins for the boy. But he did not take them. He backed slowly away from the window with a horrified expression. She was put out par this, it was difficult to hang on to the fisted coins because the blood that lubricated her hand was causing them to slip from her grasp. She couldn’t stand there all jour holding them, so she dropped them to the ground and they clanged on the cobblestone. But this time, instead of dancing and clicking along her walk, they fell to the ground and bounced only once ou twice until they wetly stuck to the dirt.
She noticed that Nathaniel had started to run down her path back to the road without a word of farewell. Well, she thought, that was rude and not like him at all! She sat back down on her siège and soon forgot what was irritating her, just as she forgot all about the seeping bandage laying in a puddle of blood a few feet away. The rapture she felt from blood letting continued to overcome her. Vaguely she thought that it was strange for the feeling to last this long as this. It usually went away after only a few moments.
If she had had the strength to gasp, she would have. Was this it? Was this the permanent feeling of joy the Doctor told her would come? Was she cured? It must be! She was giddy all over and the feeling didn’t go away…it was building!
Wait…what building? What was she just thinking on? The hut outside her window? Where was the young man today, anyway? Oh well, she thought, I’ll see him later. She’d tell him that they could finally be married because she was finally well. Finally cured. Then she noticed that she felt woozy and sleepy. Well, again she thought, I’ll tell him after I wake. Wait…tell him what? Oh yes, I am cured. With that thought she fell asleep.
salut Mom,
It's been a while
Since toi sat suivant to me,
Since I saw toi smile
I miss toi Mom
I wish toi were here
Giving me kisses
Holding me near
I can still see toi Mom,
the laughing happy you
Not the ill broken women
Who broke my cœur, coeur in two
I'll always remember Mom,
toi taught me well
To do good things,
And with Honesty tell
I'm telling toi Mom
Losing toi killed me
Laying a rose on your casket
Trying hard to be
Strong.
That's what toi were Mom,
Strong.
In everything toi said
In everything toi did
So now I'll be just that
Strong like a mother, not like a kid
I wrote this in honor of any child who has ever Lost a parent.
It's been a while
Since toi sat suivant to me,
Since I saw toi smile
I miss toi Mom
I wish toi were here
Giving me kisses
Holding me near
I can still see toi Mom,
the laughing happy you
Not the ill broken women
Who broke my cœur, coeur in two
I'll always remember Mom,
toi taught me well
To do good things,
And with Honesty tell
I'm telling toi Mom
Losing toi killed me
Laying a rose on your casket
Trying hard to be
Strong.
That's what toi were Mom,
Strong.
In everything toi said
In everything toi did
So now I'll be just that
Strong like a mother, not like a kid
I wrote this in honor of any child who has ever Lost a parent.
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Tick, tick, tick
That sound, constant in my head,
A sound that haunts every mind,
A sound that brings fear,
A clock,
Ticking the secondes of your life away,
Making life shorter and shorter with every tick,
Drawing death nearer and nearer,
But toi should not live in fear,
For life is too short for such a thing,
Some people waste these precious seconds,
Others treasure them, making sure that no tick is wasted,
The clock ticks on,
But as this sound is registered,
What do toi do?
Tick, tick, tick
Three plus seconds, gone, like that,
Did toi use them well?
Live life,
For life is too short to spend these secondes in hell.
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Tick, tick, tick
That sound, constant in my head,
A sound that haunts every mind,
A sound that brings fear,
A clock,
Ticking the secondes of your life away,
Making life shorter and shorter with every tick,
Drawing death nearer and nearer,
But toi should not live in fear,
For life is too short for such a thing,
Some people waste these precious seconds,
Others treasure them, making sure that no tick is wasted,
The clock ticks on,
But as this sound is registered,
What do toi do?
Tick, tick, tick
Three plus seconds, gone, like that,
Did toi use them well?
Live life,
For life is too short to spend these secondes in hell.
His Melody
To quiet the tears
She sings him to sleep
When the morning has dawned
He can’t be roused from a rest so deep
She sings him to sleep
Night after night
And when he does not awaken
Her will to go on grows slight
She sits and waits while he’s away
She remembers his laugh and smile
Oh what a joy to see his joy
She lifts up a prayer “May I see him in a short while?”
She sits at the window and waits
The sun sets slowly behind the colline
The others say hello but she doesn’t hear
She is waiting to make the tears still
The time has come she cannot wait
She sets out to see her boy
To stop the tears
To bring him joy
But the tears she stills are not his
They fall from her eyes
She sings his lullaby again tonight
As she kisses the stone and her son good bye
To quiet the tears
She sings him to sleep
When the morning has dawned
He can’t be roused from a rest so deep
She sings him to sleep
Night after night
And when he does not awaken
Her will to go on grows slight
She sits and waits while he’s away
She remembers his laugh and smile
Oh what a joy to see his joy
She lifts up a prayer “May I see him in a short while?”
She sits at the window and waits
The sun sets slowly behind the colline
The others say hello but she doesn’t hear
She is waiting to make the tears still
The time has come she cannot wait
She sets out to see her boy
To stop the tears
To bring him joy
But the tears she stills are not his
They fall from her eyes
She sings his lullaby again tonight
As she kisses the stone and her son good bye
Dear record of my misfortune I was correct. Today I walked into class and saw a huge pile of letters on my desk. When I opened them I realized that it was hate mail. It was so stupid, people were getting angry at me for what I did to Jessica when it was her fault! They were saying things like : Die emo chienne die, bitchy whore. That last commentaire doesn't even apply to me! I haven't even had my first Kiss and they are saying this stuff to me! There was one letter that was bot mean even though I don't know who sent it. Inside it a dit roses are red violets are blue I don't now why they hurt you, if toi want I'll tell them to can it, all because I l’amour toi Janet. I don't know who wrote toi l’amour poem rhyme thing but I l’amour toi too!
Is It True toi Lie?
Is It True toi Hate Me?
Is It True toi Want Him?
Is It True You're My Best Friend?
Is It True toi Enjoy Hurting Me?
Is It True toi Like Me Crying?
Is It True toi Talk Behind My Back?
Is It True toi Tell People Our Bussiness?
Is It True I Hurt You?
Is It True toi Back Stabbed Me?
Is It True toi Let Me Believe The Lies?
Is It True toi Let Me Call toi My True Bestfriend When toi Weren't?
Is It True.....?
This is A Poem Hope Yuh Enjoy It Btw Tell Me What Yuh Think And This Is Just About Me Gettin Hurt After Being Stupid Enough To Believe Her Lies She Wasnt A True Bestfriend
Is It True toi Hate Me?
Is It True toi Want Him?
Is It True You're My Best Friend?
Is It True toi Enjoy Hurting Me?
Is It True toi Like Me Crying?
Is It True toi Talk Behind My Back?
Is It True toi Tell People Our Bussiness?
Is It True I Hurt You?
Is It True toi Back Stabbed Me?
Is It True toi Let Me Believe The Lies?
Is It True toi Let Me Call toi My True Bestfriend When toi Weren't?
Is It True.....?
This is A Poem Hope Yuh Enjoy It Btw Tell Me What Yuh Think And This Is Just About Me Gettin Hurt After Being Stupid Enough To Believe Her Lies She Wasnt A True Bestfriend
Her eyes were feu red,
as if they were
lit from anger.
I dont understand
why toi are
mad at me.
Why toi shoot
those harsh words
at me.
Aimed like bullets,
piercing my soul.
And It cant heal.
I never can dodge them.
The words hit me,
and I fall back.
My Friends ask me:
"What's wrong?"
"Can I help?"
But they cant help.
Because I dont understand,
why toi are mad.
Why do toi have to do
what toi do to me?
Why does it give toi
joy to harm me?
Why?
Why are people bullies?
Why dont my Friends take action?
Why cant toi tell me WHY?
as if they were
lit from anger.
I dont understand
why toi are
mad at me.
Why toi shoot
those harsh words
at me.
Aimed like bullets,
piercing my soul.
And It cant heal.
I never can dodge them.
The words hit me,
and I fall back.
My Friends ask me:
"What's wrong?"
"Can I help?"
But they cant help.
Because I dont understand,
why toi are mad.
Why do toi have to do
what toi do to me?
Why does it give toi
joy to harm me?
Why?
Why are people bullies?
Why dont my Friends take action?
Why cant toi tell me WHY?