Pov: Vilhelm Andersen
How much sorrow can I take?
It's as if a sinister blackbird perches upon my shoulder, its talons sinking deep into my flesh, drawing forth rivulets of blood that stain my very soul. Its relentless squawking echoes in my ears; 'I did everything I could'.
Though the bird's lament is ceaseless, it is still more bearable than the hollow, desolate croak of 'nevermore' that would surely drive me to madness.
After all, I did do everything I possibly could.
I did everything I could—I changed. I'm yet to discern whether it was for the better or the worse, it's shrouded in the same fog that clouds my vision. Perhaps there is no line, no discernible boundary between the two, only a blur where the edges of right and wrong, strength and fragility, blend seamlessly.
I changed, and in this metamorphosis, I find myself stronger, yet paradoxically more fragile. Like a chrysalis, I have emerged, not into the butterfly of hope, but into something more complex, more unknowable. I am the alchemist of my own sorrow, forging resilience from the crucible of my pain.
Stronger, better, I'll be fine as long as I'm in the silence of my own company—where I find a twisted kind of peace, a sanctuary wherein the cacophony of human interaction cannot intrude.
Yet, I can't help but feel like this metamorphosis is a double-edged sword, cutting as deeply into my soul as it protects me from the outside world.
I think too much.
I look to my right, 'Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."'
"Du borde gå in, jag följer efter [you should go in, I'll follow]" I say coolly, taking one final drag of the cigarette before crushing it underfoot and flicking it through the open window into a nearby trash can. Ah, the Winchester immaculacy.
My appointed translator, Margaret, nods in response, running her fingers through her long brunette hair before stepping out of the car, leaving me alone to collect my thoughts. My parents remain blissfully unaware of my fluency in English, a secret I can't disclose.
I glance down at my tattooed fingers, adorned with cool metal rings that press against my skin, evoking the same icy sensation the gun had during those seven harrowing months.
I look to my left now, the bird has shifted in my delusion; 'And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!'
Who is Pallas here? Margaret?
I snort, rolling my neck and sighing.
"You've changed for the better, Ville. Du är oigenkännlig [you're unrecognizable]" I whisper, my breath barely catching in my throat as I pull a pocket mirror from the depths of my bag, flipping it open to assess my current appearance.
A wince escapes me as I behold the fading purplish bruise above my eye, marring the skin surrounding my eyebrow, which now sports a small vertical piercing. The silver titanium spikes protrude from either end, I love the piercing but the pain I endured was hell.
YOU ARE READING
Saints and Sinners
RomanceAt St. Augustine's Boarding School for the Elite, the lines between betrayal and loyalty, sin and virtue blur dangerously, where hierarchy eclipses dignity. In this novel, the distinction between saints and sinners is stark, echoing Oscar Wilde's wo...
