Mudita

Prologue: Micchiwilton Fiction

May 23, Night Time

She slowly took her fingers off the typewriter she had been touching for minutes. She'd been writing a letter for maybe three hours, maybe four. She brought her shaking hands to her eyes and dried her wet eyes, looked at the letter currently inside the typewriter. She slowly took out the paper and placed it next to the oil lamp she used to illuminate the night darkness. She opened the wooden drawer and, with the same trembling hands, put the letter into the parchment envelope. She had the envelope tucked around her wrist, between her elbow-length gloves. Now the letter was on her wrist and no one could see it. Even if someone holds her hand.

She adjusted her lined chintz dress with blue and white floral patterns as she walked to the mirror. She was walking on tiptoe, as if she was afraid to step on her thin white socks that she pulled up to her knees. What she was afraid of wasn't hurting her socks, of course, but waking her father in the middle of the night.

Of course, her daughter's footsteps could not be heard by her father, whose bedrooms were two floors apart, but she could make herself heard by her sister or, worst of all, the housekeeper in the adjoining rooms.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Michaevel, was a woman of Italian origin and had a very nervous temperament. She hated both the girls and all the children in the world and would do everything in her power to get them punished.

While looking at herself through the full-length mirror with careful eyes, she saw that the frame of the full-length mirror, which was dipped in gold water, was falling off and peeling in places. Her eyes filled with tears. Her mother's gift.... She bounced back. She blinked. She couldn't cry now. It was supposed to end tonight. She fastened the few short strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes with small bobby pins on her head. She smoothed the curls from her hair, which was neatly pulled into a low bun. She looked at the mirror with her blue eyes and looked at her eyelashes. When she noticed her cracked lips, she reached out, took a small tin box, and applied the lavender leaf homemade moisturizer inside with her index finger to her pink-red lips.

She looked at herself for the last time, took her shoes, which she had hidden under her bed when she came from the garden that morning, where they had been standing for a few hours, and went to the window, which was mostly open. That way, no one would think the open window was weird if she didn't close it behind her.

She decisively put on her shoes before sitting on the marble of the window and dangling her feet out, landing on the roof of the lower floor balcony in a single jump. From there, she walked lightly, climbed the one hundred and seventeen year old tree, and went down using its branches as a ladder.

Her clothes were covered in dust, her right cheek was scratched by one of the branches while she was going down, and her right arm, which was torn along with her dress, was bleeding. She wiped her bleeding cheek with the back of her hand and waited, holding her painful arm. She was listening to the sound of her feet on the gravel road. Three or four steps from where she stood, the path started. She proceeded there. After waiting for about five minutes, she saw a strong burning oil lamp moving towards her from further down the road, getting closer and closer to her.

♞

23 May, Afternoon

He brought his left hand to his wrist. He touched his cufflinks. Shiny silver cufflinks with the family crest engraved on them. This was very important to him. His family, his ancestors and the two-hundred-year-old house he was in. But what he did now was also very important. He could put his family at risk. His family could have been destroyed. Maybe himself too. No. He should have. Whatever happens.

He shook the dust off the ankles of his black fabric trousers, stood up, straightened the collar of his white shirt and put on his jacket. Her parents had gone to a celebration ceremony, taking her sister with them. The big house was vacant. No one would notice him. Normally they didn't see him anyway.

He came to the big entrance door. He hurried down the stairs, took one last look at his house, and put on his black pointed-toe patent leather shoes. He quickly moved towards the tree opposite. He climbed the tree and started waiting.

While he was waiting for endless minutes, he heard the loud neighing of a few horses coming from far away. He was excited. He took deep breaths. Here is his friend, he brought the carriage. The jet black, fancy carriage that looked like it belonged to a royal family slowed down and stopped right in front of the tree on whose branch he was sitting. He landed on the ground in one jump. Trying not to look around too much, but still looking around, he got into the carriage.

♞

23 May, Early Morning

In the deep darkness of the night, the glint of the steel blade in the moonlight was the only light in the town other than the moon. He stopped in front of the big house. He thought for a moment. About his own happiness...

Then he entered the house and walked straight into the room, with steps as light as a bird's feather. He went up the wooden stairs.

Even though the creaking wooden steps created a tense atmosphere, he continued without hesitation. He stopped in front of the door of the room.

First, he checked whether there was a lock or not with the fingers of his left hand. There wasn't. It was going to be easy. He grinned crookedly. He entered the dark room. He noticed the empty glass on the small nightstand next to the bed of the young man lying in bed. The medicine was consumed. The boy should have been dead.

He took a few steps forward, with light steps like a bird. He stood at the foot of the bed for a few minutes. He winked his eyes which brimmed with tears away. He couldn't cry. He was doing something too callous to cry. He took a deep breath. First he took his knife and made a single scratch on the wrist of the young man who was lying motionless. Then he carelessly carved the letter "T" on the line with a knife.

He took the same steps as how he came to the room while he was returning. He descended the squeakiest steps of the stairs, the steps he had skipped on his previous pass. He came out of the narrow gap left ajar by the big door. He quickly descended the marble stairs leading down to the dirt road in a few steps. He shook off the brown jacket he was wearing, as if he had been freed from a great sin. Even his fingertips were not cold as he walked away from the big house on the deserted road.