The Lady of the Forest

Being too Late

Blood, it’s red. And it is gushing. There is no end to it. It is seeping onto my hands running slowly like syrup. And it isn’t stopping. There is no end. I cover my eyes. The bleeding won’t stop. I scoot myself further across the wood floor of the attic. The figure approaches. It is a man, but no it is not a man. I know the truth now. He kneels over my mother. And the blood continues flowing, it pays no attention to the scene. It doesn’t not see the girl who weeps a tear for each drop of blood. It doesn’t see the pure look of fear in her big green eyes. It does not see her brown hair stained red along with her hands. It doesn’t see anything it just keeps pouring out of the woman’s lifeless body. And now the man who is not a man is drinking the red liquid, his eyes are glazed over with pleasure. And the little girl I know is me. 

I shake myself awake from the memory. I pull myself away from the blood and the man that is not a man and most of all I pull myself away from me. My heart is going bam bam bam. I follow Peter fitting my small pale hand into his big tan one. My swirling patterns are all gone, and the memories crowd in taking their place. And as I’m walking right left right left right left. A memory enters. 

And there is Peter too late perhaps, but still there. But already the little girl’s eyes are dimming, the life is draining from them along with the blood. And she is resigned to her fate. She has matured in the short time she watched her mother brutally murdered before her eyes. And she sees herself, her blood draining, her brain goes numb, she waits for the bliss when she can greet death, and the blood keeps draining. And the figure I see was not so imposing. Big blue eyes, blond hair, the body of an eight year old, and a smile. The smile. It was the smile. Suddenly I had a will to live. Suddenly the little girl was growing and she fought off the boy trying to steal her life blood. Her eyes were still that of a zombie and the blood was still draining and the boy was still smiling. 

And then destiny entered. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes pounced on the smiling one and the little girl who was not so little anymore hid her eyes that went dead as she fainted. And my memory ends. I know that boy was Peter, but he was still too late. Too late. If only... What if? Peter had arrived in time? 

But that thinking is gone and instead I just look at our hands clasped together and marvel at how well they fit together. And I watch our bare-feet. Mine small bloodied dirtied and his big clean unadulterated. And I see a new pattern forming between the two of us are breaths in in out out and our feet right right left left. Now I am almost smiling at this discovery but first I peek at Peter. For some reason I cannot bare for him to see me smiling. Maybe because I’ve forgotten how and I know that it will just look silly. But it is too late now my lips are curled up and I am showing 1 2 3 4 5........ teeth. Before I can finish this pattern Peter is looking at me. Warmth fills his dark eyes and maybe a couple of locks on the box I’ve put myself in are starting to loosen. 

Then I find myself counting his freckles 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9..... And on I go, as our feet and breaths continue in in out out out right right left left. And once again I’m finding myself wondering at the miracle of how perfect it all is. But then again there are the memories. Those complex images that curse me. They are pounding at my head now that they have been released like a flood into my brain. And my heart continues bam bam bam. And then my breath starts to break the pattern, upsetting the balance of it all.

I let out a giggle. Peter looks at me again and I am laughing. He laughs with me and my high laugh harmonizes with his deep laughter creating a unique pattern. I laugh at how my heart keeps beating even though I know the truth. How my hand and Peter’s fit perfectly together despite the past. And mostly I laugh at the future. I don’t know what Peter laughs at, but I’d like to think he sees what I does. He sees the patterns. He knows the truth. And the memories are also his haunting companions.