The Unknown White

On that day came the unknown White. It was just another Mediterranean afternoon. Only a few days before that the majestic sun shone brightly, sending its god-sent light to the rain-craving soil below. The familiar dry warm wind danced above the land, hopping from tree to tree, from head to head, reminding all that autumn is still not ready to move aside and let winter take its place. What for years was considered to be a myth, told to children at bedtime or coming out of veteran mouths, those who had been around long enough to witness the great White with their own eyes, once, when they were still young, became a fantastical reality. 

 

It had caught them all off guard and there was no time to prepare; there was no time to adjust. On that day, strange clouds appeared in the skies, pushing the color aside, yet no rain came down. It was all unnaturally still and quiet, too quiet, so quiet that it seemed the end of the world might just be around the corner. But nothing happened. The silence spread around, bringing everything to a sudden stop, with an unexplained feeling of expectation; of yearning for something no one thought to be possible; beyond the realm of words; beyond the realm of knowledge. And then tender small flakes started falling down from high above, one by one. The air grew cold and filled with a million of these tiny flakes, somewhat resembling dandelion seed heads. But unlike the dandelion seeds, which would always fly away and dissolve after an encounter with the wind or a birthday wish, or simply a wish they had carried with them, the white flakes didn’t leave. They stayed. Was it? Could it? No, it couldn’t. What are the chances? The unknown White couldn’t be real. Not here, where it’s mostly warm and sunny; not after all those years no one had seen it.

 

 

 

Everything happened so fast. The White kept on piling up, covering the land; covering everything, discoloring everything; bringing the unknown with it. The ancient olive trees, which had been there long before the people came, stood still in their confusion, not knowing whether to fear or to embrace the foreign whiteness enveloping them. It was the end of the autumn harvest and the people had left them bearing no life, as the unknown White rested on their branches. Even the venomous creatures and the nearly-invisible insects hadn’t seen it coming and only barely managed to escape the freezing veil of the White, crawling to some hidden spot deep in the ground and out of sight. The people themselves were suspicious at first, afraid to leave their houses, but gradually they caved into the luring shine of the unknown White. They stepped outside, their feet sinking into the thick icy layer, mesmerized by the white quilt covering their land. Despite the warnings of their parents, the children couldn’t resist the mysterious White laying at their feet. They bent down, and touched it! They touched the unknown White, giggling in excitement and taking a handful of it in their gloved hands. They formed icy balls and threw them at each other and the concerned parents, who had realized no danger was in store, joined them. What a sight that was! Hundreds of people rushing out of their houses, and jumping onto the White, rolling in it, their eyes not quite believing what they are beholding. So many smiles, so much laughter after a long time no one had laughed; after a long bloody summer, which had destroyed too many of their crops and their lives, which were taken away before they were due. So it was true! The unknown White wasn’t just a figment of their imagination! It was nothing short of magic! A white fairytale-like landscape looking nothing like their war struck home. The world seemed so different! So pure. So gentle. The White covered it with its loving layers, stroking the rivers with its frosty fingertips and uniting the waters residing in them; adorning the trees with a glowing ghostly freshness and the roofs with sparkling glacial drops of rain. The unknown White was so powerful, that it could even give the breaths coming out of them a shape, a form, a visibility. Or were these their own souls, swirling out of their mouths and flying free in the crispy air? They wished the enchanting unknown White could stay there forever and help them forget. Forget the long, unbearable summers; forget the droughts; forget the screams; forget the fear; forget the rage and the picture of grieving families standing over freshly dug graves. They wished the benevolent White phantom could haunt them for as long as it wishes, so they won’t have to see the world hidden underneath it; so they won’t have to face the tangible truth clearing its way through the heavy snow and following the footsteps they had left behind.

Photo: https://pixabay.com/de/schnee-d%C3%BCnen-winter-baum-1235372/

The Witch of the Abandoned Streets - Part 2

Little drops of sadness appear in the girl's eyes as she asks her how the spell can be broken. Surely there's a way, there always is. But before she has the chance to answer, the door opens. The old shopkeeper peeks out, asking the witch to step aside and leave the girl alone. It is the first time he bothers to look at her; it's the first time he isn't ignoring her. But his stare is hideously ordinary, just like all the other stares. The round moon-like face, prolonged banana nose, and silent smile vanish in the haze. The familiar fear and aversion appear, instead. He invites the girl in. It's cold outside and he can help her choose a special chocolate inside. The girl looks at the witch and asks her if she can come inside as well and help her choose a candy. She had almost never eaten candies before and she doesn't know what to choose. The witch tries to smile at the girl, but instead of a smile appears some sort of hybrid creature, half spasm half smile. The spell doesn't enable her to smile. The girl takes her hand and leads her into the store, but the old man holds them back. He can't let the witch go inside. It's not a place for people of her sort. She'd probably steal from him and god knows how dangerous she really is. The girl tells him that if he won't let the witch in, she too would leave. At last, the old man complies. He walks beside the girl, showing her the exhibit of the enchanted forest and accompanies her alongside the candy-filled shelves. It is warm in the store and the sweet smells seize the witch. She hadn't smelled such great scents for a long time. She lumbers behind the old man and the girl, listening, together with the girl, to the man's explanations. "Here, in this jar, are chocolate fudge balls and here," he points at the blue jar, just beside it, "are caramelized almonds."

The old man offers her to taste some sweets, so she would know what flavor to choose, but the girl shakes her head and explains that she had promised her mother to only pick one piece of candy. The old man smiles and promises that she doesn't need to worry, he won't tell. The girl keeps on shaking her head.

The witch doesn't understand her. It is almost impossible to leave the old man's enchanted world with only one piece of candy. Were she to pick out only one piece of candy, what would it be? She realizes that she doesn't even remember what is her favorite candy. The girl turns to her again and asks her to choose a candy, whatever she wants, but without telling her what she chose. The girl quickly covers her eyes with her tiny hands. The witch tries to explain that she doesn't even remember what chocolate tastes like, that it would be better if the girl chose herself. But the girl wouldn't hear it, her small hands still covering her eyes and her back turned to the witch, just like in hide-and-seek.

Being left with no choice, the witch examines the shelves, going from one to the other. She glances in the girl's direction. She doesn't even try to peek like most children would. The witch tries to remember what her favorite candy as a child was, but the spell is too strong. Dark chocolate with nuts? No. Strawberry-filled white chocolate? Not quite. A white-chocolate-bellied hedgehog with sweet cigarette spines catches her eye. The hedgehog it is! She asks the girl to open her eyes and points at the hedgehog. The girl jumps up and down for joy. The chosen hedgehog is gently placed on the counter and the old man puts it inside a sealed brown bag. The girl asks the old man the price of the hedgehog and smiles when she understands the coins in her pocket are enough. The girl opens the bag, looks inside and takes out the hedgehog. She gently divides it into two halves and hands one of them to the witch.

The door of the shop swings wide open and brings in the cold winter wind. The hasty mother approaches the counter, holding small bags with gold-plated names of famous jewelry designers. She looks disbelievingly at the witch of the abandoned streets and then at the indifferent old man behind the counter. She takes the brown bag out of the girl's hands, puts it on the counter, and grabs the girl with force, leading her out of the store. The witch, who is left inside the candy shop, looks beyond the display window. Out there, she sees the girl as she tries to release herself from her mother's grip, whose shouts are well heard even beyond the closed door. Tears are coming down from the girl's brown eyes and she stomps with her pink boot again, screaming at her mother that she still doesn't know how to break the spell. The witch hadn't told her yet. Her mother drags her along the street and they both disappear.

The old man asks her to leave. He didn't want to be blunt around the girl, but now that the girl is gone, it's time for her to leave as well. She doesn't want to cause any trouble and quietly steps out of the store. Outside, there isn't a sign of the girl and her mother. Even the scent of the wildflowers has evaporated by now.

The witch of the abandoned streets walks by herself, not taking her eyes off the injured chocolate hedgehog. She wanted to catch up with the girl and her hasty mother and return the hedgehog, but they were too fast, and now there is no telling where they are. The sky above is completely gray and the streets are emptier and more silent than ever. The cafés have brought all the chairs inside; the restaurants have already turned on the lights inside, the faces of the diners looking joyfully at their plates, not caring what's out there, in the dark streets; the food stands from the festival are gone and so is the music; the street artists who had presented their crafts to all of the onlookers, are not there any longer, and so are the visitors and the beggars, hoping to exploit the turmoil of the fair for a few extra bucks.

The night is falling as she heads back to the roofed bus stop. She looks around and searches for something to wrap herself with during the cold night. Tonight she isn't as lucky as the night before when she, at least, had some newspapers to cover herself with. She stares at the brown bag with the chocolate hedgehog in her hands. Although she's extremely hungry, she can't bring herself to eat it. She will look for the girl again, tomorrow. She will bring her the hedgehog, with both of its split parts.

The witch lies down on the bench, trying to fall asleep despite the cold wind blowing outside, but it's of no use. The memories awaken in her head and threaten to defeat her. Why isn't she able to forget it like she had forgotten so many other things? It has been six months now. No. It is far too early to come back home and there is no point either. They probably think she isn't alive anyway. She shakes her head and tries to think of something else. She remembers how the girl had looked at her. It was just like he used to look at her. Gentle raindrops start coming down from the sky. She imagines how the invisible dead make their way to her as the rain becomes stronger. Maybe they will take her with them this time, to him. She only barely swallows the lump in her throat and gives into the blessed darkness.

The Witch of the Abandoned Streets - Part 1

The witch of the abandoned streets sits on a bench, cursing the world in her obscure witch language. She is cursing all those passers-by heading toward destinations she will never arrive at; she is cursing all those elusive pieces of time which had slipped through her thin fingers; she is cursing the superior entity above, although she is not convinced it or he or she exists any longer. Did this miserable world ever hear of such a witch? A witch who lacks witchcraft altogether but is still, nonetheless, a witch?

It is late afternoon. There isn't any watch on her slim wrists to name the passing hours, but then again, she isn't some random witch – she is the witch of the abandoned streets. She doesn't need any watch - she can read the omens of time in the sky. Nobody knows how she does it exactly. Some say the movement of the clouds has something to do with it; others believe that flocks of migrating birds spell out the time for her as they hover high above. The sun disappears, enabling gloomy, dark clouds to take its place in the skies. Soft little rain drops start coming down, alternately dotting the sidewalks of the city and hiding inside the pooling puddles on the roads, upon which the cars are heading on their way home, wherever home may be. She covers her bare dirty feet with some old newspapers she had found a couple of days ago near the roofed bus stop in which she slept.

 

"Never hide from the rain," her mother told her once in her childhood, a period which seems a lifetime away. "When it's raining outside the dead can see us. They constantly, blindly seek us, feeling their way through the dark streets. The rain is just like magic. For a few short seconds, all those spirits in the sky know exactly where we are. They come down to us, leaving delicate footprints behind. They want to see our faces; see how we're doing, their loved ones, just for a short while, before losing us again."

 

Maybe her father would finally visit her? She hadn't seen him for years, not since having left this world four days before her seventh birthday.

A little girl passes by, hiding underneath her purple umbrella. She is accompanied by a slim, tall, and clean woman, her mother. The fancy mother-woman has lipstick-red lips and cared for nails. She is wearing high heels, a sweet perfume scent following each one of her rapid footsteps. The woman's eyes encounter the witch's by mistake and she quickly looks away, urging her daughter to hurry up. The two of them vanish around the corner, next to the candy shop, her candy shop. The witch likes to stop in front of it every day after leaving the roofed bus stop, just before starting with her aimless daily wandering in the streets. Sometimes, on extremely difficult days, she indulges herself by visiting the shop three, even four times. Today is such a day. Out there, in front of the external side of the display window – the bad side, as she calls it – she usually observes all the childhood dreams lying on the shelves inside. She doesn't understand that little girl. How could she just walk on by, not pausing to look at the magical world waiting for her in there? How did she let her hasty mother lead her so easily and pass over the sweet corner, the last jam left in the lonely city?

 

The witch rises up from the bench and follows the scent of wildflowers left behind by the fancy mother-woman. The rain keeps everyone inside, everyone but her. Now she is free to do whatever she wants. The streets are empty, which means no eyes to accidentally meet hers; an entire world intersecting for a brief moment with her own miserable world, only to disappear from her forever. No, there is no one to look at her with that expression, filled with pity, horror, and disgust. There are no eyes, she is safe. She had enough of those momentarily frontal collisions when a stranger's glance is encountered with her beautiful, bright green eyes. She knows all too well the sort of thoughts that run inside that unfortunate victim's head: What had happened to this woman, that made her this way? It seems she was beautiful once, very beautiful, how old is she, anyway? Who is hiding underneath the misfortunes of the street? Of the sun? But then the glance escapes, again, and there is no one to wonder who she really is and how she became to be the witch of the abandoned streets, to begin with.

 

The rain ceases gradually. The witch of the abandoned streets presses her face against the window and observes the weekly display. Each week the display at the window is replaced. Last week it presented a circus – a tough circus manager with a curly licorice mustache and a waffle top hat, colorful women dancers on a dark chocolate rope, marzipan lions with jellybean manes, and a multitude of small tense audience faces sitting on a biscuit made balcony. Today, the circus has been replaced with an enchanted forest – trees with flake bars as trunks and parsley-head treetops, pink gum flamingos, little white chocolate ghosts peeking behind the trees, brown bears with a belly full of colorful kisses, and jelly snakes hanging from the sweet branches.

 

The witch looks at the old shop owner, inside. He is standing behind the counter, ignoring her, as he always does, as they all do. Sometimes she spends hours in front of the window and observes the old man as he tends the customers, handing out chocolates. But during all this time she had known him, she had never seen him leave the store. Not once. The round moon-like old face, prolonged banana nose, and that silent smile, had always remained behind the counter. The witch looks at him as he opens the glass jars on the counter, refilling them with various kinds of chocolate and cellophane-wrapped colorful sweets. The shop is empty, enabling him to sit comfortably behind the counter and read a book. He searches in one of the drawers and takes out a pair of narrow reading glasses. She watches him, as she does every single day, and wonders if he'd been cursed, too. Is he imprisoned inside his sweet world without the ability to leave it as she is imprisoned by the abandoned streets?

 

As she stands outside of the old man's spell-bounded world, she tries to figure out where to find her next meal. Perhaps from the soup kitchen located three-thousand-five-hundred-and seventy-three steps from here – her steps – as opposed to two-thousand-and-eight-hundred steps of an ordinary, healthy, and strong person. No. Perhaps she shouldn't. She doesn't feel like standing in the long queue along with all those lonely and miserable people. After all, she is different from them. The spell had brought her to the streets, nothing else. She would probably have to sneak into the kitchens of restaurants and cafés again, and find some leftovers before they make their way to the garbage cans.

 

Suddenly, she sees the reflection of a little girl in the window. It's the same little girl who had passed by earlier, accompanied by her pretty mother. She is walking alone, back and forth, looking down at her open palms. She seems to be very concentrated. Now it's clear that the little girl is counting the shiny coins hidden in her hands. She stomps angrily with her pink boot. The girl looks up and seems to notice the witch of the abandoned streets, whose face is still pressed to the window. She approaches her and the witch slowly turns to face her. The girl opens her small palm and reveals the shiny coins, her eyes reflecting curiosity and warmth. It's as if she can truly see her, the real her, before the spell. The girl asks her if she could help her count the coins in her hand. Her mother told her that she can come back to the candy shop and pick one piece of candy, she tells the witch. Her mother doesn't usually allow her to eat candy, always saying that it's bad for the teeth, but today is the girl's birthday and she's willing to make an exception. Earlier, when they were still at home, her mother had asked her what she wants for her birthday this year. They were sitting in the bright white kitchen, just the two of them and eating their usual breakfast – a bowl of whole-grain cereals with pieces of fruit. No cookies. No sweets. It wasn't allowed. The girl had been playing with her spoon, picking up a spoonful of cereal, and sinking it again in the milk. She knew what she wanted for her birthday, she had always known, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. She knew it would make her mother sad.

"How about a new dress? Would you like that sweetie?" her mother asked, stroking the girl's long brown braid with her soft hands.

 

"Yeah, that's exactly what I want mom!" the girl lied.

"Then let's finish up here and go do some shopping. We're going to have such a fun day!" Her mother left the table and started clearing the dishes.

The witch feels paralyzed. For the first time in six months, ever since being cursed and becoming the witch of the abandoned streets, somebody is actually talking to her. Somebody is asking her for help. A little tear comes down from her eye and she quickly wipes it away. She clears her throat. It has been six months since she had last spoken or even uttered a single word.

"Can you hold all the coins you got there with one hand?" she asks the girl. Her voice trembles a bit. She is surprised that it sounds exactly like it did before the spell had been cast upon her.

"Ohh, I don't think so," the girl says. "There are too many. Can you maybe hold them for me?"

The witch isn't sure if it's a good idea. What if someone walks by and sees her taking this little girls' money? What would they be thinking?

"Please?" the girl asks. "I can't do it alone – it's too much." The girl sighs and looks down at her pink boots. "My mother doesn't know I can't count," she adds, a sweet, innocent blush spreading across her young face.

"Alright." The witch reaches out two dirty hands. She holds her palms up as if they were a bowl. The girl puts the coins in her hands.

"Can we count together? I'm not really good at counting."

The witch feels her knees shaking. She still can't believe the girl wants to talk with her. Her. "You just need to practice and I'm sure you'll ace it. Let's give it a go. Ready?"

"Ready."

They both start counting together. The girl takes every counted coin and puts it in her right palm. The witch looks nervously around her. There is nobody there. Just the old shop owner, too absorbed in his candy world to notice what's outside.

"...Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven."

"Eighty-seven!" the girl announces. She raises her round brown eyes to the witch and smiles. Her wide smile is missing three milk teeth. The girl puts back the coins in the side pocket of her blue coat and looks at the witch. "Thank you!" she says and smiles again.

The witch of the abandoned streets nods and stretches her lips. She has forgotten how to smile. Something in the girl seems different. Her smiling eyes become instantly sad as she acknowledges the witch's bare bruised feet. "Are you a homeless person?" she asks.

The witch, astounded for a moment, tries to remind herself that children will be children, just being themselves, without all the costumes they put on once turning into adults. "No," she answers quietly. "I have a home but I can't go back to it because of the curse." The witch can't stand looking into those big brown eyes, withdrawing her gaze. Those young eyes are forcing her to remember.

"A curse?" the girl asks. "A real curse, like those in the fairy tales?"

"Yes", says the witch and moans. She takes a tissue out of the pocket of her torn stained jacket and wipes her face with it. The tissue is so dirty, it seems to make her face even dirtier.

"Can you please tell me about the curse? What did it do yo you? Who cast it?" The girl can't believe she is talking with someone who had been cursed. "Maybe if I hear more about it I'd be able to help you break it."

"I can't remember." The witch looks at the sky. "You should go and buy yourself a treat and then hurry back to your mother. I'm sure she will start getting worried soon."

"When is my mother not worried?" The girl takes off her pink wool scarf. She looks like she wants to say something more. "She wasn't always like this. She changed when my sister disappeared almost three years ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the witch says. She feels so sad and angry at the same time. The girl is so young. Why did she need to experience all that sadness at such a young age? She has her entire life for that. Why so soon?

"We were on a trip together, the three of us, mom, Anna and me," the girl says. Her voice sounds different than before. If the witch were to close her eyes right now, she could quite easily think that she's talking to an adult and not to a little girl. "We went to the beach. There were so many people there. We held our mom's hands but some man bumped into her and she let go. When she turned to take our hands again, she could only see me. I don't remember much of it. I only remember that I was never as scared as when I saw my mother screaming and running, trying to find Anna."

"You are a brave girl," the witch says.

"No, I'm not. I should have taken care of Anna. I am the older one." The girl kicks an empty can rolling on the street. "Can you tell me now about the curse?" It's clear that she doesn't want to talk about her sister anymore.

"Very well. Before the curse, I was working as a nurse. I had a loving husband and two daughters. I looked different, not ugly like I am now." She sees her reflection looking back at her from the display window. Her hair is a black tangled mess, her skin grayish from dried dust and mud, her shoulders skinny and slouching. Her eyes are the same eyes, though. Bright green. She had gotten them from her grandmother.

"And what happened?" the girl asks.

"My husband became sick. He promised me that he would win this disease. He was actually doing better at one point, but then he started feeling bad again. He simply gave up and left me all alone." Should she be talking about these things with such a little girl?

"But what about your daughters?" the girl asks.

"My daughters are all grown up and have their own lives now. They want nothing to do with me. Not after the curse. They are ashamed of me."

"Did they leave because of the curse?"

"Yes, I believe so." What a lie!

"But who cast it? We have to stop him, so you could go back home and see your daughters," the girl announces, determined.

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that." But she does know. What if she tells the little girl that it was all her fault? Would she still want to help her? What if she tells her how him giving up on her, had pushed her to the very edge? How her inability to forgive him turned her into the wretched creature she is today? How she couldn't take it any longer and left for the streets, where nobody knew her; where they all just let her be. She wants the girl to understand that life is a constant struggle and those who are not strong enough, disappear. Like her. Instead, she tells the girl about the curse. How she woke up six months ago, not recognizing the face looking back at her from the mirror; how the curse made her leave: first her job, then her family and friends. The last thing she remembers from that day is taking some random bus and heading towards a far away city, in which nobody knew her. And here she is now. A homeless person, like the girl said, but not a real homeless, like the others, because she had a home.

The Art of Silencing a Broken Heart

 

 

They were right: practice does make perfect. Years of training and hard work had sure paid off. Sam could finally master the ancient art of silencing a broken heart. If only they knew how she struggled to subdue hers. And this was no easy task, just ask anyone whose heart had ever been broken.

 

Broken hearts are extrovert in nature. They thrive on attention and compassion, willing to tell anybody who is foolish enough to listen just how miserable, lonely, sad, devastated and broken they are. But Sam never did have the patience to give in to their whims. There are so many broken hearts out there, lurking in the most unpredictable places, manipulating the inexperienced to have pity on them, following those oblivious potential victims of theirs, and forcing them to be the audience of this overdramatic "one-heart-show". And when they are lucky enough to secure the presence of those listening ears and understanding eyes, looking at them with nothing but good intentions and a genuine will to assist, they usually go to great lengths in describing every small detail of their misery: Who broke them? When? Where? What happened before it? What happened after that? What happened to the perpetrator? What are their theories as to why that person had broken them so? And these over rationalizations, over analyzes, and self-pity extravaganzas would slowly suck the energy out of those victimized passersby until consuming them entirely. At this point, the greedy broken hearts would move on in their search of fresh prey to take pity on them.

Sam, who was well aware of their nature, took all necessary measures to protect herself from them, not daring to form eye contact with those sobbing broken hearts surrounding her, be it in the subway on her way to work; be it on the streets of the big city; be it when she was out with friends, noticing them casually approach her with some lame excuse. Yes, some may say that she was heartless and cold, refusing to show some compassion. Sam never bothered defending herself against such accusations. Hell, maybe they were not so far off: maybe she was heartless and cold. But what they didn't know, was that she made no exceptions. She treated her broken heart the same way she would a stranger's – ignoring it.

During the day, it wasn't such a difficult task. There was so much to do throughout the day, so many tiny insignificant details to process and consider; so much unnecessary information she had been compelled to absorb, she somehow managed to blur out those silent sobs echoing in the background of her consciousness and focus on all those to-dos awaiting her. But when she was alone with her thoughts, her heart would slowly awaken from its slumber, pinching her like a spoiled child aching for attention. And she would be tempted to glance at it, even though she knew she shouldn't, the moans of her broken heart mixing with the chatter of the outer world and forming a sad and impossible melody of self-indulgence. So she would hold her breath and divert herself with silly, superficial thoughts; preoccupy herself by worrying about things she didn't really care about.

And when she would finally be back home and open the front door, she would release the air that had been caged in her lungs all day long, take off her shoes, toss her bag onto the floor, and sprawl on the sofa. But it wasn't long before her spoiled broken heart would start to nag. When she would turn on the TV or call a friend to make plans for later on that evening, it would start screaming at her, making it impossible to concentrate on anything. She would quickly change her clothes and go for her daily jog, but her stubborn broken heart would cling to her, screaming in her ears during those thirty minutes. And when she would get back from this tormenting jog, it would watch her take off her clothes and get in the shower, enjoying the comforting hot water massage her tense muscles. It would wait precisely until she was all relaxed again and proceed with its unbearable attention-craving sobs. Although she had zero patience or tolerance for it, Sam would usually indulge her broken heart only for a few blessed moments, in which it received her undivided attention and empathy.

She would start by cleaning the steam-covered mirror with her hand, nodding compassionately at the tormented face staring back at her, a face she would otherwise hide from the rest of the world. At this point, the tears would come out of her eyes and she would cry along with her nemesis, her fragile broken heart, who would be savoring what it thought to be her finally giving in to it. But she was smarter than it had thought, oh yes she was. This was anything but defeat. On the contrary. It was her letting her broken heart feed on her, just a bit, so it could go back to sleep on a full stomach while she devises a new scheme for keeping it at bay. Once feeding time was over and after another long crying session, her broken heart would wear itself down and grow silent, lacking the energy or the will to try and win her over again.

Unlike Sam, most people did not possess this special ability, but maybe she had given herself far too much credit; maybe, regardless of her efforts and expertise, she had her mother to thank for that. Now Sam wasn't the type of person to think too highly of herself nor too low, but rather just the right healthy amount, or so she had thought. But the prospect of her mother taking all the credit for her hard work, just like she had taken other things from her, could really make her lose her temper. She could just as easily claim that she had taught herself everything she knows, while her mother was too busy falling apart, again, for the one millionth time.

Sam didn't like thinking about the past. She saw no point in doing so. But her mother? She couldn't get enough of it. As hard as she tried, Sam couldn't forget those evenings in which her mother came back home after work. The minute she set foot inside their small two-room apartment, a gloomy tension started suffocating the air. Sam was usually too afraid to come out of her room and greet her mother. She never knew in what mood she'll be finding her. And so it was easier sitting in her room, doing her homework, or reading a book and waiting. Not that she could concentrate on anything as long as she heard her mother out there, opening the cabinets and walking back and forth between her room and the kitchen, her nervous steps an exact indication of her mother's current state of mind.

Sam would hear that sound of fluids being poured into a glass. She could tell straight away whether it was wine, whiskey, gin, or any type of alcohol at hand's reach. And when her least favorite sound in this world came to her ears, she would tiptoe and close the door of her room as quietly as she could. But it wasn't long before her mother would knock on her door, pushing it open before Sam had the chance of granting her with permission. Her mother would sit down next to her on the bed, holding her bottle with a trembling hand. Sam would not be able to look at her nor bear her alcohol-stained breath. Her mother would start crying, stroking Sam's long black locks and look for some empathy in the nine-year old's brown eyes. Sam would usually tell her that she was still not finished with her homework – another excuse, of course - and if her mother doesn't mind letting her get back to it. It was crucial being delicate with her mother when she was drinking. Alcohol made her more sensitive and the tiniest remark could result in a loud outburst which may never end.

"How could he do this to us, Samantha?" her mother would ask, ignoring Sam's vain attempts of being left alone.

Sam would not dare to answer her question, staring sadly at the ceiling; at all those glow-in-the-dark star stickers covering it. Her father had helped her put them up there only a few months before he left her; before he left them. "So you can always see the universe before you fall asleep," he told her and kissed her on the cheek. "I know how much you love the stars."

"I mean, look at you! You are so young! How could he do this to you?! The selfish low-life, fucking bastard!" her mother would continue with her sobbing. "Oops! I used the F-word next you," she would giggle childishly. "And now I have to take care of you all by myself!"

During all those long moments comprising Sam's empty childhood, having to witness her mother slowly wither away in her sorrow, permitting her broken heart to take over, she had made up her mind: Never again! She will never be like her mother; she refuses to be! Because her mother's broken heart had taken her away from Sam, leaving her with a frightened and ill alcohol-monster instead of the loving, wonderful mommy she used to have. But that mommy was long gone the minute the alcohol would flow through her veins and so Sam refused to ever call her by that name again. She was simply a plain, generic 'mother'; definitely not the mommy who would tell her bedtime stories, sing her sweet songs in her soft voice or tell her that she could be anything she wants to be; that her love for her is beyond endless.

With no responsible adult to be found, Sam had to raise herself up on her own. Once she was old enough, she took off and never bothered coming back. The past was to remain in the past. The past was dead. But the memory of her mother's broken heart would still haunt her from time to time, trying to manipulate her to believe that her own heart was broken as well. Of course, these efforts were in vain – by then Sam had already mastered the ancient art of silencing the broken heart. This was her mission; this was who she really was, but nobody knew about the battle she was constantly fighting. Because there is no reasoning with broken hearts. Because she is the only one to understand that.

And You Call Yourself a Diva?! Part 2

"You know what I say – it's never too late."

"Yes, it is. Look at them. They are all sitting out there, waiting for me, but I don't want to go outside. I want to stay here. Forever."

"Sounds like a reasonable plan to me. Hiding inside this gazebo for all eternity, why not?"

"I might be able to pull it off..." Eli mumbled, not really sure who she's trying to convince.

 

"So why did you agree to marry Rick in the first place?" Catherina took a small breath-freshener bottle out of her purse. "Open your mouth dear."

"You're so bossy, gosh!" Eli opened her mouth obediently, letting Catherina spray it. She couldn't taste or smell it, of course, but she played along, not wanting to hurt Catherina's feelings.

"Because he put me in the corner. He gave me an ultimatum. Either you marry me or we each go our separate ways. These were his exact words. Then he apologized and explained that he's only pressuring me because of his parents. Some romantic proposal, ah? He proposed two weeks after you left."

"Oh, Eli. I didn't know! I'm so sorry. What a bastard!"

"I didn't want to lose him. He had been working really hard to convince me that he's the love of my life." Eli felt surprisingly relieved. It was the first time in a long time she had the courage to say what was really on her mind. Too bad she couldn't find the courage of doing so in front of people who were actually there there and alive...

"Oh nonsense," Catherina said in her nonchalant voice, as if they were talking about the weather rather than about such a big deal like a freaking wedding. "You don't want to end up with seven husbands like me by being with the wrong guy, do you?" she laughed. She had the laughter of a heavy smoker. "Trust me, Rick isn't the love of your life. The love of your life would never have put you in this position. I say get rid of him!"

"Seven husbands? Wow, you never told me that. That's crazy!"

"Yes, it was. But back then it was different. The 40s and the 50s had their own rules and when you're an international acclaimed singer you are expected to live a scandalous life. You don't think about what's wrong or what's right."

"So you think I should call it all off?" Eli managed to smile for the first time that day. A real smile and not one of those fake 'smile to the camera' smiles, that is.

"Yes, I do, my dear. You are still young. The world is out there, waiting for you. What about your travel dreams, eh? Forget about that spineless boy of yours. He doesn't deserve you."

"But what if I regret it later? This whole thing is too complicated."

"Life is simple, my darling. Only people are complicated," Catherina grinned. "One of the advantages of being dead for forty years is that it puts everything in perspective," she added, winking at Eli. "Besides, you usually regret the things you hadn't done, rather than those you had."

"So now what?" Eli asked, her soft brown eyes looking for answers where only questions lay.

"Now? Now it's time to embrace the diva within," Catherina guided Eli to the mirror. They stood next to each other, only Eli's reflection looking back at them.

"I'm no diva," Eli giggled awkwardly. She was one of those beautiful women who were oblivious to the extent of their beauty; she could never just take people's word for it; she had to see it with her own eyes, trying eagerly to recognize the beautiful woman they tell her she is. Instead, she would usually see a shy, insecure and clumsy skinny girl. With trembling hands, Eli started taking the pins out of her hair, one by one, letting the brown curls fall down on her shoulders.

"Oh, yes you are, my dear, yes you are," Catherina brought her cigarette holder closer to he lips, inhaling its delicate smoke and then blowing it out of her nostrils. "Trust me, after five years of haunting your apartment, I think I know what you're capable of."

"It's the first time I've heard you admitting that it's my apartment! Who would have thought?"

"Did I? God, I've gotten soft."

"And you call yourself a diva?! Divas are supposed to be cold-hearted bitches!" Eli took a napkin out of her purse and left a short message for Rick, using her lipstick. Not very original, but then again, Rick was so mainstream, that she just had to "punish" him with one of those Hollywood-made clichés.

"Don't tell anybody about this, understood? I still have a reputation to maintain..." Catherina leaned forward, kissing Eli on the cheek. "I'll be in Paris if you feel like visiting me there. There are wonderful theaters I can haunt there," she laughed and vanished into the mirror.

Eli took off her high-heel shoes and sneaked out quietly through the back side of the gazebo, running barefoot in the direction of the main road. The awful wedding music was swallowed by the noise of the cars; of the life, waiting for her, out there.

Photo: https://pixabay.com/de/marilyn-monroe-schauspielerin-mode-396863/

And You Call Yourself a Diva?! Part 1

Eli was standing in the bride's gazebo, checking herself out in front of the huge mirror brought there earlier by the staff. They closed the gazebo using white impenetrable sheets, enabling the bride the privacy she needed before the ceremony. It was late afternoon on a late August day and the air stood still. It must have been at least 32 degrees outside. Her pearl-white satin dress stuck to her breasts and her stomach. She grabbed two small pieces of the shiny fabric enveloping her waist, shaking it gently and hoping that it would cool down her sticky skin, but the dress was just too tight.

 

"God damn those lace sleeves!" She tried remembering whose bright idea it was adding those short lace sleeves to her dress, knowing that it's going to be an August wedding. Was it her idea? Her mother's?

She had barely eaten that day. There was no time. From the minute she woke up at seven in the morning, people were fussing over her, suffocating her with flashes of cameras, high-pitched screams – her girlfriends' and Rick's sisters; makeup artists tyrannizing her, forbidding her from eating or drinking, or moving or even breathing, all so she won't mess up her perfect makeup; hairdressers working almost three hours on her hair, turning her brown curls into something that resembles a flower, spraying ten different hair sprays, which are most likely deadly to the environment - idiots – and worst of all the mothers. Not one but two! Rick's mother and her mother. Just for that day, the two of them pretended to like like one another, complimenting each other on the hair-do and the outfit. Eli preferred seeing them go at it, as it usually was.

But now she was finally alone, thank god! It was almost 4 PM and she had waited for this moment all day long. A few minutes alone away from the insanity waiting for her outside. She felt dizzy and hurried sitting down on the folding chair. Her purse was on the gazebo's wooden floor and she reached for it, spilling its entire contents anxiously and picking up the small granola bar she would usually carry for emergencies and ohhhhh boyyyy, was this an emergency! She swallowed the miserable granola bar in two famished bites. God, food! How amazing it felt having something in the stomach! She noticed a single mint candy among the scattered contents of her purse. She had forgotten about that mint. This meant only one thing...She stood up, placing her long leg on the chair and reached for the hip-flask attached to that wretched white and blue wedding garter. She hated these things. At least now it came in handy in her time of despair. Eli took big sips from the Vodka, willing to forgive the burning sensation in her throat, knowing that in a few minutes everything would look nicer, brighter and prettier. She held tight to the bottle and stood in front of the mirror again. The confused blushing bride staring back at her from the other side of the mirror seemed like a complete stranger. With all that excessive makeup and that expensive dress. What did they do to her? They turned her into one of those brides she hated so much. In fact, this whole thing, this entire day was plain torture. This was exactly why she hated these stupid ceremonies so much. This commercialized day which usually drives people insane, making them spend too much money and time, and not too mention the stress it causes. And for what?

 

Eli held her dress up, protecting it from the dusty floor as she bent down, picking up the scattered contents of her purse with her free hand and putting them back where they belong. She started chewing the mint candy, hoping that it would do its magic on her Vodka breath while holding the two sheets forming the improvised entrance of the gazebo and peeking outside. Hundreds of people were walking in the garden, enjoying the appetizers placed on the white wooden wagons, sipping champagne and choosing a place to sit under the shaded tent facing the ceremony's platform.

"Oh, my darling, you reek of Vodka."

Eli released her grip on the sheets and turned around. Catherina D'angelo was standing there, holding her usual jade cigarette holder and blowing a scentless white smoke out of her mouth.

"And here I thought you'll never show up," Eli said, trying really hard not to show her excitement. She hadn't seen Catherina for nearly nine months and didn't want to seem desperate for her attention.

"What did you think, dear? That I will not be there for your wedding?"

"Ah, well, I don't know. I haven't heard from you for so long, that I assumed you're too busy; that you might never come back."

"Never coming back? Why on earth would you think that? Besides, I'm never too busy for the most important day of my Eli's life." Catherina opened her purse and took out her red lipstick. She stood in front of the mirror, renewing it.

"Great, why not make me more nervous than I already am?" Eli forced an artificial laughter, which sounded more like the sound a wounded animal would make. "By the way, you look beautiful, Catherina, you always do," Eli added, trying to change the subject. She wondered if Catherina could recognize the jealousy springing out of her eyes. The beautiful Catherina with her red and white polka dress; with her perfect waistline; with her long slim neck and her black shiny hair, held together in the typical 40s victory rolls hairdo.

Catherina walked back and forth in the gazebo in her slow elegant movements, making it seem as though she was born on her pointy red high heels. Eli could never walk like that. She was so awkward in high heels.

"You're the one to talk, my child. You look like a dream," she touched Eli's hair, although Eli couldn't feel a thing. "Don't worry, it's not like I can do anything to destroy it, right?"

Eli laughed bitterly. "Oh, Catherina, what the hell am I doing here?"

"I would say that you're getting married, dear."

Eli could never tell when Catherina was serious and when she's being cynical. Her voice always sounded the same – soft and nonchalant.

"Come on, I am serious."

"So am I", Catherina said, pointing at Eli's cleavage.

"What?" Eli looked down, expecting to see some stubborn stain, but there was nothing there, just her boobs, hidden under a slightly loose piece of white fabric.

"They seem smaller to me. Have you lost weight?" Catherina examined Eli closely, making some suspicious "hmm" sounds.

"Smaller? Oh, god, my boobs shrank! My boobs shrank! No! That explains why the dress isn't sitting on me as good as it did three weeks ago, at the fitting." Eli sighed and touched her breasts while shaking her head from side to side. "And I haven't even noticed!"

"Now now, it's not the end of the world." Catherina reached for her hairdo, taking out a small pin hidden somewhere inside and using it to tighten the loose fabric.

If only she could fill out a dress the way Catherina could. Unlike her, Catherina's cleavage was on the verge of exploding. Her dress sat perfectly on her body and emphasized her full round feminine figure. Eli felt like a skinny dull girl compared to her. "But it is the end of the world! You haven't been here for so long and I didn't know what to do," Eli sighed, stumbling all the way back to the chair and sitting down. So yeah, she was a bit tipsy, so what?

"What are you talking about, kiddo? I was here a few weeks ago."

"No, you weren't. You left nine months ago. You said that you had a concert in Paris. That you would be back soon. I needed you and you left me. Now look at me!" Eli inhaled what little warm air was left in this unbearably hot late summer afternoon, savoring the subtle hints of jasmine that sudden breeze had brought in. She tried swallowing that big lump stuck deep in her throat. She couldn't afford to cry - it would destroy her makeup and might result in a very vindictive makeup artist.

"Oh, I guess I lost track of time, Eli. I do apologize. You know time works differently where I come from, don't you? Hey, cheer up. I'm here now."

"Too little too late."

Photo: https://pixabay.com/de/marilyn-monroe-schauspielerin-mode-396863/