Julia no longer loves, she flirts and lies. She seeks tenderness and avoids loneliness. Even though she needs it and secretly desires it. She doesn't want to wait. She wants to act, but not yet. She remains in lethargy. Soon her true nature will awaken. This is no longer the romantic Julia, this is me. A rough, tough person, hiding his innermost thoughts, feelings, desires, and dreams under a thick armor.
This endures. She won't break it on her own. She suffers, rejecting happiness that is within reach, she dreams, hums songs, sleeps, and when awake, she scatters her dreams like delicate fluff. White fluff falls from the clouds like a white ballerina floating on the wind, thanks to its lightness and agility, it falls into his hot heart, cooling his intentions. The second, the third, the fourth – this is no longer the heart, but pure, beautiful, and cold ice. Now I feel the calm that reigns before a storm, when not even a fly makes a sound with its transparent wings. People's voices drift away and disappear.
The wind ceases, the trees—green stilts—stand proudly, stretching their bare arms, adorned with a green cloak of tiny leaves. The bird ceases its flight—only a gentle hiss is heard. It is under the influence of the intoxicating silence, which fills the hardened heart with beauty—that the ice melts. Slowly, the vapors of reserve, superiority, pride, and ambition dissipate, only to strike with redoubled force with the first thunderclap against the fluttering heart, like a bird freed from a cage, which has traded its freedom for a sense of security.
The storm has unleashed a storm; it no longer sees any white mast of hope. Great waves of pessimism have engulfed him. Some find them beautiful in their greed and delight in them. The fear it instills in them unleashes the animals within them, weak and defenseless under the pressure of uncertainty. And yet they create barriers. They wade deeper and deeper into their fear, which is a longing for love, for success. NO! For something elusive, transcending the norms of human existence. Thunder brings her back to reality. She stands before the window, a little frightened by the beauty surrounding her. It may seem strange, but it seems to her that the weather's variations correspond to her state of mind. She longs for this unknown. She wants to fly far up. A white stripe pierces the black and navy sky. That roar! It evokes childhood memories. She longs.
Suddenly she jumps up, she's sure of herself. She wants to fly away to the golden stars, to admire their strings, like tiny beads adorning the necks of noble and hideous ladies, though seemingly beautiful. She wants to touch them, though she knows she'll get burned. She's already reaching out to grab the nearest one when she hears a rustle. She turns abruptly; it's only rain. She loves rain more than the sun, because it's different, like her, yet still the same. It can be warm and soothing to a weary and tired body after a hard day's work, or sharp and cold, stinging and repulsive to those fleeing from it. She loves the quiet, rustling rain in the morning, tapping gently against the panes of her window. It seems to her then that each tiny droplet is a water nymph. So small and sweet, swirling gently like a leaf trembling in the wind. She trembles. Was she afraid? She thinks. It's not just an illusion—she calms herself. A gentle tap, like a kiss. The sun gently and hesitantly peeks its golden face from behind a dark cloud. Only now are my water nymphs beautiful, she thinks. So colorful, so shimmering. I want to be one of them, even if her life were limited to a split second. It may seem strange, but to experience this feeling of freedom, fulfillment, joy, carefreeness, the feeling of being needed—of being a drop of water, of rain—she would give up her own uninteresting life without a second's thought. The
sun is already a guest in the sky. And her little water nymph sisters have departed. Now it is the mythical ruler here. The blue sky—a beautiful color—and a bird soaring carefree across the sky. To be a bird. She's already soaring high, gazing directly into the golden eyes of the sun's rays. There are thousands of them, not millions! Their little yellow faces smile at her and place countless kisses on her nose and cheeks. She's human again—she's falling, she's afraid—no, it's not fear. These are thoughts, fleeting involuntarily. What will happen when she's gone? Will she vanish from the hearts of her loved ones with the first vapor of melting snow? The end. She's on the ground, amidst the green grass, where here and there a slender stem topped with a colorful flower floats. On it, like a beautiful queen, a butterfly straightens and folds its wings with great grace. As if to say, "Look at me and learn, for who has as much grace as me?" The bees—obedient workers—bow to him, and the crickets play a strange and sad melody.
The caterpillar admires him, thinking that soon she will become like him. And she, a passive observer, watches all this.
She hears a hiss, "Serpent—yes, it's him." She knew he'd come. A true reptile, preying on her and tormenting her. It reminds her of her friends, waiting for her to make a mistake, to embarrass herself. Obedient. Always there only when they need something. And she's so stupid—always helping them selflessly. Just for her own satisfaction? Because, after all, her heart is just a tiny icicle of cold ice. She feels nothing—she probably thinks—it flashes through her mind. She doesn't correct them, because why would she? She remains silent after every rejection. She had no friends. Only a few good friends, from whom she slowly turns away. It's her fault, she knows it. She can be a good acquaintance, but nothing more. She wants to, but she can't—how clichéd it sounds—she laughs to herself. Why? She doesn't know. She pretends to be someone she's not. She misses them and is betrayed. The snake runs away. He's afraid of the closeness of her eyes. He knows she can see everything in them; he doesn't want to be seen—but it's too late. He flees in panic, leaving a zigzag trail in the grass.
Night is coming. Dark, strewn with hundreds of stars. Orion's belt—her lucky stars. She gazes at them as she walks the winding path, stumbles, falls. She doesn't get up; lying down, she can see the movement of the celestial sphere better. She thinks. There are so many places I want to visit. Enough! She gets up. She returns along the edge of the forest, which tempts her, invites her to enter. She enters. A terribly howling wind carries her away. She sees hundreds, no, millions, of eyes staring at her. "Who do they belong to?" A thought flashes by. Strange tree branches, twisted like the hands of an arthritic woman, gently caress her face. She sits down on a soft, black pillow of moss. She feels like a queen of shadows. She's unafraid of the eyes of those creatures hiding behind the bushes. She watches the branches, like human arms, sway to the piercing song of the wind, interrupted by the light, quiet, yet resonant call of an owl. The Demon appears, made of her dreams and desires. How long she's waited for him. So much time has passed since they last met. She reaches out to him, but he disappears. Angry, she stands and continues into the thicket of thorns pricking her hands. It seems to her that the forest welcomes her; the thorns place painful yet sweet kisses on her hands. She feels she's found her place. She continues walking, breaking into a run—she senses the Demon is already close, light as a feather carried by the wind, reaching the stream. Listening to its soft murmur, which forms words, she forgets him, sinks into oblivion. She listens to the brook's tale, its sorrows, and its hopes for a better tomorrow. She cries. Sweet tears flow down her cheeks. One, two, three, a whole multitude, feeding the stream. She has made a covenant with him. Now she is part of him, and he of her. She gets up and continues walking. She knows she won't find the Demon today.
She returns home. She has to go back, even though she doesn't want to! "Family is the most important thing; what she wants is unimportant." She lies in bed and waits for sleep. A long, nightmarish dream. She sees herself, the car lights—nothingness—she's gone. She's dead. She wakes up, no longer screaming. She knows that whatever will be, will be. She waits! She can't wait any longer! She knows that death doesn't hurt; only the words of those who have accompanied her through life can hurt. She gets up, washes, dresses, and begins another day, which is tormenting for her.
The demon stood before her in a haze of pink fantasy. His muscular, smooth, and gleaming body, not at all from sweat, seemed to throb with unearthly life, like a churning ocean. She looked at him shyly, narrowing her eyes as she always did, her penetrating blue gaze sliding over his physique. She explored every muscle so familiar to her, and yet she still found something new in him. Ah, that feeling of wanting to throw herself around his perfectly sculpted neck again. But it's impossible now, she knows it well; every time she did, he disappeared, leaving her alone. He had to make the first move—she'd always wondered why it had to be that way, but she loved him and accepted. Oh, that impatient nature of hers. She couldn't sit still anymore; she could already feel goosebumps of pleasure crawling all over her body. He sees it, feels her condition, yet he doesn't approach her, looking at her face, so different from other faces. He is all evil, the Lord of Darkness, and she, hmm, has never been all goodness, though she tried at first, but she couldn't, so she gave in. Apparently, it's that magical element of evil that's been within her for as long as she can remember. Maybe that's why he chose her. He thinks—her eyes are clouded with a blue mist, becoming cloudy, so distant, her rosy lips gently parted, whispering softly an unfamiliar song. He can no longer resist her, though he knows he's destroying her by being near her. He can't stop loving her, yet he must. He's never felt anything like it. That delicate tickle near the black nugget that is his heart. A white feather on his black crystal—it's funny, he thought. How is it possible that this is the future Lady of Darkness? After all, she is neither as demonically beautiful as Alexia nor as divinely evil as Euryka. And yet she has that indefinable something that draws him towards her like a magnet, an ever-stronger magnet. He feels so defenseless, so small next to her, and when that wonderful, unearthly mist covers her eyes, he knows she could destroy him, yet she stands and waits. Like a lamb. He is so strong, yet he has allowed himself to be captivated by her! Just like that, with flowing hair, blue, misty eyes, and pink lips gently parted, trembling, humming a song, with hands stretched out towards him, she loves. He can no longer run to her, falls on his face before her. What! Tears stream down his face. Drip, drip, such a large and powerful demon is crying? Why? "Julia," she whispers, looking at him blankly. "Forgive me, Julia. I don't understand what I have to forgive you," she asks, surprised. "Love," she whispers through a throat tight with pain. "Love cannot be forgiven," she pushes him away, screaming. He feels humiliated, defenseless, but he listens to her in silence. He could kill her, yet he can't—she must decide whether she wants to be with him, he's not allowed to. How can you ask for forgiveness, you who have never forgiven anyone? By asking for forgiveness, you renounce your love for me. How can you!" He can no longer scream.He falls to the floor, kneeling, and leaning rhythmically back and forth. Unable to bear the sight, he runs to her and embraces her in his enormous, muscular arms. How small and fragile she seems to him in body, but how great in spirit.
"My love! Look at me—please," he whispered, his voice trembling with terror, directly into her exposed ear. He was afraid of her reaction. He was afraid she would start screaming again, or worse, that she would start crying. Julia slowly turned her tear-stained face toward him. Her eyelashes rapidly fanned her tear-stained cheeks, and he thought he heard them flutter in the deafening silence that had fallen between them. She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw neither sadness nor despair, nor anger either; they seemed empty, barren, like the deep waters of a clear lake. He could see nothing in them; the more he tried to see, the more he realized he was drowning in them. He felt those blue lakes, tinged with gray, divine his intentions. When he realized this, he quickly lowered his eyelids, framed by pitch-black lashes. Julia was still looking at him; he felt her gaze on his face, yet he was afraid to look at her. Her eyes, initially wide, began to narrow, darkening under the influence of her dark thoughts. How could he? A thought flashed through her mind: "He's so cruel. Why didn't he tell me the truth? I can see in his eyes that he loves me, but he's afraid. If only he were determined. Or maybe I'm wrong? Maybe it's just my fantasies reflected in his hazel eyes, devilishly penetrating and oh-so-mysterious. I think that's what attracts me most about him. She loves him. And yet she feels she shouldn't." Her lips begin to part, she sings
My demon eyes open
Look into the face of my beloved
Don't be afraid of words that creep into my heart like
black birds in the night Say only one word And I will be with you forever Say only one word And I will renounce everything Say only one I love And the heavens will float away for me A secret power will bind us And the abyss of the kingdom will encompass us Forever dark night……
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