Eloise- (cap2) Pasarea

Se face ca era o seara nu foarte deosebita de celelalte seri in care Eloise citea "Faust" ca sa isi exerseze germana. Ceea ce facu insa aceasta seara oarecum speciala era faptul ca in timp ce Eloise citea cufundata adanc in fotoliul ei moale de catifea purpurie, o cioara i se izbi de geam si cazu in curtea casei. Copila se ridica, cobora treptele in viteza, trase ghetele pe picioare cat putu de repede si iesi afara in viscol sa caute biata vietate ce probabil avea o aripa rupta. Cand vazu aceasta , una dintre slujnice, Jeniffer, iesi dupa copila strigand:

- Domnita! Domnita e ger afara, unde fugi asa? Domnita, te aduc degerata inapoi in casa si sa vezi atunci ce ne face domnu' la amandoua! Uf, ce copil.... Ce copil!

Domul X era desigur tatal Eloisei, dar astfel de intimidari in numele sau nu o speriau pe Eloise. Ea stia ca tata o va lua in brate si o va intreba ce fu in capul ei. Apoi Eloise va explica, tata o va asculta si o va saruta pe frunte printre rasete, deranjandu-i bretonul. Apoi va pune slujnicele sa o schimbe si sa-i faca un ceai cald. Si intr-adevar asa fu. Dupa ce in sfarsit slujnica o prinse pe Eloise si o aduse in casa, tata astepta la usa cu pipa in gura si cu o privire foarte suparata. O lua in brate pe micuta si o saruta pe frunte.

-Pappa, o pasare neagra s-a izbit de geam cand citeam si am vrut sa o aduc in casa si sa am grija de ea, dar Jenny nu m-a lasat, ii spuse printre scancete mititica. Vai pappa, saracuta pasare, o sa inghete afara...

-Eloisa lui tata, nu iti fa griji pentru pasare. Probabil si-a luat iarasi zborul. Se mai intampla uneori ca pasarile sa se izbeasca de geamuri si chiar de ziduri, dar sunt in regula dupa aceea. Iti spun sigur ca pasarea este in regula. E o pasare puternica, nu-i asa, scumpa lu' tata? Ii spuse mangaindu-i buclele blonde si tot sarutand-o pe cap. Jeniffer, te rog du-o sus pe Eloise si schimba-i hainele. Apoi, sa ii faci un ceai de zmeura.
Jeniffer incuviinta si o du sus pe fetita facand asa cum i se poruncise. Domnul X ramase jos tragand din pipa si chicotind de dragalasenia si inocenta fiicei sale. Iar mama Eloisei este intr-adevar un inger si o lady. Ea se ocupa personal cu educatia tinerei domnisoare. Si face intr-adevar o treaba minunata caci Eloise are sase, aproape sapte anisori si deja stie sa scrie si sa citeasca intr-o engleza perfecta, iar pe langa asta, copila are cunostiinte generale de geografie, chimie anorganica si istorie. In plus, asa mititica cum este, mai invata si limba germana iar mai tarziu, doamna X o va invata si greaca veche si vor citi impreuna din dialogurile lui Platon.

De prepararea cinei se ocupa chiar dansa. Era cea mai buna bucatareasa si nu o deranja sa stea in bucatarie alaturi de personal. In seara aceasta urmeaza sa gateasca friptura de vita in sange si budinca de vanilie.Intre timp ceaiul ii fu dus Eloisei care il sorbi incet. Intreba de pasare din nou. Oare ce s-a intamplat cu biata pasare? Slujnica Jenny o asigura ca probabil se lovise de geam pentru ca vantul fiind prea puternic a impins pasarea spre fereastra micutei. Vazand-o pe fetita cu ochii in lacrimi, ii promise ca se va duce chiar ea sa caute pasarea. Iar daca o va gasi, cu siguranta o va aduce in casa si il va ruga pe domnu' sa o lase pe tanara domnisoara sa aiba grija de ea pan' la primavara. Eloise era sigura ca tatal ei ii va da voie. Caci tata nu suporta sa isi vada fetita intristata, si oricum, ea nu este un copil rasfatat, ci doar sufera cand vede animale ranite si simte o nevoie arzatoare sa aiba grija de ele pana se insanatosesc. Iar daca mama si tata ii dau voie , atunci micuta domnisoara le poate pastra. Asa se intampla cu Byron. Il gasi cand era doar un pui, plin de noroi, nici nu facuse ochi si era mai mult mort decat viu. Se vede ca motanul stia bine ca ii datoreaza viata Eloisei asa ca la randul sau, ii oferise prietenia si grija sa.

Totusi Jenny o atentiona pe micuta ca daca pasarea nu este de gasit, inseamna ca si-a luat zborul si e complet teafara. Oricum, are deja un bun prieten, ii spune. Si in acel moment, ca si cand ar fi foat o chemare, Byron se urca in pat langa fetita, torcand si mangaind-o in felul sau pisicesc. Chiar ii linse lacrimile si se aseza pe pieptul ei torcand si incercand sa fie cat mai dragalas, spre a o inveseli pe mica Eloise.

Eloise- (cap1) Intro

Multe povesti au fost spuse inca de cand primul om a cunoscut meleagurile acestei realitati. Povesti de dragoste, de durere, povesti cu mame ce nasc fii atotputernici, cu demoni si orci ce ne n-venineaza pamanturile cu dureri, cu ingeri ce cad prada arogantei si lacomiei, pierzandu-si nemurirea. Dar aceasta, aceasta nu este una dintre acele povesti. Aceasta este istoria unei fetite.

Se nascu intr-o noapte lunga si obositoare cand cerul abia ploua. Vantul sufla mistic printre crengile dezgolite ale copacilor ce zgariau geamurile in leganarea lor.

La lumina slaba a unei lumanari ce nu cuprindea nici macar jumatate din camera si printre tipetele infioratoare ale mamei, Eloise s-a nascut. Botezata in sangele celei ce i-a dat viata si a purtat-o in pantecele-i timp de noua luni. Eloise se nascu cu gheare si plete lungi iar Moasele, Mrs. Thomas si Mrs. Pompychrist, au crezut ca ar fi fiica Diavolului. Au gandit ca ar fi intelept sa o ocida pe micuta si sa ii spuna mamei ca defapt copilul se nascu mort, dar numai ce acest gand le trecu prin minte, micuta Eloise tipa si ca trasnite de fulger, moasele isi pierdura mintile in ghearele dementei. Si abia dupa tipatul ei mama afla ca fiica ei traieste. Si ploaia incepu.

Cat despre moase, sunt mai multe povesti care circula. Una dintre ele ar fi ca cele doua ar fi fost internate la azilul de boli mintale, ori s-ar fi sinucis, ori ar fi parasit orasul. Cert este ca din acea noapte nimeni nu le-a mai vazut vreodata si nici nu s-a mai auzit de ele. Totusi din cand in cand cineva mai intreaba de doamnele Thomas si Pompychrist, iar celui ce intreaba si se face semn sa taca si i se spune ca nu se vorbeste de asa ceva. Dar din cand in cand, la un ceai negru in fata semineului, cate-o batrana indrazneste sa sopteasca nepotilor povestea nasterii micutei Eloise.

Nu era mai in varsta de sase anisori. Era draguta foc, blonduta la par , cu ochii de chihlimbar, cu pielea alba si obrajii cam des udati de lacrimi. Era cumite de obicei sivai, ce pacat ca va trebui sa moara.

Micuta noastra isi plangea suferinta neauzita si nevazuta. Nu avea multi prieteni micuta Eloise, dar avea un companion ce nu o parasea niciodata la greu : un motan pe nume Byron.

Byron era mereu alaturi de ea si o ajuta atunci cand gresea la pian. Profesoara era foarte severa, dar din fericire era oarba asa ca nu stia ca motanul o ajuta din cand in cand. Le placea sa se uite la flori impreuna si sa prinda fluturi, iar la sfarsitul zilei, Byron se urca inpat cu micuta Eloise si torcea la pieptul ei pana aceasta adormea. Iar daca Byron era somnoros in timpul zilei_ca orice pisica dealtfel_ aceasta era doar pentru ca in timpul noptii, cand fetita dormea, el trebuia sa tina la o parte toate umbrele ce vroiau sa o raneasca. Desigur, Eloise nu stia acest lucru, si nimeni din familia. Nici macar celelalte pisici.

Byron era un motan de talie medie, negru si cu ochii verzi si impunatori. Atat de impunatori incat nici nu era nevoie sa cerseasca dupa mancare. Aceasta ii era oferita imediat, iar el nu se obosea sa multumeasca, sa toarca sau sa se alinte de picioarele celui ce ii oferea hrana. Singura persoana care de bucura de respectul si iubirea sa era Eloise. Iar ea ii piptana blanita neagra si il imbratisa mereu. Cu alte cuvinte, erau de nedespartit. Toate acestea pana intr-o zi ce va schimbatotul... atat pentru Eloise cat si pentru restul omenirii.

Era o minunata zi de toamna, flamboyanta prin cercuri aramii incandescente in aerul racoros. Frunzele cadeau in grupuri mari, iar daca ar fi putul, Eloise ar fi incetinit timpul ca sa le observe pe fiecare in caderea lor. Dar cum acest lucru nu este posibil pentru micuta noastra, cel mai bun lucru pe care il putea face era sa aplice un "stop cadru" si un prim-plan asupra unei frunze in caderea sa.

Superba imagine isi crea Eloise in mintea ei inocenta: o frunza aramie ce si-a oprit caderea doar pentru ea. O frunza aramie scaldata intr-o eterna lumina ruginie de dupa amiaza.

Avea un leagan in copac, micuta Eloise. Un leagan facul de bunicul ei. Si ii placea mult sa se dea in leagan, mai ales ca acum toamna fiind, poate in avantul ei sa loveasca frunzele cazute cu picioarele. Ii placea sa isi simta buclele mangaiate de vant, si ii mai placea sa le simta mangaindu-i fata. De multe ori isiflutura parul cand se legana: isi lasa capul in fata cand leaganul se ducea in spate, apoi si-l ridica brusc cand leaganul se ducea in fata. Aceasta ii placea in mod deosebit Eloisei cand se dacea in leagan. Si uneori, Byron i se aseza in poala ,iar atunci Eloise se legana mai incet, ca sa nu cada pisoiul.

I knew

Where are you now? Where will you be when I will be away? Where haunt thee? witch doors are you knocking to? And in the end ... what do you care?I leave you behind, haha! I'll leave you ... you fade in everyday life, drowning yourself in the crowd, mammoth sun of hell! Sink, as I shall raise strong, baptized in blood and fire! and you will sit back and think. Will you not stop me? Do not you want revenge? (... Alas! was this a premonition that at the time I wrote it?)
Are not thee the one who told me that every hour hurts? Hmm ... but you argue about it now monsiuer. You are becoming happier. Even besides that, how can you hurt a wretched man? existing only physically and drained ... Spiritually, mentally dissected, visceral grief?
"Give me an answer!"  howls Elise full of balls ... and they say she's shy :))
But shut up. Why should you keep the silence? Why do not yell at me like usual? Why do you not swear? Why not hit me with bestiality? Why not try to strangle me? Maybe this time I'll even manage to die. I can do it, I'm sure of it, I just need a little help! And you know it! Only every time you see how close I was. But you always stopped. It's nice to see me as I struggle in my days of suffering, than to give proof of decency and put an end to my pain. And do not you stop at a greater cause. I know the pain, and you remain indifferent to my suffering. To my tears, my cries and my nightmares. I wake up at night screaming ... I dream i die.  i die horribly. I'm afraid of freedom .... I fear, are am a coward .... like you.
Nights I walk alone on the streets. Cool ass cars honk and a punk invites me in. Hood boys look at me as i pass them by and not once happened for one to touch me. it happened a few times... only a few times ... I had to deal with rapists. Where were you then? Bathing in indifference and yet you wondered where was i. So that when I return, you can corporally punish mefor things i did not do. I stand under your abusive domination.

Anorexia

She rises off the floor and shakes the dust off her skirt before looking around. The wind blows, and she is barely dressed. The asphalt is frozen and with her bare feet, she chases the ghosts of what was and what could have been. Bitter realities which are not possible and never will  know their fulfillment in reality. Her defining trait-like yours, too,  is hypocrisy. Love can be simulated, and this is a fact known to all. Some fail, but they too were victims of such treatment. Colorful masks laugh hysterically in your rainy nights. Their smile never disappears. And then ... they become masks themselves . Become their own alter egos, devoid of personality and genuine feelings.The febrility of  the circus around you unfolds ... without getting slowed even for a moment, without anyone stopping, without anyone crying or laughing with real feeling ... you're a spectator to this day. Sequins and glitter, elephants and fat naked women, glasses of wine and bread, candles and little light bulbs, fluff and christmas tree decorations, breasts and arms, drums and Campbell, yells and laughter, all in a skirmish of prohibition, of sweat,  the infection of thousands of spirits! No one will be able to heal, no one will go home with all of their legs and arms, with their souls or minds intact... Vomit and sweat, blood and tears! scratching ... rats squeaking in water pipes through which only blood flows now. Nothing but a soup of rust, shit
and rat guts, the apocalyptic machine crumbles in the filthy area of the city. The genitals of a bitch used by all those who live and left aside of each and every one of them, this is existence.A pussy full of grime and pubic hair. Of wounds and purulent , gruesome leakage. Pork lard and sorrows. Blood and sperm. All in one place, in a huge grinder! a machine in which living things go without knowing where they go ... where living parts of them, chopped, dispersed, filled with venom. A rose ... uniting two hands under a serene touch ... but what do you see?! The two hands belong to the same person. With tears on her cheeks, her mouth trembles in a spasm ... her mind replays their first encounter ... but the rose is now dried up and dead, pretty much like her soul . Unlike her eyes, filled with the last tears she can cry. And she is crying them for ...him. And advises pour gently from friends that dont really give a fuck about how you feel ... like it would be a duty to provide sympathy. Because it's odd to offer merely silence wrapped in words without meaning or feeling ... and that is the reality. When the one you love with despair will never be yours but always will belong to someone else , and you will witness all this wretchedness, and they will sink you in even deeper. The reality is when your MOM takes more drugs than you. The reality is when you get to no longer feel any trace of regret, when you are in the OR, in the Gynecology section and the doctor gives you an abortion. When you no longer hear the unborn yelling in a silent pain that he cannot express, and that no living creature could. When your soul is damned to be torn from birth ... and later then the body to be broken into thousands of pieces by the hands on the one that should fight for life and use his knowledge to do good. you are butchered at birth. But what hypocrite i am myself! In fact, I completely agree with abortion. i would understand my mom if she were to have taken that decision in what it concerns me. I would have accepted her decision ...to kick me out of her protective and warm womb. Maybe pain would not have been such a bother. It would be like in one of the dreams in which I can not breathe and from which I can not wake up, risking to asphyxiate myself in my sleep. The few days of its life which would end in a few minutes of pain while the doctor breaks it into pieces: just like one of my nightmares with which I deal almost every night. If i think about it now, I would have preferred to die then and get it over with everything, rather than collecting this mountain of garbage called "memories"
I would have felt that pain only once, it would have been a unique experience but I ... I need to in my every dream ...every time I fall asleep.
And look, now i an myself pregnant...with the demon himself. the demon that is leading us to the grinding machine. People with blank minds- and you are no exception- they don't accept reality as being what it is and being impossible to change. why put a make up on her? why decorate it? shit will be shit no matter how much glitter you put on it. why make it look like a drag queen? like a transvesty with running makeup from all the sweat of his fat greasy skin. his dress is poking from all the fat he is shoving inside and it's visible, oh so gruesome and visible!
 Why so many ideals ? Then maybe i am the one who is unable to integrate in your society, it is I the absurd in a world that is false to it's bone and marrow. Maybe the excess through which i administrate the truth serum will finally damn me evermore.How is it possible that others taste from what I reserved to me?
 This large table filled  with  food, where we'll be forever, for eternity famished , unable to taste the forbidden delights of a depraved world, what we don't want. What delights lie in front of us.
Children with dirty hands, with ripped clothing gazing with tearful eyes at the feast before them, as some icons witnessing Satanic orgies. Expectant mothers can not feed ...  the Angel of Death strokes their back with it's cold fingers,  all in a sexual way, promising them freedom. In exchange for certain services, of course. Foul men doomed to not wake up from drunkenness, cursed to feel the dizziness and nausea of eternity. No, it will not cease. I will never cease! You will always feel the world spinning, you will not be able to catch your thoughts, however you know exactly what you are doing and where you are, you have a trace of consciousness, implanted in you brain. not much, but enough to make you realize that you can't control yourself and that you will pay with your life for what you did.
Elderly people coughing blood ... they can barely walk, barely moving their arms.Hardly can they bare the pain. They do not know who they are and what's going on around them. They suffer from disparate memories ... and their regrets, mistakes that they did and didn't do haunts them, not allowing them to link their memories one to another so that something can make sense in their minds. Unconscious beings, artificially retarded, following the lead of a movie that doesn't make any sense at all. All they can do is feel, all I can do is cry. Victimized to not be able to take control over that which is happening.  I'm dying, and yet Death does not want to take me . Not before she has her way with me and with them too for a couple of thousand years. How did a poor soul came to pray for death? How do i get out? when will it  end?! the process of dehumanization is already done ... but maybe she wants to rebuild people to undergo this process again and again and again.

All these people are here, now, on a wet and dark street into a peripheral district of an industrial city. All are here given each witnesses of torture, of tears, of the impossibility of liberation.

All are here forever, forever famished, forever alive....

Ever since

Since then, all my days were the same. I had no reason to stay in touch with a world where God has dissolved into what we call ordinary. I cannot help but wonder at the miracle of life...but then I see how dried up is this world. It has no soul, no power, no magik, no hope, no love or friendship.

So this is how one day, while we were having tea, a tear streamed down my face as painfully as if it were a knife. He saw this manifestation of depression as rotten and filled with madness. I could not receive a real hug, for every time he would sigh and ask me if i was done. So then he decided it was a good idea to strike me. So he did. He rose up from his chair, left the tea cup on the table and lit up a cigarette. Afterward, he offered me one. Should that have been a comfort to me? To what was about to happen to me? How is nicotine going to save my soul and my mind? I'd rather he had given me poison and get it over with. But that is not how we play this game. The goal is PAIN. We were supposed to make one another suffer, for he considered that my pain was not real. Also, he thought that he cannot be harmed by this unimportant and weak person that is me. But he was wrong. Or was he?

As he stood up his eyes were bursting with flames and the heat of a 1000 suns. And my dying scream could not be heard not even by God, for he has forsaken me long ago... it was like he did not care at all for me and as he wasn't recalling all the sorrow we shared. And then i realized, all that sorrow was only mine to feel in this life of strife. He did not care at all. Not cold as ice, or cold as a god, but cold as nothingness. That was the moment when he decided what was going to happen. His life was going to end for he could not stand to see me suffering and not feel a thing. But how would he stand knowing he would leave me mourning for him the time that was to come? Well, a drop of selfishness was going to take care of that. And this is how it was. He walked out the door, killing himself in my eyes. He became someone else. Someone i despise with all my being.

Now, i don't even bother to make myself a tea , for what good is it to enjoy it all by myself? I cried for many nights, 'till my soul ran dry and not even blood wouldn't come out to drown me and my miserable life that was only a replacement for what you call reality.

In my perfect world there are fields and forests covered in an eternal autumn. There is a purple sky to watch over my dreams and delusions. And a tombstone on which my name lies written in my handwriting. She was hitting the fallen leaves with her beautiful leg on her way to my grave. Her tears were feeding the red roses, and her blood was pouring through my veins.

A whisper in the wind: "thou shalt not rest...."