This is a timed assignment i did for Starting to Write. I think it turned out ok. We had to look at a picture of two women standing by a wall, with a metal container - like a grain silo- behind them looking like they were about to hug or fight, and then write about them. This is what came out.
We’ve come a long way, Anita and I, and although there are years of history between us, we don’t connect, not anymore. I’m almost angry at her, shrugging her off even though we can’t touch. I don’t blame her for what my husband did to us. It was my fault as much as hers, and most years we blame him in any case.
This doesn’t make any sense. But our existence doesn’t. We’re trapped here forever, our bodies slowly decomposing more each year. Trapped in the grain silos. Anita’s beauty, gone now, only her spirit remains, as does mine. Our God has forsaken us because of our unnatural love. We are cursed. Hector, my husband, he killed us both when he found out about it. We tried so hard to hide the truth, our love and devotion, me the farmer’s wife, and her but a beautiful helper. Now we rot, with grain surrounding us, suffocating us in the dark. I am only glad that when we are released, that one day a year, we are as we once were. Whole and young!
Hector is old now. It has been so many years, plotting and planning, in the dry, unbearable, darkness! I envision his death as hard as I can, while I am there, imagining the feeling of the grain chafing my skin like it would if i was alive. It helps me remember who I was, and why we must be strong. But I weaken that one day when I finally see her, looking as magnificent as she did that final, fateful day. We were going to run away. It’s laughable now; I have no idea what we thought we could do. Two young fools in love, thinking we could survive on commitment and oxygen alone.
But he caught us, and in his rage he killed my sweet Anita before my eyes. My heart tore into pieces as I watched, helpless, as he stabbed her again and again. Then he came for me, and I did nothing. I let him kill me because I only wanted to be reunited with her, even if it meant death. But he even took that from us. Separate silos, separate graves. We can’t touch and I just can't bear it. We haunt each other as much as we haunt the Earth. She reaches for me, each and every year, and I try and hug her, only to fail. That last inch we can’t overcome. I turn my back to hide my broken heart, and she thinks I hate her.
Silent observations surround us, each saying the idle nothing for the other, before we are again trapped inside our coffins. We watch the clouds, drifting freely, and wish we could be them - then we watch each other, desperately, hungrily, all in vain. It is just all in vain! As much as our love is as overpowering as ever, at least to me, we cannot admit it, not ever. We never did when we were free, like the clouds, and now we never will. Sometimes I think that’s all that is keeping us here, confined to our metal shells full of dust.
I ponder things while I’m confined, not aware, just existing in that space. Why didn’t we say it? I loved her…I still do, with all my heart and soul. But we never said it. Was it fear that we would jinx our fate? But then we ended up like this, two figments in the deserted farm, trapped in an embrace, never to be fulfilled. I often think that I was too frightened to bring the wrath of God down upon me. I was a good Catholic woman, married, till death do us part. Now I’m in death and we are parted, but not Anita and I.
We are still together; year after year we are still together. I feel too detached from her, though. We don’t connect. But I said that already didn’t I?
I weep silent tears for days, weeks after that hallowed day, reaching with my mind and heart to try and feel her presence near me, around me, anywhere at all. This slow death of spirit is worse, just knowing she’s there, so close to me. I can’t help being detached from her, the show of strength, despite my weakened resolve, is all I have. I can’t free her, but I can try and make it better. Maybe I’m wrong and it’s worse for her, not knowing. But I think she knows. Or maybe I’m wrong and she hates me. For ruining her, for tempting her, for killing her.
It was my fault we were together that night. It was my fault we were together at all. She watched from afar, and all the helpers on the farm knew of her peculiar tastes. But I was intrigued, more so when I saw her watching me. I was watching her just as much, just as hard. Soon I initiated the courtship, watchful of others. It was all just glances, lingering touches across a fence. Little things. We talked and talked in those days, secreting away to the silos.
Ironic. I never found out how he knew that’s where we met. Maybe it was just an accident. The grain silos were already disused, but full of decaying grain. A perfect dumping ground for a pair of unnatural lovers, who were never lovers at all.
He spat on our bodies as we sank.
I hope she knows I died for her. I said that much at least when I could. Hector took me at my word, so cruel, so harsh. But he remains free, while we suffer, each and every day. Suffering for one lingering touch, one look, one hopeful glance from the other, just once a year. Would we survive if we gave each other what we wanted? Would we be free?
Could we…
touch?