Untitled TOO

And all my days are trances
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams.

~Edgar A. Poe

The young man walked down the streets carrying the girl to the house in which they both had come to live. It was in unerring circumstances as they had met once before. They were both different then. The girl was outspoken, uncontrollable and always, always laughing. That one meeting had caused the young man to change himself and the spark of admiration had turned too jealously over time. She had held herself with integrity and laughed at the world; loving the headstrong yet belittling too much aggression as stressful. He had been so much smaller then. So weak he admired a girl. Now she was the weak one. Not the frightful scared little being who smiled through fights in crazed desperation but a quiet nearly non existent being that got weaker and weaker which each attack of society. The knowledge that she had no allies in this world had driven her and now-a-days her only friend was that book she hid a room full of broken marionettes. Her only expression of dissatisfaction with the world was the ever growing pieces and the refusal to bow down to common deference and deal with the common wealth. Her pretty face was purposely scarred and forever hidden by her carefully done hair which in itself was a joke as she did not care for many appearances unless they were of importance to others. He was a fine young man above all the courtesies and policies of society. Rather than lower himself to the level of empty headed marbles he stood out as himself and obeyed only the necessities. He was always questioned because he was always new. He didn’t give people a chance to object to something they asked for. He bent down on hand and knee for no one but the king and he hated that man. People wanted to know him. People knew who he was and who he could be. He had a place in the world. The pathetic being he carried was clearly unneeded for more than a clean house and a respectable king. Ha! What a laugh.

 

The young man clearly had no hope for the young girl as she was but a tool and for all her careful planning and truthful betraying devices and silent denials she was used. He used her as anyone else did and she knew. A quiet little bird with the knowledge it has all the reason to fly away but refusing to acknowledge its fright. There’s no conceivable reason as she is only hunted more for this. And he, he sits back and laughs. Looking down on her he soars and laughs. He laughs.

How he hates that girl, he laughs.

 

The girl woke with a start. She was in the room again. The room with all the broken dolls; her mentor must have carried her there. There was a candle alight and in the flickering flame she shuddered. To be carried was so pitiful. Why did she have to be carried? If they had only woken her she would have stood and walked. She shook her head, knowing that no amount of displeasure would have changed anything. She would be carried; she would be held; even if only to disgust her sense of integrity. That was the order of the king. She felt for her hair to take off the net and then to take out the combs. She let her hair down and looked about her. She had been sitting upon a doll with a cage for a chest and a marble head. Underneath was her book.