Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
"Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed".
- King Richard (Act V, Scene II).
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THREE DAYS PASS - THREE DAYS of feeling like the bottom of a pigsty - and not one night had I experienced a night terror. Yet despite all the dreamless slumber, I can barely keep my eyes open as I walk about the piazza. The sun shines and the birds chirp, people laugh and bargain, yet I am followed by shadow - heartbreak, fear and shame tend to do that to a person.
I sit by a small fountain, away from the hustle and bustle of the Florentians, away from the savory food stands and music. I try not to think of Giovanni. I do not care about Giovanni. Yet the very thought of his name makes me grimace in hurt and embarrassment. I chuck a pebble into the fountain and watch my exhausted reflection ripple.
I am cursed. I feel a wry smile upon my lips, yet my eyes sting with fresh tears. How can I ever forget such a thing? How can I be angry with Giovanni for not wanting to be with a monster? I watch a small group of children chase each other. I watch them and long for their innocence. I watch as one of the boys pushes another on the ground. I watch as the group round around the fallen one, but they do not help him up. Instead they mock him. Taunt him.
Innocence?
Children can be cruel, can they not? They can be heartless. They can be just hurtful as their parents. I watch as the fallen boy's lips quiver and his eyes shine with tears yet to be shed.
My vision darkens out focus. I cannot get enough air in my lungs. Calm down Petra. Calm down. But my chanting is to no avail. My head pounds with the lack of air and my eyes tear up from my effort of not collapsing. I know that I cannot remain up right any longer. I know that I will collapse in the middle of the piazza. I force my self to a take a step towards the boys, to stop them from their cruelty. I take another step. And another, until I reach the edge of the fountain.
I hold onto the marble, cool blessed marble beneath my feverish skin. I want the boys to stop. To regain their innocence.
"Please," I beg. My voice is nothing more than a whisper taken far away, away from the boys away from anyone, but the distant sea. I am exhausted beyond comprehension, as if I have carried the Telamir Mountains upon my back and not just walked a few pathetic steps. I cannot hold the blackness at bay any longer. I close my eyes and it envelops me, cold and unrelenting. I do not know where I am. I stagger and then fall, into the cool water of the fountain. I cannot discern if it is water that holds me hostage or my nightmares once again.
Children can be cruel, can they not?
I breathe in the water, wanting it to drown out my mind, to drown the chanting. To drown away the memories that slowly creep up on me filling my conscious as the water fills my lungs.
