Damned

- 1: Prologue -

"Before me, no things were created,
but eternal;
and eternal I endure:
leave all hope, ye that enter"
-canto III, Dante Alighieri
🩸

(TW: Suicide)

1831

Almafi, Kingdom of Two Sicilies

I was once a little girl who believed I could fly.

I understood little of our money or privilege. I never complained when my mama took me to our villa in the South every Summer, away from the chaotic and luxurious cities of the North. I did not yet understand that was her idea of flight.

The coast was an endless blue sky, where I could stretch my arms and leap.

The sea would catch me in its glittering turquoise depths. Our villa stood proudly on a cliff, clinging to its surface. A warm collection of terracotta bricks and a roof, that held all our happiness under its tiles. Mosaics of old stories decorated the floors, a mixture of sea glass and pearl. They caught the light in every direction, creating stars along the walls.

My room was my favorite place of all.

The walls were high and lime-washed. Wooden beams were exposed on the ceiling, so high I could not reach them. Even if I stood on my bed. The floors were light and slightly bruised with age, and they creaked. My room in Florence did not creak. I still liked this room much better.

My window was open to the outside, making me a part of nature. I was the sea in every breath. I was the olive trees as they rustled along my windows. I was a lizard, scrambling through brush and the jagged cut of earl grey rocks.

I wanted to be the gulls that screeched in the sky. Diving into the ocean to catch their prey, and then disappearing into the horizon. 

So I watched the sky every night, as the golden hue of summer faded into a violet. The sea morphed from blue to indigo, as the silver of the moon crested upon every rippling wave. The air would cling to my body, my waves now a curled mess of salt and sea. Sometimes, I would see a black stray cat pass through our garden, green-eyed and mischievous in the dark. Sometimes I would fall asleep on my sill, my white linen drapes as my blanket. I would wake up in bed, knowing my mother moved me as I dreamt of the next day.

My mother lived in the kitchen. Even when she was not cooking, she was there. Like a cat, she would stretch under the white light of the sun that entered through the window. She was a kind woman, just tired. She never ignored me, never pushed me away. Even when she could not stand, or when lavender showed up under her eyes. She hugged and kissed me till my limbs ached. Her scent of rose lulled me to sleep. When I was younger, I called her Venus. I thought it was she who had emerged upon the beaches of Cyprus. Dark thick hair, the largest of ink-lined eyes. A full mouth, and high elegant bones. She was all that I thought I should be. It was why my father had been willing to marry out of his station in life.