February 14, 1923

June 25, 2012 by  
Filed under Pixie's Novels

Saint Valentine’s.

The world has fallen from beneath my feet. I am searching for a sign of existence; whether it is city, ocean, sky or space. But there is nothing. I am floating and existing within a stark emptiness, and there is nobody, nor nothing, within this wretched world to soothe me back into my living soul. I am tired of searching. I am tired of breathing. I am tired of existing. I am tired of quarrelling with questions and figures in my mind, which never pause long enough for me to understand what they tell. My ankles are freezing now, with the breeze coming from Ellis Island travelling fifty miles per hour before reaching my bare skin like fifty freshly cut diamonds. My knees feel weak as I draw them up to my chest. But I cannot feel their weakness.

The embankment feels like hollow space beneath my bottom. I am unable to feel a thing, really. The lilac chiffon tail of my dress is swaying around my ankles, creating an ounce of warmth each time it wraps around its own, lustrous layers before cuddling my skin. I dab the lower ring of my left eye with a handkerchief, praying to end the stream of tears for just a moment. I blink into the distance until my eyes rest upon three beautiful masses of material, swaying in the midnight breeze, catching the attention of the girl with the fallen world.

The American flag.

The United States of America! I feel as if something great or godly had just flown, at infinitive miles per hour, into my chest. The United States of America: my hopes, my dreams; my home. And for the tiniest second, my woes had been knocked from my mind and my breath had caught in my throat.

No, no, no.

I will not allow myself to be captured again. And certainly not tonight; not after everything that has happened. Was this the plan all along? Is this what fate feels like? Can it be true, that I spent so long wishing, and so much of my energy working, to find my way into this? Is this what the United States of America had in store for me… all along? I feel foolish, and I feel cheated. I look out into the tiny lights, sparkling and blinking in the distance. Had I misjudged them all along? Had I followed them, like little beacons of hope- with no realisation as to how deeply they had lured me in- like a siren to her sailors? Was I wrong to trust Miss Lady Liberty and her beacon of so-called hope? A glacial blonde ringlet finds its way across my face before settling in front of my eyes, protecting my vision. A white, almost angelic steamboat oozing with the latest batch of immigrants passes my peripheral before sailing directly in front of my unruly curls. I can only tell that it is, in fact, a steamboat from the purring sound that is vibrating against the embankment, forcing its way into my bare toes and up through my body. I am not paying much attention to it, not really. The purring is fading almost as fast as it had arrived, and the white is displayed only in small flashes as the wind forces my hair back and forth in front of my face. There is not much to think of it, really. Unlucky, chaps- I can only wish you the best of luck here in New York City.

The City of Dreams.

Focus, Belle. Focus, focus… focus. That is what my mother had always told me. I must focus; and no matter how much it pains me to do so, I must remember even the smallest detail of the Fourteenth of February, 1923. I must write it down on paper so that I will not forget now, and so that I will remember always.

Dear Leicester; my sweet Leicester. My love. How could this have happened to you- such a sweet, righteous man? I allow my head, full of bright blonde ringlets, to fall in between my knees. What would Leicester say, if he were here, witnessing me in such a state? I know exactly what he would say, word for word. They are words quite impossible to forget. He would say, “The world is yours, Duchess,” Expect for, you were my world, sweet Leicester; and now that you are gone, everything is broken. America is broken; our lives together are broken, and I am broken.

A fresh tear protrudes my heavily made-up cheek, sending streams of coloured powder in awkward directions. The liquid onyx below my eyelashes is simultaneously stinging and causing my eyes to blur. I curl my fingers around the amethyst coloured rosary that hangs around my neck. The cross is cold, much like my heart. My eyes search for an empty piece of sky above Ellis Island. I hold the cross so tightly that I fear my blood will not pump around my veins. My lips are sore with tear stains and cold air. I pray. I pray that Leicester is in a better place; and that his predator collides with every piece of Karma to ever grace the earth. I pray that I will get through this alive, and that America will still beat strongly in my heart afterward, as Leicester promised it always would (he could see it in my eyes). I breathe inward, the air igniting the inflamed bags beneath my eyes. My nasal passages feel restless, sending trickles of liquid through my cupid’s bow and onto my lips as I allow several sobs to escape my throat. Sea salt.

I pray until the moon swings over the dusky Manhattan skyline and it is morning again.

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