No Passion, No Pain
A very short self-love story: not the movie version
Someone else must have lived her life. She was almost certain of it. Oh, in herself, she remembered certain moments. A few, sharp images here and there. Scenes blurred at the edges like slow-motion frames from an old movie. Bits of one place bleeding into another, over-laid with long-forgotten faces.
But as lives go, hers was vastly un-lived-in, un-accounted-for, sleep-walked through. Had she ever loved? Felt passion?
She was sure she must have, once-upon-a-time.
As love stories go, though, it was short, and nothing to write home about. No rainbows painted themselves across fluffy clouds in her clear blue skies. No dusky roses shed their perfume from crystal vases. No shining knights of any color swooped in to carry her off on their prancing steeds.
Oh, there were a few dull knights, and a few one-nights, but who notices them. And unnoticed, they soon faded.
The pale prince who came a-courtin’, well, he was conflicted, inept, and hated her cats. Oh, he talked about their wedding, but in all, he seemed better-suited to intellectual pursuits than bedding.
The ebony enchantress from two castles down the road fluttered long dark lashes and pouted her carmine lips. Enticing — cool and sweet, snow on fresh, ripe cherries. Ah, to meet her in the rose garden under a silver moon.
Needless to say, the courtship was confusing.
The satin gown, the flowing veil, something borrowed, something blue… She looked through the lace shrouding her and was startled to see the veil was white — weren’t long, trailing veils supposed to be black?
But, shrouds are white. Her feet were anchored to the blood-red carpet snaking up the narrow aisle.
No, wait stop — this is the wedding part. Oh, yes… Something borrowed, something blue. Cue the flower girl and keep it moving.
Everyone said she must be happy, so she thought so, too. She tried. She was sure she must have, but, where was ‘happy ever after’? And what the hell was it, anyway?
He said, “I love you. Let’s get married and we’ll babies make.”
Her parents said, “Hooray. Another daughter married to a good man.”
She said… she said not much at all, as I recall. I think she might have picked the colors for the cake.
As break-ups go, it wasn’t the end of the world. The sun came up the next morning, so the world had obviously kept turning. Of course, everything she thought she understood of life was shattered, like the shards of her grand-mother’s China teacup — the one she’d dropped when he announced they would divorce.
Calm, careful words. So civilized. This is yours, this ‘tis mine — these were ours. Not anymore.
The broken parts of her were swept into the trash with the dust from under their huge, four-poster bed. She stooped with the glue and bandages of healing words to mend her broken heart. Then stopped, amazed.
Something had changed. Maybe she’d stopped believing in fairy tales. Maybe she’d finally realized no prince, dancing, prancing on a steed, or otherwise could make her happy. Nor any wild enchantress.
The world in all its rainbow glory burst the shell of what she’d thought was life. All was finally in focus. She’d found herself at last.
“The unexamined life is not worth living.” — Socrates “The un-lived life may not be worth examining.” — Anon
This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt The Agony and the Ecstasy.