I fear I will go mad if I don’t leave behind some kind of record. Nothing less than a full account of our life together, from the trembling start all the way to the brutal end. Am I sick to still think on you softly, even after all the blood and broken promises? It is the only way I can think to survive and I hope, even now, that you would be proud of my determination to persist. I am trying to tell you why I did what I did. So happy to be chosen.Įven loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a friend. I was so happy to be your marionette, at first.
You filled me with your loving guidance, stitched up my seams with thread in your favorite color, taught me how to walk and talk and smile in whatever way pleased you best.
You coaxed that tenacity out of me and broke it down in your hands, leaving me on your work table like a desiccated doll until you were ready to repair me. But I was your war bride, your faithful Constanta, and you loved me for my will to survive. Magdalena for her brilliance, Alexi for his loveliness. I know you loved us all, in your own way. Eventually, even your death becomes its own sort of inevitability. There is no horror left in this world that can surprise me.
I never dreamed it would end like this, my lord: your blood splashing hot flecks onto my nightgown and pouring in rivulets onto our bedchamber floor.
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