and all is unanswered
„Let go of me. I mean it," Bellatrix spat. She felt her vision quiver. She squinted. Druella relinquished her iron grip on Bellatrix's wrists. „What have I done again, anyway?" Her thin voice was grating, terrified. Her own ungrateful daughter – sat unassuming and unceremoniously on the floor, tilting her head, paying her outrage no heed, asking: „So, who put the boards over the windows?" Narcissa's small blonde head was timidly hidden halfway behind their mother's skirts. Barely seven years old, and already the ways of her older sister began to escape her. Father hadn't bothered to interrupt his studies.
„You did it yourself", Druella grated venomously. Bellatrix studied the luscious rug, vaguely blinded by the single ray of light that managed to worm its way into the room.
Narcissa lingered behind for a little while after she had ducked from out their mother's way as she thundered from the room. „Mother's right, Bella," she said quietly. Her face was oddly smeared. „What do you mean." Flat with disinterest.
„They nailed the windows shut on the third floor so you wouldn't throw yourself out." Bellatrix watched as Narcissa shuffled out the door. She plopped down on the carpet. Resentfully she stared up at the drapings of the pompous bed. She stared at the dust particles that were filtering in the sunbeam, in slow motion, like they were suspended in time. She imagined herself in a timeless place. She dreamed of a place with no ceilings.
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She had never kept photographs. She couldn't stand the way the shifts in people's poses in the frames would endlessly loop on repeat. If one looked on for too long, the feelings you had for the depicted ones seemed to wear and thin out, much like a carpet, that, scuffed by feet too many times, became threadbare. So when her mother put a framed picture of her and her husband on their wedding day on her nightstand for her to cherish and hold dear, she took it out and threw it away, along with the thousand words it said.
Pretentious fuckers.
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Years from now she would come to routinely remember the night Narcissa burst in on her as one of the major turning points of her life.
(Her sister had an annoying habit of walking in on people and witnessing things she really didn't want to know and possibly never should. She was the kind of person that would smash a tea cup in an argument, then cut herself, and paint herself as the victim afterwards. If Bellatrix came to think of it, smirking, Narcissa wouldn't even dare to smash the cup to begin with.)
It had been her first kill in His name. His name. His eyes, His livid eyes, His hands –
Bellatrix had dreamt badly that night. One would think it was quite common for a murderer to be haunted at night by the victims' face, but it didn't apply to her. Her sleep was unaffected by her days' doings, always staying a peaceful time of infinite fragrant rest. She slept like a stone. Not that night. And never again after that night. And it would stay that way for all relevant time. She tossed and turned. Sweat beaded upon her brow.
When Narcissa came in to check on her, raised by the muffled moans that issued from her sister's room, she was horrified (but actually far from surprised). It had to catch up with you one day, she thought sadly. Bellatrix trashed on the bed, the covers having been kicked to the floor before long. When Narcissa sat by the edge of the mattress to feel her forehead, she noticed Bellatrix has begun to claw furiously at the insides of her arms in her sleep – rusty blood had stained the sheets below her already and smeared a good portion of her nightdress. My God, she thought. You're dreaming until your sheets turn red, because you're dreaming brutally real things. She moved forward, shaking her sister out of her reverie, slapping her to wake her, frantically trying to pry her cramped arms open. Bellatrix came awake silently, but in motion, scratching her and kicking her in the shin while doing so, came wide awake with dripping red wet hands. „Bella!"
Bellatrix issued a low hiss, crouching by the head of the bed, favoring her arm, eyes wild.
„You've been dreaming, Bella."
Bellatrix swallowed thickly and followed her sister to the bathroom without further ado to have her cuts bandaged. She didn't want them healed magically. Narcissa sighed. Bellatrix was not one to fight with.
A week later she noticed how Bellatrix would ever so often pick at the almost healed tracks when her gaze grew distant and cloudy. Narcissa wondered what she should be more concerned about; the wounds that walked all the way down from the insides of her elbows to her wrists didn't seem to bother her sister. It struck her that Bellatrix had never seemed the wistful type before.
I breathe you in
( and never out again )
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Bellatrix despised social gatherings of any kind. She couldn't remember a single party she had enjoyed, if she came to think of it. At least no party held in a official frame with names to uphold and pretentious people to converse with.
Whenever she was tired of smiling and pretending and of her no-good husband sucking uselessly in the background and her sister fawning over hollow shite, she left, going to the chambers upstairs to get herself a breather. The noises of laughter and talk filtered up to her. How she abhorred it. Answering questions she wasn't sure she should know the answers to. Even Cissy wouldn't leave things to herself that were clearly meant to be left to herself. She remembered her initiation. She remembered former school mates standing beside her, all clothed in black that was nothing new to her but so mysterious and dark and suddenly something else entirely. The wind in our eyes. Your naked veins promised us death.
They all wanted. Wanted something, were looking for something. Bellatrix thought herself above such things. She didn't have lovers, she had possessions. But that was the difference, wasn't it? Wanting and having. Ownership came to her naturally. She took pride in that, among other things. She never was one to pussyfoot around the issue, however uncomfortable it might be. She was honest with herself. She was painfully honest with herself now, so suddenly, standing in the wind near the lantern with tears on her face.
The same thing.
The old hurt.
She was sore.
And what the lips said the body had known for long – leiden leiden LEIDENschaft -
It pulled her into the one direction she could never possibly go. The old fight that had kept her from finding peace in sleep all those years ago was still haunting her, burning up her insides. The very same fight that had raged upon that sullied mattress. Her own cheating heart was thundering inescapable magic into every cell of her being. She felt it throw itself against the confines of her ribs, like a bird wanting to flee its cage. She understood. And then, consequently, she too started to want. She yearned for cold fingers, wanted to lie in the snow, in wool, wanted to lie sleeping, wanted to... breathe coldness, wanted to smell nothing but what he gave to her, wanted to lie in the snow and nothing else. Lie there and be silenced. Let he snow cover her until it threatened to bury her and smothered her to death. With happiness.
Happiness. Fall to spring. Everlasting fragrant rest. Salt mingled with water and her face became the sea.
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Fed up with all those who
come with words, words,
without language
I went to the snow-smothered
island.
The wilderness has no words
The unwritten pages spread out
in every direction.
She longed for Him. She longed in every waking moment. Scratch that, she was longing when she slept.
I found a doe's tracks in the snow.
Language, but no words.
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Disclaimers
Poem and subtitle taken from and by Tomas Tranströmer, freely translated
"Leiden" means "suffering" in German. "Leidenschaft" means "passion", vaguely, but I don't think it does the term sufficiently justice. It's not powerful enough. But maybe that's just me, feeling more connected to my mother's tongue. You just can't write love letters in a language that's not your own.
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