Through the rain, through the cleansing of tears, my feet trampled against the cold hard ground of the marvelous Rome. It was quite cold; my feet became numb with repentance and guilt. The statues of our Mary and our Father were looking upon me like God to a killer. My hands enclosed by my slightly colored skin were stretching a transparent shawl with crimson pigment painted within it. My face with slightly green doors and scarlet doorsteps glanced around like a spinning top. My viridian skirt swished around as I sped to look for some shelter in the cold desolate roads.
My name is Siena Catalano, 16 years of age and an orphan, to say the least. I am a gypsy surviving after Armageddon, the war of the world. I have no words to say, just these about my life, as a witch, as a woman. It is as if my walk is like God on the beach, taking me through, but not having it processed through my mind.
Tonight, as if it were a sign, I had seen some dark clouds before it rained tears of His Holiness. I ran to the streets, away from my troupe of dancers. It was not of my senses, that incident, for I love them like a family, but I had heard much noise somewhere else and it was like it was bidding me closer to it. I managed to get lost, but I ran inside the nearest church - the best prison for a mere gypsy. Before that, I had seen a stooped shadow. I stopped and looked at him, feeling quite melancholy. I lowered my shawl from above my head and let the water cleanse my soul and my body. The wind was cold, but refreshing. My clothes, a long red skirt with a shawl tied around it and a tunic, were soaked immediately. For reasons unknown, I floated to him like a ghost. I stared at him for a while and he didn't react. He probably lost someone close, I concluded. I smiled in empathy and I pulled out my bag and handed him a dry blanket I saved for cases like this. I could survive without it.
"Sir," I said,"I do not think you should be outside in this weather."
He looked at the blanket I had in my hands. He looked to me and looked down. I sighed.
I took out a tambourine, for a reason unknown as well, and smiled.
"A priest," I said, waving the tambourine, saying to a little tune, "Shouldn't be here wallowing in self-pity, should he? He should be helping others, like the ones he loves."
I gently pulled the blanket over the priest's shoulders and put my wet shall over his head. "You should be at home in a nice warm place laying your head to rest…"
I heard rings of gypsy bells. Shouts painted with venomous cries of death stained my ears. I jerked my head back in alarm and my earrings jingled. I left the tambourine and ran from that place to a sanctuary. I flew over the ground as fast as a hawk.
I got close enough to the village nearby and I saw flames climb the sky. My eyes turned scared like a dog with its tail in-between his legs. I ran in a diagonal direction and shouted, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"
I felt a cold strangeness underneath my back. I stopped to rest for a moment and looked up to the ceiling. I gasped. I felt a shatter to my heart and a vibration through my earrings.
"So it wasn't a dream," I said,"I am captured, o Lord."
I then wept for a long time, the longest time since I lost my borchia, my love Vincent.
