Eyes that cry a River

ALLEGRA

There is a woman standing above me. She shows off caramel smooth skin, a shimmering red stud on her nose, and most importantly, a pair of cheerful, hazel eyes.

I would think she was I if I did not already know—my mother; the woman I never met. She might have been the only person who truly loved me.

When she stoops to my sitting level, her long hair hangs down from her shoulders, almost patting my bruised forehead.

I look down with quick reflexes. I always do. The fact that I cannot bear to look at her still haunts me. It became my major weakness and a tool Owen uses to torment me.

Katelyn once told me to accept my birth. In her words, ‘Unless you embrace your worst nightmare, it’ll only crave to become your shadow.’ But there certainly is no way I will listen to her. She says so many words at a time that she even forgets their essence.

“You have to kill me!” Mother blurts. Her index reaches under my chin before she lifts my face to hers. My eyes burn, my lips twitching down as I try to hold back my tears.

I mutter with a throaty voice, “Stop.” Yet, she presses on.

“You need to feel the pain I felt when you let me down. Is it sugary? I think not…”

“Stop, Owen. Enough!” I have my knees reaching my chests in a split moment. My face burying between my thighs as my palms reach for my ears. Yet, even when I close my eyes, I cannot blink away the illusion that absorbs my thoughts.

“You have no place to give me orders!” Clangor hits along with mother’s yell, just before the voice changes to Owen’s own. “Listen to me, dark Angel!”

“Nooo!” Echoes of my scream fills the metal room as I try to get him out of my head even when I know how pointless it is—

I have lost count of the number of days that I had to sit on a filthy ground and embrace the cold that this room shoves to me. Rusty stinks of blood lingers around my nostrils, the vile odor of rotten fish and feces claiming the air. Yet, I have no choice than to breathe it all in.

The dungeon is just a little, square space—not large enough for me to stretch my legs in front of me. I even barely get fresh air since there is no suitable window. All I have is a small opening at the top of the room, which I am told is for undeserved mercy.

A rat pecks the tip of my left toes before I wiggle them. Chksh, Chksh, Chksh… their tiny legs scrawl as they scram. I know what it is despite the darkness since they have been my prison mates for more than a decade.

They keep me company—drive away the loneliness that would have killed me a long time ago.

The sudden shrill from the Blacksmith’s chiseling fleets into my ears then do I realize what time it is.

Lord Owen made the right choice to dump me in a dungeon beneath the Smithy because it somehow turned out to be a blessing through the years.

Reason is; I may have gotten too used to the darkness that I know no difference between the day and the night, so the old Smith’s arrival marks a dawn, while the waning of his sounds announce twilight.

Slow echo of footsteps tells me that someone is approaching my cell. I allow my trembling hands to stray from my ears, panging headache suddenly streaking in at the realization of looming trouble.

He often only brings me out when he has a special, gruesome task to assign me. Then afterwards locks me in darkness again. Yet, today, I know that his purpose slightly differs from the others, which makes me shiver when I feel a prickle in my chest, at the awareness that he is actually letting me go for good this time.

As days turned into years, I thought he would change. I never minded that he kept messing with my head because I acknowledged that I deserved it, but more and more, he gets worse.

My reality sucks so much; my existence seems to serve as a death warrant to him. It only explains why he wants me to suffer for the rest of my life instead of just cutting my throat, or giving me the honor to do it myself.

I look to the cell’s entrance as flame illumination streaks into the space. He will have to cross a number of iron grilles before he gets to my cell.

Perhaps, he put all those to avoid my escape, as he imagines that I can escape through some unknown means. This thought of his began when he noticed that my wounds heal so fast without remedy.

He finds it creepy, even associates it to my curse.

Chains rattle… the grilles creak open, the noise resonating in the cell while Owen’s footsteps get close. He stares down at me from behind the grill as he tucks the lamp into a socket.

“How did you enjoy the little reverie?” He drones, carefree of my resolve to remain silent. “Do not talk if you wish. No one wants to hear you squawk anyway.”

When he unlocks my cell and strides in, his shadow drops down on me as his average figure stands in my front, yet I refuse to look at him.

I try as much as I can to avoid eye contact because either his countenance disgusts me or my face will suffer the fate if he lands a deafening strike across it.

“I still would like to know if you loved the little session, though,” Owen mutters as he crouches in front of me. He is psychic; has this rare ability to get into your head and project scenarios. It is one feature that makes him different, and exceptionally cruel.

I murmur behind my teeth, “You have broken me enough. Have you not had your fill?”

“Maybe I have, and maybe not.” He takes my hands while I watch him through my lashes as he unlocks my chains and examines the bruises around my wrists. “You are so feeble. Did you not eat at all?”

His face moves to the plate of sour food beside me in time as his question meets my ears. Then he looks back at my hands. I know that he is just being ironic. It is not as if he cares or will make an effort to treat my wounds, he just observes how they slowly cover up and heal.

As the flame reflects on his face, I can see his sharp eyes narrow to invite soft wrinkles that occasionally pull at its corners, his ginger blond hair falling against the sides of his face to the point below his ears. Thankfully, he has none of his dramatic feather hats on it.

“Are you finally freeing me of you, Sire?” My voice cracks out before he jolts, though he quickly acts as if it did not just happen.

“The Japanese would arrive by sunset,” he utters as his eyes trail over my dress, his face screwing up in visible disgust.

I look like a mess for sure. Who knows, I may even be the bearer of the fishy smell since I barely had a bath. Even my clothes have seen more than they can; torn at different parts and patched so many times that they would be forced to cry out if they were living.

“Get up,” Owen growls as he stands to his feet. I hesitate. Although many would be overjoyed to leave, I find it irritating that I would bear the child of someone thrice my Father’s age.

It sounds odd, yet it remains the truth—the unpleasant truth. “I do not like to repeat myself, Allegra.” His cold voice reminds me that I have no choice, so I stagger to my feet. There are, after all, better things to do than anger him.

 Lord Owen hands me a fur coat and a pair of old boots, which I put on before he leads the way out. He gave me the torch; a wooden stave with one end wrapped in torn materials that is soaked into a flammable substance to trigger fire.

It lights our way out of the Dungeons as we pass the six iron grilles before going through the tunnel, and the small hole on the Smithy ground.

Hearing people's voices and actually seeing someone aside Katelyn renders an airy sensation to my skin.

I narrow my eyes to shield it from daylight while I carefully place the torch near the old Blacksmith’s coven while he smiles at me, showing me his set of brown, chipped teeth before turning away at Lord Owen’s glare.

He and Katelyn are the only ones who treat me better, and even though Katelyn is a chronic talker, I still prefer her to the other castle workers who proudly hold their chins high to watch me tread along the hallway.

Some actually have the guts to toss shady words at me. They seem to revel in the pleasure of exercising the rights that the lord gave them against me, and that is why he does nothing even when I am almost slapped across the face.

I realize that no change has been made in my room since the months that I stayed in the dungeon. There is still my wooden bed, my small table by it and two stools beside the Latter.

My eyes wander to the broken window, causing me to recall how I hated the wintry seasons when the chills seeped in to make it unbearable to stay. I had fought to adjust.

“Sit down!” and I do, on one of the stools.

I have breakfast laid for me on the table. They fortunately look more enticing than the ones I was fed in the cell.

Owen makes it a custom to eat here with me whenever I am free, I do not know why. Yet, I loved it, since it saves me the wild stares in the grand dining hall.

He mutters as he sits on the next stool, “I talked to the warden. She told me you have been sulking,”

Blood of Christ!

Katelyn is a real expert at gossip; it has not been up to twenty-eight hours since we last talked and she has already made a fool of me to him.

“When I speak to you, Allegra, you respond.”

“It is really not an alluring discussion.” Lord Owen glares at me, but I do not regret snapping at him. “Do I not need to wash my hands?” I ask with a perked brow when he begins to devour his own food.

Then he purses his lips and says, “I care not,” while noisily dropping his cutleries as I stride to the bathroom. He seems a little different today—being too pouty for a nine and three decades old. I find it annoying.

Dust smuggled with cobwebs along the bathroom walls, brownish streaks tainting the sink as insects crawl in it. These were not here the last time I was free, but I never find it hard to get used to anything.

I place my hands on the counter and look into my cracked, hazy mirror as I bite at my lower lip. I can see a pair of large, heavy eyes stabbing a stare at me in the mirror, their appearance seeming to have changed from its normal hazel color to slight brown.

They are eyes that have seen more than they wish to see—eyes that have cried a river