dairyofthebrokencross

[dairyofthebrokencross]

April 12th, 1871  Valence, France

This morning, when I retired to my chambers after writing yesterday’s entry, I was euphoric. My mood had not changed upon waking this evening. It was a joyous night, for I spent nearly half of it with Olivier. Even writing his name stirs my blood into a frenzy. Picturing him in my mind would feel utterly sinful if I was not excused from such notions.

When I awoke from my slumber, one of the new lady’s maids informed me of Olivier’s calling upon us and gave me his card. Upon this discovery, I rushed to dress and prepare for my night. How fortunate was I to find, still waiting in the parlour, Olivier. 

When I asked him what he was doing here at such a late hour, he responded, “This appears to be the time that illuminates you, so therefore I came. If I am intruding, say the word and I shall see myself.” His charming smile seemed to brighten the room itself, and he claimed I was illuminating. The man is blind. 

“Does the night not illuminate all?”, I responded. “ With the graceful moon’s luminescence, does she not provide a light which subtly glows upon the world, giving her only resource without doubt or question?”. I smiled, attempting to show how I speak in good faith, and humor.

He returned in kind, “I suppose she does, Milady. Though she favors your beauty, as the moonlight gives you such radiance.”

“You flatter me, Olivier.”, I felt a slight rush course through my veins. Using his Christian name, well it cannot be said how intimate that feels. Olivier sat on the sofa beside me, “ You deserve flattery and admiration and anything that tells you what a glorious being you are, Lucille.” I think, I hope or imagine, that the smile on his face grew and a blush blossomed on his cheeks as he used my name. 

Yet, it could have been a fanciful dream from a lovesick fool. 

We sat on the sofa, mere feet between our bodies, but it felt as if Moses had parted the Red Sea in the space. Glances passed from my eyes to his, rushed and fervent, as silence took the room. Olivier’s smile never faded, only softened when the flirtatious conversation turned to something more powerful, possibly dangerous for presumed reputation.

In a moment of courage, I positioned myself closer to him, simply by moving a body closer to Olivier. I looked to him once more, only to discover a concern in his eyes as they moved between the entrance and me. I laughed slightly at his worry, as his fear for my reputation is admirable but unnecessary.  I find the thought of Martin or Angelique disapproving of us sitting together, humorous, in light of their past endeavors. I nodded an inch, enough to inform him of the privacy we had. 

Slowly, his hand crept over to mine, holding it daintily before turning it, exposing my palm to the heavens. One by one, he traced each of my five fingers. He circled the ridges of my palm for what could have been hours. I was mesmerized by the sensation, falling into the rhythm when suddenly he left the range to enter the valley, pressing his fingers to the center of my palm. Olivier ran his hand down my arm, seemingly feeling each one of the blue lines under my skin. He ran back and forth, never leaving his faithful direction as he began speaking of his day, his classes, noteworthy students who gave him peculiar anecdotes to fill the room with laughter, conversation and pure joy. 

We sat for what was the rest of his night, beside one another. The conversation never faltered and neither of us moved a muscle as he traced the source of life on my hand and arm. 

When it was too late in the evening for him,  Olivier arose from the sofa with my hand clutched firmly in his. He marched us to the door and when it was within reach he ensured that there was not a soul around before pulling me to the side of it, putting us out of sight to all. My hand was held to his chest as he surprised me once this night. His other hand had positioned itself behind my neck, as Olivier bent down to kiss me. While I remember the first to be a simple, joyous kiss, this one was built from the hours of tension, from his inability to move his hand beyond my wrist and the most obvious, to me, it came from a place of desire. That was how I returned the kiss, in any sense. It did not go any further than my other hand wrapping itself around his waist and his was digging at the hair at the base of my neck.

After a minute, Olivier pulled away and smiled endearingly at me, attempting to fix my hair for me. Fortune would not allow for more as the next moment had Martin and the butler entering the parlor. Olivier, shaked, moved away quickly and composed himself and did not notice the all-knowing smirk fully encompassing Martin’s expression. Olivier exchanged formalities with him before saying farewell to Martin and me. Once Olivier had left, I left Martin with haste to avoid his glorious remarks on Olivier’s and my courtship. It was undignified to flee in the face of my dear friend, I am aware. But alas, I cannot bear the thought of his disapproval, if I am to be true. 

Olivier is a kind and respectful gentleman who has made me happier than I have been in years. Our acquaintance has not yet lasted a year and less since his affections have been revealed. He is clever, honorable and witty. For all my years, I have not encountered an individual who has had such a pleasurable impact on my existence.

I must bid adieu, Angelique and Martin are expecting me for tea. They will jest at my newfound joy but with this feeling in my heart, I could last 1000 years and never blink in the face of their words.

[dairyofthebrokencross]

January 8th, 1942  New York City, New York

There are times when I cannot fathom what goes on in that head of his. What was he thinking? I have known this man for so long, you would think he knew better. Over 200 years and after all this time, he decides to be patriotic and enlist. Martin enlisted in the US Navy and he is not even a bloody American! You would believe his lady-love returning from Europe just this month would be enough excitement for him, as judged from his reaction to her coming back from a dress fitting. But you would be wrong! I will have to give him merit, however, for sneaking off and doing this without Angelique finding out. How did he even do it? We have excelled at fooling governments for years now, but this would have been harder than real estate or taxes. I mean, he has no social security number, no birth certificate, nothing. I am so furious I can hardly write straight. The floor around me is covered with broken glasses, smashed vases, feathers from ripped pillows. At least the stupid fool had the decency to tell both of Angelique and myself simultaneously, so that we could be angry together. We spent three hours fighting with him, the first spent with Martin explaining everything to us while Angelique paced back and forth as I sat quietly fuming. The second hour Angelique threw half of his apartment at him while yelling non-sensibly in multiple languages and I assisted with rude remarks from my chair, nursing a bottle of wine that is currently a stain on the wall. Luckily the third hour was mine to yell and scream, while Angelique was lying on their bed, plotting his demise, I assume. He is a fool and cannot be allowed to do this. We simply will not let him. Fool-hardy, moronic, disgraceful, goose-sucking leech. I am going to rest in the guest room, I will clean up in the morning. Goodnight.

[dairyofthebrokencross]

November 11th, 1734  H— Castle, L—shire

Mama wonders why I insist on writing each night, I am not an important man that must keep a full journal of my business and affairs. It simply pleases me. I enjoy watching the ink dry on the old, weathered parchment as my words become immortalized. It would be a waste not to practice my skills, as it is not every girl that has had the luxury of being taught to read and write. While my arithmetic would cause Plato to weep in his tomb, my words are something I am determined not to lose. As Mama’s only child, I must be able to care for her when she can no longer bend to wash or see to sew. My childhood companion Mary, who is three years my elder, was taught alongside me by Papa. Her time was spent dallying behind the bakery with the baker’s son and neglecting her studies in other forms that I had not had the privilege to learn. Her mother had passed in childbirth and her father worked at the same estate as Mama. A tragedy had occurred one fateful day two years prior and since Mary’s father has been bedridden, confined to the home. Mary confessed her conflicting emotions to me; I suppose she did not have the notion that I would remember or would gossip as others might, “I am torn, Leah.” she confessed, “By the grace of God, Father lives and breathes and can speak. Yet, he is unable to perform any other action. My life is no longer my own. Without my dowry, James’s father will never allow him to marry me.” To clarify, were I to forget in the years to come, James is the baker’s son. From what gossip I have caught; she was right in her assumption. James later married little Annabelle, his mother’s cousin’s niece, although I could be mistaken. “Father can never find work in his condition and I might never find a husband. Because of the Almighty’s mercy, both Father and I must live unlike any life we might have imagined.” She always had a flair for the dramatic. Nevertheless, she was right. Mary has been working alongside Mama ever since. We, as mortal beings, can not foresee what fate has planned for us. We can only prepare ourselves for every possibility we can dream of and accept that it will never be enough. That was exceptionally insightful, I was not aware that I could do that. This is amazing, yet alas I have begun to suffer from a lack of paper. So, this is all for tonight.

[dairyofthebrokencross]

Preface

To whom it may concern, this is a collection of pages from my many diaries. My friends have always thought them frivolous and find it ridiculous that I write down my memories, given our kind’s gift of perfect recollection. Yet, as I stare into the storage container where I house them, the sheer volume of my collection astounds me. From modern composition notebooks to ancient Bibles with pages so fragile I can barely touch them, my diaries have always been my most valued possessions. My decision to share my stories has not been one I have taken lightly. A recent influence has caused me to seek refuge in ancient history, in heartbreak long healed, in love never forgotten, in souls that I treasure far more than my own. The names and dates have remained unchanged, as I see no reason to hide what others don’t believe. However, in some entries the location was not disclosed at the time, as I did not know that I would see as much of the world as I have today. I have also chosen not to share them chronologically but rather like a puzzle, with each piece not having a clear location upon first examination, but with time and context it fits in perfectly. For those who remain till the end of my tale, I wish you good luck. Leah