March 2, 2015: Deirdre’s Lament

She wears her hair down, covering half of her face.

You ever fall in love? Have you ever pictured someone in your mind…dreamed of the perfect person…and then met them?

She tries to smile at me, her fingers rubbing her scalp.

Have you noticed…in stories…when a woman kills herself, she’s still pretty?

The majority of them take poison. Or drown. It’s like the storyteller can’t let them be ugly, even in their death. They have to look like they are sleeping. Peaceful.

What’s peaceful about death? What’s pretty about death?

She moved her hair back and I see the other half of her face. Scarred, bloody, caved in.

Love may make you do foolish things. But, I will tell you this, when you’ve reached that despair, you don’t give a damn what you look like.

You just want out.

You just want to be saved.

To be with the one you love.

She opens a locket and shows me a picture of a young man with dark hair, pale skin, full lips.

They want to blame me for everything that happened. All the deaths and the exiles and the wars.

I didn’t ask to be born under that prophecy. I didn’t ask for the gods to dictate my life.

Do you ever feel like, if left to your own devices, your life could be perfect? Instead the belief of other people criss-cross your actions, dragging you down with them?

She closes the locket, fixes her red hair.

I didn’t care about beauty at that moment.

I had spent my whole life being told how beautiful I was. Being told I was responsible for everything going wrong because I was born with acceptable features.

I realized everything was lost. Nothing would change. So I jumped. I wasn’t worried about what my face would look like after I hit the rocks…

…I just wanted to be free, to be with my love.

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