Galen’s preferred architecture had invigorated a medieval approach by a citrine seaside. Within its bosky finish, vines breathed upon his estate and complemented its mountains and forests. One would believe he soused in coral and sheets. And when engulfing his chosen artistry, the seemingly endless expanses of sand were trampled by other stunning coves. He’d adorn the vibrancy of the city, neighboring its capital’s regions.
During this fine leisure hour, round’ four every tenth day, he’d drawn visits to Vila Nova de Foz Côa. There, he’d created an empire. He’d paint when away on business, taking in all he could on monthly trips that lasted a years’ worth of leave. Selling what he could, making more than he could spend, he’d enjoy what ancestors whispered from a past unknown and how they too saw the world around them. In the Côa valley, depictions of the pre-historic man fascinated him especially. Its ancient rocks, between the rivers of Corgo and Cabril were a personality all its own. It was also a baiting place for the finer dolls that would appreciate his hobby; More so, to share a desire beyond facility.
It was those evenings, when windows grew dark to blind my eyes; they made shade so neither them or I could see. During this time, he’d rack in another “interest” and would add her onto the many lovers’ of his paradise.
My mother especially being his favorite flavor; she was a riveting ginger, in Portugal.
I sat at the lengths of lilac tresses as her maiden, Qulin, had interwoven my own. As I lay, thoughts that seemed to dance had played well; Often, I could have mistaken myself for a monsieur in the striking features of masculine attributes. Never fond of its common misconception, I sunk further between her movements. She caressed each strand until it capsized neatly into cascading folds.
While basking in its impression, a damp towelette had stretched onto its broad length.
Heels stood high amongst the beige basin.
Emitting from the florescent gene pool was a contemporary breath of lukewarm water. With a waft fragrance of vanilla and its thick texture of virgin maple, the maroon appearance first reflected a honeyed tone of earth, but the altercation of image subsided as it was thoroughly cleansed. She played, as the fairness of threadlike growth had fallen between her slender tips.
Even though Qulin worked ever so diligently and found herself quite attached, her position was very average and poorly taken credit upon. In all ludicrous reasoning, she hadn't been the only maiden.
Each strand that descended from my temple had illuminated a ghastly neutral shade of azure and true it had been envied. It fell like an artificial summit into the laced deigning of mahogany floors. Capturing its silk, I unconsciously faded into gay breast that stood well from attention. It was as if her touch was incoherently supple and the attractions of her bosom were hardened bits. Its twins that gouged into my spine had aroused in such fullness, they became tender in its brushing.
Dressing edges of the spine, I felt her alchemy.
It was a release most uncommon to me. Her merciful art, the pageant of her voice; I could feel the Cuban amour escalate, gradually crafting the language of calligraphy.
After resting the small of my frame against their large scope, under me stood perfection. As she in turn wrapped amongst my waist, she cooed, and embedded a pigmented orchid bow to the end of my tail. In her attempt to caress and embrace, I had become memorized by Ruoàl's—the pianist—ability to compose and the infatuation that was inseparable to his instrumental talent. He may have beclouded across the way and bleary of my perception, but his chestnut complexion was shimmering like a burlesque in the eclipse.
Throughout a house of whore’s, his virtuoso performance was impeccable, as it wooed and often put me to rest. It could be heard like a lucid coil among strung wails and into the beckoning echo of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It had become much anticipated that this melancholy would be moved throughout the corridors and its many affiliated concubine’s. A close acquaintance and relation of compliments to our Latin relative, was something I favored over all happenings of sublime Eden.
He inhabited a lore that haunted my slumber and became infinite. Sadly, there were more than corporate lovers that had bathed in this bloody residence and soon I’d learn to detach such thoughts.
Proficiently, Ruoàl had stroked the thoughts, private lessons, and that through music did he portray each unremarkable emotion. These tales were of our silenced hearts. He took what was never to be undone. This alone had struck a chord into existence. It wasn't long until his works became inbreed with our oriental descendants and his position had contributed this pattern of sound, which became a closely acquainted partner with my mother’s master. His brunette, chiseled appearance, was well fond of and later became the treason of decapitated heads.
Galen’s medieval abode wasn’t only known for its architecture. He displayed and refereed to his collection of heads as the foreign side to society’s modern works of art. As of late last year, sometime after autumn, Quilin was warned. And because she hadn’t been the only maiden who slept with Ruoàl, there was a craftsmanship to his strategy. To make things much suitable to the light of heart; Galen had taken the vitality of six well exalted women into—what was once an addition to the den—a day-spa that had also contributed as a kitchen at the time. And this scullery of ours was also conveniently a decrepit gas chamber. Till this day, they’re not forgotten and are a reminder to all who marvel too fondly at the musician.
Interestingly enough and without decency, their heads are polished diligently for degrading their chastity.
It was then that I’d realized what world could commit foul play and become discontent with its own retribution. And how often it would occur, such bitterness, these visuals weren’t meant for the eyes of a little girl. This new beginning had given acceptance to my birth and what rules applied. It had been a place, where freedom was only given to those who weren't consort and targeted for any source, debt, or matter of intelligence. The servitude and cultural production of men were obvious and still didn't mean a damn thing to me. Reasoning ecstasy—these feelings—I could never understand. I was the child of a man who became slave to brokers and tragedy. A conforming laborer to society and its clones, yet each day till his last, he provided a foundation.
He willed to make a life, so that I one day could rise and cease to falter. It was destined that I too would inherit determination without emotion.
But by thick flesh, I’d also gain vile and sadistic practice of economic stature. It was her forte by blood. Thorough work, she’d accomplished—mother’s notorious prostitution. She’d lye on her back and chant for great wealth. “Galen, my fifty year gold…” she’d proclaim. The wench—it hadn’t been three months since the death of my father and she’d already prance as a lustful heathen.
Proudly, she’d become the mistress of men, but particularly a Russian whose euros became her honest interest. Soiled intentions provided thoughts that blackmailed the life of the Tycoon’s pride, to the degree of threatening his wife and children. Galen then took precaution and reassured us a home, grand riches, and a rank far beyond his other caterer’s. And so, I became accustom to living amongst many women. Picking up their dialects of the Netherlands, England, Germany, and Spain; it wasn’t long until they constructed their own government in overthrowing rants.
Between whose bust was larger and who had the thinnest waist, one could imagine how foolish they were. Such clowns, their performance followed degrading acts that mourned throughout Galen’s eardrum. They would lavish themselves in revealing skirts and nets that favored 80’s glamour. Dipping themselves in colorful putty and mineral powders, aging their youthful appearances, they were loose and sexually carnivorous. And when we dined at noon with chefs, specialist in culinary design and worthy of feast, we ate well. This had been a significant change from a life before. Our once upon a time was told through a veil. It had been our world.
After father went to war, he knew it would provide a future and a chance at life. He’d also left behind a vineyard; to assure that we were secure. It was given to him by a seaman named Nigel. It was worth more than the captain’s health could sustain, as he had various farms and pastures he come to own around the world. Being of great charity, Nigel took on the captain’s proposal. “The classical wanderer’s”, he’d call us. And due to my father being oriental decent, while my mother was Native American and Portuguese, the act of discrimination came cold. There was debt that piled high from fines against interracial proposals. And without freedom of choice and by my first week of wake, they were shipped abroad by government officials.
Everything they had or ever owned—vanished.
Without ever looking back and relocated to Portugal, poverty was a visitor that came often in the night. Lisbon (its capital) had many welcoming people and some not as friendly. Mother decided it was fair to distance herself and beg on her own accord, when I saw well that she tramped and whined. Selling her soul, she caused an ache never forgiven and a time never forgotten. A drink from mother Sudia’s rubber chest was neglected and found no comfort between my redden trap. I was instead lost in the sheets of men all age and proportion. After sometime I became a distraction, crawling just beneath her passionate hour and interrupting their mischief. When enough was enough, I was left with an older woman named Hona. She was blind in her right eye and suffered from arthritis. With a kinder spirit, she made her best efforts to feed myself and her newborn twins. When short, she’d grabbed a cow by its utter and milked as much as her crippled hands allowed her.
Sometimes dropping the small serving bowl, Hona endured affliction to pour another. I defined her as a mother quite genuine. To suffer, to struggle, and smile without regret. It was then did I realize where people alike would go. One day, I was lying on a blanket in Hona’s lap as her boys were playing beside her. Crawling and gurgling, mouths full of foam and color. They were beautiful. Much like their mother, they had blue eyes and curly auburn hair. Pale in the face, they’d become blue from the cold and return to themselves when warmed by their mother’s devotion of love.
It wasn’t long since she washed us, we were giggling away at how florescent the bubbles were, and it didn’t take much to full our bellies this time around. It was a simple day, a rare moment, Hona was full of joy. To accomplish much without misery was a blessing within itself. Soon after the sun seemed to dimmer, we began to drift one by one. And as much I wanted to invite the sandman for an evening stay, I took notice of the woman’s features.
Hona sat very still.
Smiling, watching, and patiently without blinking, she protected. And still Sudia came in all the same, picked me off the ground and left the old woman without turning to say a thing. A simple pay of gratitude could not be acknowledged and the same act of charity would never be returned. It was an evening not as free as the atmosphere became stifling.
Walking away was easier. There hadn’t been the weighing of eyes on her shoulder and Sudia never had the time to reflect on the woman’s actions. To her, it was waste. Instead, it was the perfect opportunity to rob all of what Hona had. All of what she had except for the health and safety of her children. It became a night that Sudia would come to regret. In fact, this would practically be the only time that she’d be able to turn from man.
Sidon and Noah were their names.
They were left, mourning for themselves and the death of their mother. Though somehow, we managed to never look back. Sudia became selfish. In fact, she wasn’t at all the affectionate type—let alone maternal. And though it seemed my birth had been a burden, it flared questions onto an agenda genuinely hidden.
That woman wore a mask.
She toted a demon.
There was a vile of envy that hung above her head. It embarked a mission to haunt what spirit had devoured Sudia. She had become strange and ridden from vision.
But on the opposing side of the playing field, I took note of a different persona. Becoming quickly adapted to his surroundings, Julian was now a father and a young man at that. He made it a priority to provide. Thirty and fair, he’d been handsome and could size up any swain, but he hadn’t the character to allow his head to swell in those putrid fancies of vanity. Like a true man, he’d gotten his hands dirty and sought for work. From sunrise to sunset, never letting up until his ankles swelled. He’d walk and crawl, sometimes found keeled over from exhaustion. Dumped in sheds and allies, just outside the village, he worked hard for spare parts to sell.
When he did find leads, they were usually odd and unfair pay. Cleaning coops and fish, selling drugs and radios, it hadn’t been enough to cater to the needs of a child. It was a miracle that I survived the rain without milk or substance.
Out long before daybreak, he’d leave us to stay near some wells that’d dried and crackled. Sometimes, passers would drop rotted bread and rice. We’d find sour honey at the side of old huts and stripping paint. It had been urine that stuck to its paper, but we made do with what lied around. It kept us alive. And what weeks went by, he hadn’t been seen. It pained, as I longed for my father’s return.
Though one day, his awkward steps could be seen just up the road. With buckets and tattered clothing, he looked surmount and bloated in the face.
Inventing what we could out of dingy material, mother knew how to sew; she’d break flower petals and tie them together, making thread from its steam. The strange technique had been used to fuse those of what he found into sheets. Though the nights weren’t warm, there’d been some that were humid and some that were chilling to the bone. In a way, I thought my heart would give into its harsh wind. Though, remembering each night as a chapter, my father (when rarely around) would tell tales of the stars.
He would say, “When you look above, the sky is lit up with prayers from those of us below,” I’d always reply, “What are prayers, Papa?”
And to think his response would change, it never did.
“Prayers are your worth. They secure every fabric of your soul.” “One day, you will become a young woman and all you adore shall be guided with age, but entirely of patience. Then at times when you feel lonesome, look above.” “Your prayers will shimmer and twinkle, and bounce and grow. And at that very moment, when all hope seems gone, they’ll fulfill your blessings in secrecy.”
After, he’d place me in his lap. I’d wandered across the night sky and would count the many prayers I made in his absence. But I could never finish them all, as I would drift to sleep. Yet, before I was graced with dreams, he’d kiss my palms and whisper, “You are the image in my reflection, as your presence soothes the rolling of my soul.” “My time may not lye long, but I will do my best to prevail until my day becomes dawn. Then, my child, could you come close to understanding the beginning (alpha) of life and the ending (omega) in departure.”
And before I could wake, he’d be gone and I could hear the doves follow.