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Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part


Isabelle has returned to me, theatrically, like she always enters the door. Every time she threatens to leave, she threatens to stay behind and be equally dramatic about it. She likes her nickname. I call her Ophelia. But now she has returned, once more, to grace my desolate life, she says so. Her lashes flutter not, she has dignity, but her bosom heaves. Last year, we got her a larger cup size. She knows how to use it. I damn her in my thin whispers against bathroom tiles when she's gone, because she's so virginal in her bodily extortion. Isabelle is not cheap in any sense of the word; she's worlds from the given filth.

But she's tearing apart my sanity and gnawing at my last restraints. She makes me beautiful, and she makes me seem horrid. I fear, one day I will simply throw myself against a wall, screaming, to let her see what she is doing to me. And I won't stop until my bones break.

Isabelle has returned to me, I slide away from the doorframe, I'm the snake. Today she isn't any ordinary apple, no, and no pink dress. She's been in the pouring rain, her blouse wet. Green silk. And her favourite black dress over, full of damp disaster. She hasn't hooked on the chains; this is a dress with advantages. Isabelle looks like a pitiful Victorian noble, and she's even wearing her best pearl necklace. I think I'm sighing so deeply and forced that my neck is arguing with me, and my eyebrows are travelling abroad. I dare not push a hand against my face, she'd laugh. It'd break the spell. Isabelle doesn't forgive easily when I break her act. She can't resist a good joke, a wonderful performance.

She tries so hard to beat me at being funny, but I'm a natural talent for behaving silly. This is why she has chosen the Pre-Raphaelites, Shakespeare, Goethe, Art Nouveau and Victorian gothic. And because she cannot help herself, her private collection of colourful my little ponies. If I hadn't been this strong and able, I'd probably already have gone loony. It's not hard to love her, that's the trick. She sort of floats over to your place, if you are as unfortunate enough to like staring at flowers or breathing calm air for a split second. Isabelle is a fierce hunter; she won't stand for the wrong prey. I was perfect.

It's worse to cope with her obscure memories and fragmentary past. You're not obliged to sort it out for her, and she doesn't want you to. She never asked me for it. Still I sat down and tried to poke in her shivering figure at night. I dug my claws in her heart. Isabelle came to me for something against the dark. Protection? I only promised to hide her beauty. I said she need not be lifted against the skies, and she nodded in response. This was when she caught me, such a hunter. Elusive, her favourite perfume. I was staring at some ducks in some pond, it's all blurry. I never remember what came next, but her face was up to mine, with her far too large eyes. Isabelle didn't ask me to come home with her. I took her home.

Now she's in my doorway, accusing me with her soft breasts and long legs, strong hips. She isn't weak or simple. Isabelle is a castle of wonders, with heavy walls and old dragons. She's the core, I am the shell.

Still standing there, biting her lip. Looking at me, and then looking down. Repeat. Rinse my mind. Nobody taught her never to say sorry. She always apologizes for being what she is, helpless at the act, struggling to be whatever you see her fit to be. But I do not ask this. I only let her break me again, with her overwhelming love, in order to have her hands and lips repair what's left. I'll go mad, but I'll never leave her.


Forward to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part

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