A Meadowlark's Mourning
Gwen Treharne is young woman fond of reading, writing and watching the BBC. When she moves to a shabby house near the sea, the last thing she expected to find was a heart-rendering note that set her plain world on fire.
Constructive criticism, any comments whatsoever and ratings are greatly appreciated, as it's for the Quibblo contest. Thank you for bothering in advance!
The 14th of February, 1961
She ran her fingers through her hair. Some hours ago, Love had called those locks raven, whispered heated words of passion, met chapped lips with longing and infected her veins with warm wine. Valentine Dayâ€™s cupid had caused one thing to lead to another, and eventually they had become entangled limbs and soft murmurs amidst the winter trees.
Those very trees had been their downfall. Behind their bare branches lay schoolboys watching, who had warned the narrow-minded villagers. And now here Leri was, fists pressed to her lips as she sat in the chilly basement. Judgment Day had taken what she most valued, and nothing was left to love in this cold world.
They called her a harlot, claimed she was a sinful demon. They spoke of disgrace and ungodliness and immorality, as if the crystal sentiment she felt was a heinous crime instead of the key to life.
Leri hadnâ€™t planned for this to happen. All she wished was to be left alone with the one person who could understand her, to be together with her for just some years. It didnâ€™t seem like too much to ask, but apparently she had underestimated societyâ€™s hatred for those who were different.
There was one solution, one thing that could save her from the hateful treatment she would hereupon receive. If she could not live a life filled with love, then she would rather not live at all. Even Death was more welcoming than the bleak stage on which men acted.
Her trembling hands withdrew a wad of paper and pencil from the pocket of her dress, and Leri closed her eyes for a brief moment. She saw fields of fragrant lavender, the two of them lying as sacrificial lambs in-between. The golden sun beamed down on their resting heads and the sweet notes of summer birds could be heard filtering through the air. A serene melody covered them in a soft blanket of clemency, and poets kissed their closed lids as a goodbye blessing.
Pained words were written as Leri began to cry. Urging herself on despite this, bitter phrases dawned on the innocent white. Meanwhile the end approached swiftly with its sceptre, tossing a tight cord over her bowed head.
Leri lay down her pencil and hid her final farewell. Before long, the forbidding noose around her neck was a metaphor no more. She stood on the edge of the wobbly chair with toes curled, gazing in the face of everlasting sleep unflinchingly. Solely her eyes were filled with strong regret; for Love had departed too violently, too early.
The rope groaned and Leri looked up, bruised lips half parted as if wanting to ask the cobwebbed ceiling a question. She could be seen swallowing, gathering that last ounce of valour that was required for her jump into the icy lake of self-bereavement. The stool wobbled a last time, a soft sigh sounded, and after a short struggle Leri took flight at last. Her wings were spread wide as the sky welcomed her with pity, and love folded her into its warm embrace for all of eternity.
AN: Sorry, guys. I'm aware this chapter was dreadfully vague, but you will find more about Leri and the reason for her suicide later. If you've got any constructive criticism whatsoever, I would absolutely love to receive it. Thank you for reading in advance!
Also, remember that this is for the story contest. If you think it's worth it, please give it an honest rating! Thanks again, dear Quibblonians.