Everlasting Beauty

A Story by Aixel Syd

A cute little love story in the woods.

There is the house in the wilderness. It has no unique name by which it is referred, only "The House". It is a structure with no true purpose, a house, but not a home. Shallow, patterned depressions in the moist dirt present a path that winds and meanders to a place far, far away.

Fog clings to the wooden walls that have already begun to decay, a solemn reminder of the truths which hide beneath. The lonely cry of a wolf is all that can be heard through the thick cloud of mist.

This cottage may once have been a lovely place to live, a beautiful and comfortable dwelling in which one could simply sit and think and ponder through all of his thoughts and beyond. However, it is now a dark and dreary remnant of the past. Trees and forestry have enclosed the small house, as though trying to trap a wild animal within their wooden fortress.

Yet even though shrubbery and growth have attempted to consume The House, they had always been kept at bay. For each time they had risen from the dark depths of the earth, they were always held back, left clinging to the dirt in a feeble struggle to stay alive.

And so, as with one final tense of his muscles, John Doe ripped from the ground the final hideous, gnarled, knotted python, he exhaled a sigh of relief. He rubbed the dirt from his naked, callused hands. It was time to go back inside The House. Inside, where he could sleep.

Upon opening the door, he immediately stomps and shakes the filth from his boots, forcing the clinging beads of earth away from him and back on the ground where it belongs. But the thought of dirt in the house does not bother him. He looks around feverishly, scanning every object in the room with eyes that resembles those of a young doe lost from its herd and searching desperately to reunite with its brethren before it is caught and killed and eaten.

After only a few moments, his eyes catch sight of her. The very top of her scalp pokes out from in front of the cushioned seat, and limp strawberry-blonde hair tumbles over the back, where it dangles lifelessly. But he finds himself drawn to it, the hair attached to the head of the most beautiful person he's ever known.

Taking long strides, the man quietly creeps to the other side of the room, and turns himself so that his eyes once again fall on her. She is beautiful. Her eyes are closed, lips are slightly parted, and her skin is stretched taut over her cheeks. But to him she appears at the peak of tranquility, a meditating paradigm of perfection, a flawless figure pulled from a painting and seated upon a soft cushion where she can rest to her heart's content.

Gently he places a hand on her head and holds a small bit of hair between his fingers. It is brittle and dry. But he presses it up to his nostrils anyway and inhales deeply. To him, the smell is that of a bouquet of roses, a reminder of just how lovely a mere scent can be. He lets go of the few strands and they fall onto her bosom. He smiles in a way that he never does. It is only she, an angel in this dark world, who brings him happiness.

He kisses her forehead affectionately, the only way he knows to express his devotion to her, and pats her head softly. However, even this small touch upsets her, he can see, and her head lolls off to the side, where it rests on her shoulder.

His eyes fill with concern as he lightly moves her head back, and his gaze moves over the rest of her to make certain that there is nothing else which requires his help, as he is the only one left to guard and protect her. He strokes her cheek with a thumb before brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Suddenly he feels as though he's forgotten something important. He tilts his head toward the wall farthest and notices the time. 6:00 PM. How could he have let it slip his mind that she must be hungry? He looked across to another obscure corner of the room. The table was not set. He had always asked her to set the table, and she never obliged. He did not mind.

He placed one powerful arm around her torso, and another beneath her slender legs, and lifted her as a dancer lifts his partner, so that the skirt of her dress flowed gracefully as she came to rest in his embrace. She has gotten lighter again. Each day she becomes lighter and lighter. One day she may cease to exist at all.

A short collection of low notes sound as his feet come to rest on the hard floor. He sets her down at one of the two seats on either end of the small wooden table, kept neat and polished even through all of the years it has gone. At its center lies a small platter of bread, kept there always, and likely stale, but he knew not the difference.

From a nearby cupboard he produces a small plate, on which he places a small piece of bread. Carefully, he places it down in front of her, and watches as she sits there, motionless, limp. Her eyes are still closed, and her mouth is still slightly parted, and the skin around her face is drawing tighter and tighter as time passes. He does not know why she refuses to eat, but he daren't force her.

The House is not a place of anger or of demand. In The House, Tragedy does not exist. Death is only a figment of the imagination. And Beauty will never fade. Instead it is as everlasting as time and existence itself.