By Roxane Liguti Year 13
The noble fabric of her dress sunk in the icy water. I was standing not far away, on the bank of the river, watching her. She was floating too, looking at the moonlit sky with watery eyes and her mouth half-open, as if to cry out a silent plea. Her tears had dried up. But still visible on the flawless stare. I stayed there, quiet and almost amazed by the ethereality of the scene. I did not speak to not scare the flowers that surrounded her, beautifully adorning and suffocating her already dead body. I did not touch her, leaving Mother Nature to warmly and eerily embrace her. I gazed upon her white and precariously sinking dress, her abdomen slowly sinking under the river’s totipotence. Around her, were dancing pure and profane irises, grieving and healed cyclamens for the heart as well as a rose, for the love I have for her. I could hear clearly rasping carols of the herons, where she could not, at least not anymore. The water stream served as her coffin, her ultimate resting place. She always smiled, I did not understand why she was not smiling. She was dead, sinking, with such a beautiful and hallowed white dress. I resented her for being beautiful, pure, sweet, and seductive, despite the eternal rest that she was given as a reward. The dying and black sky pigmented the scene, however, I could still stare at her, she who is so perfect to the eye. The soft and cold wind brushed my flesh, making it tense and stiff, as the tundra left astray.
And yet, I could not look away. I was captivated by the ghostly tableau before me. She was a paradox—a vision of peace wrapped in the violence of death. I could not tell whether it was the river mourning her or I, but the rhythm of its ebb and flow seemed to echo the soundless sobs that caught in my throat. Around her, the water swirled with its strange choreography. The irises, their violet blooms luminous even in the night, circled her like votive candles at an altar. And the rose. The single, traitorous rose, blood-red against the pallor of her skin. My rose. It floated near her. I hated her. I loved her. The wind whispered through the trees, but its words were hollow and biting, accusing me in a language older than time. The herons cried out again, their calls jagged and shrill, like shards of broken glass piercing the silence. They perched in the trees on the far bank, white specters themselves, like mourners who had borne witness to the entire grim tale.
I watched her sinking slowly, the river claiming her inch by inch. First her waist, then her chest, the water rising like a slow tide, as if reluctant to consume her entirely. The moonlight danced on the surface. And yet, her face lingered in the air like an afterimage, long after it disappeared beneath the water’s shimmering surface. I closed my eyes, but she was still there. Her gaze, hollow and lifeless, burned into me. It was not forgiveness that I saw in her eyes. It was something more terrible, something unspoken.
I turned to leave, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like the cold, dark water had pressed against her. But I stopped. I remember the struggle, the way her laughter had turned to screams. I remember the river, its cold grip on my arms as I forced her beneath its surface. The water and I smothered her away. I remember the silence that followed, deafening and eternal. And now here I stood, staring at the masterpiece of my own creation. Her face flickered in the reflection, superimposed over my own, her eyes meeting mine. They were no longer alive. And then the flickering surface shattered, rippling outward, and she was completely sunk inside. She didn’t re-surface. After all, that’s what I was waiting for.
I, her beloved. I, her undoing.
