The Secrets Within Pages

Always a Tragedy

The Flame That Burnt Us

By: Eleanor Burroughs

Love wins above all.

A sentiment wildly dispersed amongst humanity. One might say love is the thing that keeps us human. It is the very essence of humanness. So transcendent. So timeless. It is the closest thing we have to magic.

But, it can be ruinous.

To be blinded to another's faults. Vices. Shortcomings.

To rely too much.

Many years ago now, I was thrown into a holding cell, impatiently awaiting my fate. I was released shortly, sent to endure long hours at court as they resolved the case of the man I loved, a murderer. That was until they realised they'd squeezed me dry and I was of no use to them anymore. That was when they wrote me out of his story, out of the fabrication they were twisting of him and plastering everywhere for the world to see. To judge. As though he is the villian in this story. Villian perhaps by action, yes. But does the world know the bullets that were placed in the gun? Do they know the trigger that unleashed it all? Do they know the real monsters behind the one they blame?

No.

Because they are the ones that wrote that story. The ones who so conveniently hide the truth. The ones in power that are absolved of all guilt and blame solely because they know who to call and how to con.

And do we ever question them? Do we ever wonder that perhaps this little piece of cake they feed us so that we may remain silent and not dare challenge them is a poison that destroys us from within?

That ruins innocents. Children. And in turn, takes more lives.

Should we all not be looking at those who are in charge? Who are supposedly here to protect and govern us?

But why is it always them who are failing us?

Failing to protect children from inadequate parents. Failing to give justice to those whove been wronged. Failing to serve society in the ways they promise us they do.

We will be so quick to judge an individual before we understand the bigger monsters at play. The ones that forced them into that villainy.

"Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?"- Jodi Picoult.

Silas Golding was a ruined man. Not solely because of the crimes he committed but because the very system that vowed to protect him, failed him. Failed his father. Failed me.

I was plunged back into society. A shell. My mind, muddled. Never to see the as world black and white. The world passed me in shades of grey.

I fled to the ocean after escaping the traitorous walls of the courtroom. I was in a daze. I felt nothing. So I ran. I ran toward anything that could fill the hole growing deeper within my soul. I stood and stared at the sun as it dove into the water, darkness bleeding into the sky, the moon creeping overhead. My legs walked me toward the shore, slowly. I breathed in deeply, allowing the salty scent to fill me. The freezing waves swished beneath my feet, gooseflesh washing over my skin. I sunk to the ground, wet sand seeping into my clothes. I held myself tightly, peering at the horizon. The moon demanded my attention and I looked up.

In the moon, I saw him.

In the stars, I traced his eyes.

Even the whistling of the wind reminded me of the notes in his voice.

When I slept, I dreamt of him.

I felt nothing and yet everything at all.

I felt stuck in a world the language of which I did not speak.

I couldn't make sense of the world without him.

I didn't know when I found myself looking back at him, needing him.

I realise now how dangerous that was.

I look at myself now, as I write this. At the deep lines that have engrained my face. The grey streaks that paint my once ebony hair. The creases in the corners of my eyes once young and bold, now tired and aged. I look at myself and wonder, how would he have looked touched with age?

Unlatching the locket that still hangs around my neck, I look at the man frozen in time, never to escape it. Forever stuck as I'm doomed to move on.

We shall always be separated by time. Tormented by fate.

We were never a love story, always a tragedy.

I'd go there sometimes, to the moment we met. I made a home in my memories. I'd remember his smile, his voice, the way he'd tease me. His love always under the guise of his taunting words- the ones I pretended to hate so much.

He may have died but I was condemned to this life without him and that, I'd venture, is a greater punishment.

He is a stain on my heart, a scar. One I nurture. One I let remain. A reminder that I loved. We were beautiful, blood splattered and grey.

We were nothing more than stolen glances and stolen moments, across libraries, across museums, across time. The stars found merriment in the cruel game they played with us.

In the end, love didn't win above all.