a concept: you are a victorian upper class woman and i am nothing more than a maid, my family having taken care of your estate for decades. one day you run into me admiring the countless literature works adorning the library, where i am most definitely not supposed to be. you are intrigued by the freckles tracing every inch of my skin and i am enraptured by your fierce beauty. i tell you that the stories behind my freckles existed before our universe even came into its combusted existence, that each one represents a star twinkling furiously, as seemingly permanent in time as the marks on my skin. a few hushed whispers later i agree to help you escape your world, if only for a brief moment. “i know a place”, i say, “meet me at midnight at the eastern outermost gates”. the time arrives and you rush hurriedly to the gate, taking great care not to disturb anyone as the excitement within you threatens to bubble over. there is a profound secrecy, a moment of inarticulate importance passed between us as we meet once more under the moon’s omniscience. i lead you through winding alleyways and up worn cobble paths until we arrive… the abandoned castle. untouched for decades ever since the old widow passed, none of her relatives daring to associate with its accursed prominence. so it had stood, an oppressive omen against an impressionable sky as if defying the very heavens in its all-consuming emptiness that seemed to swallow everything around it. yet it was this exact presence which i had been first drawn to, the menacing appearance which discouraged others only seemed to draw me in closer, until i had fallen deeply in love. i could see it had already started to capture you too, in the way your lips parted in confounded wonder and sheer longing gleamed amongst the reflection of the moon pooling in your emerald eyes. the castle became our home in a way, as we found ourselves there most nights; chasing each other down the ghostly hallways, animatedly shouting poetry from opposite corners of the ballroom, whispering the secrets of our souls in the flickering light of our lamps. weeks pass by as you (attempt to) teach me latin and play the symphonies of our entangled hearts on the grand piano lying dormant in the parlour, while i tell you the stories behind the stars and my dreams of escaping to the country, out of this service lifestyle. our love is forbidden, a secret of a thousand degrees we can never divulge.
- my diary
