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Bocca Del Inferno

Tis The Season For Longing

Bocca Del Inferno

Bocca Del Inferno, the mouth of hell. An online interactive roleplaying community.

Mature Subject Matter.

Tis The Season For Longing

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Christmas Jenny
Cruelty, my people knew it well. In every veiled look, every muttered, ‘Drac, vrăjitoare, rău; nenorocire,’ under their breath I felt their fear. People fear what they don’t understand.

When I walked, I felt eyes on me, at times; the invisible daggers hit their target with an innate accuracy. Once, I turned to look at the offender, staring into the eyes of a little girl. Small and petite, a dark-haired moppet, she could have been my own child. Beautiful face screwed into the look of hatred, copied from that of her parents.

Eyes catching hers, her gaze of disgust, changed to that of terror, as if my looking at her put some Romany curse on her small head. Bottom lip trembling, eyes filling with tears, she turned on her heel and ran as if her tiny little life depended upon it.

Heart dropping to my stomach, my body cold and numb, I covered my torso with my arms, as if to keep the cold and hatred out.

Leaving, that was my option. Borsa would never hold the same magic for me. I had to find another place.

Mala and Clay both insisted on England. I guess that made sense, it was the only thing I could remember of my past life.

In Clay’s eyes I saw the disappointment, in Mala’s an understanding, still I’d hurt my son and my sister, a son I couldn’t remember.

Grant, he filled my dreams, with so much passion and life, waking …. I hated my waking life. At every opportunity, I slept, escaping real life, blissfully slipping into another time, when Grant stole kisses beneath my parent’s watchful eyes. When he slipped the ring on my finger, and how he’d tease me to want, hands over and under my clothes, with such a passion. And then my memories stopped.

Assuring me he had another family, stubbornly I agreed. I’d caused too much pain in the sister I loved, and the handsome young man who was my son. Loving Clay, in some ways it was easy, I could see Grant in him and even, at times I saw my own reflection in him. Mala did such a wonderful job in raising him, and in that, it was easy to love him. To slowly believe he was my son.

All of that brought me to this, a bumpy plane ride. Forehead resting against the glass, fine pellets of rain assaulting the fuselage, like teardrops, my teardrops and I felt such an emptiness, and emptiness one only knows from not understanding her place in the world, waking memories of having been in a place where no living creature walks.

The seductive tones of the French Count asking Mala to join him for the holidays, and Clay’s insistence that would be fine. That was his answer to all things. Not that I celebrated the season, still it was a magical time, and for me one I dreaded.

Clay brightened at fact his best friend would be joining us. He raved about her, an animation I hadn’t seen before.

At least this would give me time to explore London alone, at least if Mala went with the dashing Count, and Clay would let me out of his watchful eye.

I had to find out why England had such a hold on me, why we were going to visit the Lindenbrook estate, and Grant; he still held my heart.

Rumbling, I felt the wheels descend the plane preparing for landing, the lights of the tarmac ahead leading us somewhere.

“Grant, where are you?” the inaudible whisper escaped my lips, floating out into the night, a sound from my soul lifting up into the heavens, and unknowingly making its way to him.

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