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Vincent’s Journal Entry By Judith Nolan
“Love
is not love that alters when it alteration finds…”
William Shakespeare
Sunday, April 12, 1987
Soon it
will be dawn. A new day and a task more difficult than any I could ever
imagine. But this new dilemma must be faced and dealt with. There can be
no other way. But how do I begin to explain, to help her understand what
has happened to her? Father operated through the night, trying to repair
the damage to her face. He is painfully aware his success has been
limited, but he has done all he can under very difficult circumstances.
Before he went to rest, he administered our strongest sedative, giving
her the precious gift of a few hours of oblivion, free from the
inevitable pain and disbelief. And so she sleeps, this woman from
another world. Here beside me, in my chamber, in my bed. So close I have
only to reach out my hand to touch her, and yet…I dare not.
I must
never allow her to see me, because I know she will not understand our
differences. However, deep inside me the temptation remains, quiescent
for now, but it lives nonetheless. Her soft warmth and frailty surrounds
me, her breathing matched in slow concert with mine. I have tried
allowing its steady rhythm to relax me, to submerge my senses in a
waking dream, for I cannot sleep. But it is no use.
I feel
drawn to her and I do not know why. It is all so new, this strange,
feathering sensation of anticipation twining around my heart, making my
pulse jump at the slightest sigh from her. It is almost as if I am
waiting for something, a new and precious joy, to unfold. But what it
is, I cannot guess. Perhaps it is merely an illusion created by a night
spent without sleep. For I am
tired beyond measure. Despite that, my muscles tremble with the burning
need to move, to pace; but I must remain still, keeping watch over her.
Ever
since I first touched her softness up in the park, that sensation of
waiting for something wondrous to happen has stayed with me. I have only
to close my eyes and she lives somewhere deep within me. There is an odd
sense of connection, surpassing my ability to grasp its meaning. Even
though I have yet to comprehend the full understanding, it must be
enough. I will make it so through the long and lonely nights to come.
I
realize I do not even know her name. Maybe that’s for the best. She
appears so small and fragile, lying there among the pillows and
comforters of my bed. A beautiful angel descended from the wondrous
realm I may only visit after the night falls. She has seen the many
colors, the beauty and the light of that world so far above where I now
sit; things I may only dream about. And yet, that same world has
brutally scarred and discarded her, leaving her to die alone and unseen
in the park. How can that be? How can such a world exist, where her soft
loveliness can be slashed and destroyed by the blade of a knife held in
a man’s careless hand?
She
would have died if I had not found her there, brought her here, to this
secret place, to my father’s care. That is the unpalatable truth. Now
the day Father feared for so long has finally come to pass. His worried
counsel is I should never have brought her here at all. But there was
nowhere else to go. He insists she must leave as soon as humanly
possible. He worries for me, for the inevitable effect her presence here
will have on me. He is also deeply afraid for our security, the sanctity
of our world far below the city, and I cannot find it within myself to
blame him.
We
decided to bandage her eyes to prevent her from seeing any of us, or
this place, as we tend to her. Mercifully they were not hurt in the
attack, but we must make sure she will not be able to find her way back
here again, once she has returned to the world Above. And I am to tell
her nothing of this hidden realm, or myself. How could I explain it all
anyway? I doubt she would ever understand.
So I
wait out the few hours remaining before she awakens to the truth and the
pain. All I can offer her, in the way of understanding and empathy, is
my voice. I will read to her, anything and everything. I have already
selected Dickens, Great Expectations. I will attempt to distract
her thoughts from the pain, allow my words to soothe her and convey my
compassion, my awareness of her frightened sense of betrayal. I know
that feeling only too well.
I once
railed against the unfairness of life, of my limited options, of what I
saw in the Mirror Pool every time I forced myself to look. I know I am
different, and that fact is as immutable as the rock walls that surround
me. Long ago I accepted my fate, my destiny, to be alone. Now I will use
that hard-won knowledge to guide her through the terror she will feel,
the inevitable questions and the inescapable truth of what has been done
to her without her consent.
The
longest journey begins with a single step. I can only hope and pray she
has the strength to endure the unendurable. That she will find the
spirit to rise above and to begin life anew. I know she can do it. I can
feel it in her. There is a sense of vitality, an untapped well of raw
courage that will carry her through the agony and the shame. Of this I
am certain, if nothing else. I feel, somehow, I know her. In my heart of
hearts, I sense she is the other half of my soul. I also know as soon as
she leaves this place, I must begin to forget her. For me there can be
no other way.
But for
now I will allow myself the small, precious gift of sitting here and
watching over her sleep. I can do that; I can be here for her in the
darkness. And I will wonder — just a little — about what could have been
if we had met in another time and place, and I was not the man I am…
Vincent
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