This was written in 2017, when I was yet 15
The rain was striking cascades on the window slits, the balustrade and the parapets. All I wished was for you to drown those noises from your playing Bach. But you could not. The irksome noises emanated from the outside interrupted the beautiful opus. While the torrent smote every window pane, your fugue, every consonant—uttered beautifully, magnificently attempted to overwhelm these sounds. I watched you as you were playing, your sylphlike elegance with every bent of a head, every clink of the keys. How it greatly vexed me! A sudden feeling of freshness pervaded the atmosphere, like the smell of banks of dewed celandines, the petrichor and its all so natural scent. The water from the dewy leaves and flowers glistened like a point of rust. It was then my conscience realised the relationship between your harmonious chords and Mother Nature. The cypresses, the rivulets…. With every chink, I was transformed into a coniferous tree. My broad hands felt as if it had turned into angular branches holding leaves filled with water droplets. And my legs, subsumed the earth with a myriad of gracile roots. And you, your elongated hands and bluish veins palpitating with every jingle, metamorphosed into splendour wings of a dragonfly. I felt you as a midge tarrying on my dewy leaves, below you a scrubby tuft of grass laid your small oblique shadow. And the radiance from the evening sun permeated our sphere with a tangerine glow, and all that was musical staves, moved and transfused into nature itself. There was then also the menace of this sinewy ivy clasping onto my bark, my corporeal and skin. Imbibed into me, it was sucking the scepter of our passion, our love. If only it had withered away… Apart from the latter, that reverie made me feel utmost happiness. Anfisa, I could not help but kiss you innumerable amount of times about the clavicle and nape. And with the quiver of your pouting lips as you turned around, you would carve the air with warmth. Your puerile face, and your lively mien. Oh, how I loved you so very much! The tingle, the flames, sharp and searing about my loins. Everything was then equally divine, almost perfect. Soon, we found ourselves on a well-trodden path strolling endlessly through motleys of smoke, the clouds above were like flits. And lying below them, the thicket encompassing us would utter a sort of wailing noise with every clammy gust of wind. There was also a warm glow that pervaded our path which glinted musky water. It was in the midst of our silence that you pointed your svelte hand to a manor further ahead, speaking timorously with a sudden throb about your shoulder blade. “I’ve to go back to home for him”. The reader may infer that “him” is Vsevolod, a poltroon. Back thus you returned once again to your sordid conjugate, I had made barely any motion but to bid goodbye. Yet somehow my soul yearned to attend you back to your dwelling, and so I did. Oh! I knew very well that was not even close to the fullest of my motive, I was to do something contemptible, something injurious…. I was rather familiar with the outline of your house. And I also knew fairly well where that boning knife was, that slick, crisp weapon that would cut clean right into the crevice of one’s ribcage, or their trachea. Both would’ve worked. We creaked upon a small bridle path leading to your ménage, I smiled and said “Why can’t we just leave him, and go?”, then a silvery spectre of water from a leaf fell onto my right eye, like how a tear would shed, it would roll down, gradually through the canvas of my face. You turned around, squinting against the sun, replying. “That’s not possible, if only….”, You paid no heed to what I was hinting, “it would be for the good of us” I thought. And slowly then the ivy would writhe away and we would have our fullest affection for each other, an ethereal ecstasy, a blissful euphoria. As we reached, we stepped onto the oaken threshold creating a sort of rustling sound , like the sound of crushing manure, or fresh boletus mushroom. I was not inclined to discern all parts of the house, for Vsevolod resided right beside us. His left hand was holding a cigarette that smouldered ashes, smoke emanated from the filter tip, which drifted into the paddock ahead. The Well-Tempered Clavier was playing faintly in the background. Vsevolod spoke “You may head up Fedorova, I wish to talk to him”, and so you moved on into the hallway of your house. Your light frock emitted a sort of spangle of colour from a ray of light which made me slightly giddy as I turned back to him. “Take a seat”, and so we sat beside each other in your parlour. A creaking sound was audible, and then a weak smell of sawdust from the ligneous chair. A big-blue buzz fly flew about the cornice, describing rectangles. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Beautiful isn’t she?” directing his glance to you, which were dwindling away up the grating stairs. He added “Fine like a sort of… flying insect, a butterfly.” I was obliged to make no reply but inquire the locale of their toilet, and would then sneak into his scullery…. What was there to say? There was not the need to describe how firmly I punctured his scruff, his demoniac gape at me as I lifted the knife away with sheer power. I was however, certainly surprised at the amount of blood that splattered all over my fustian waistcoat, and the swarthy complexion of my skin turned as if I had been red. The dove-grey linen carpet, wooden table, all turned a vermillion hue. It was merely ephemeral, that his cigarette dropped to the floor and the cinders dissipated. It was obvious that he was thus dead. I had also forgotten to mention. You had witnessed all this, for you had not returned to your room. And so down you came, with not a sort of sorrowful façade, but a sort of glimmer of merriment. “Let’s run, now”. I spoke falteringly as I gaped away from his immobile eyes. And so we did, we ran without a single wince, or hesitance, for our love was as strong as crucible. We ran away from your rancorous dwelling, scuttled away through the meadow into the distance. There was not the need to fear, for the ivy had perished.
Compendium of Words 