In The Forest of Bluebells
I had been sitting at this table, drawing, for 3 weeks, almost every single day at lunchtime, until she took an interest in me and showed it. But lately, things were crumbling. Nothing was going as I had hoped. As I had expected. As they should have.
In those early days, she had her duties. She had to take orders, deliver food, scrape leftovers from the plates, emptying them into the bins. It was a busy restaurant and she was paid the minimum wage. So I was patient. And she always treated me kindly. Now, she didn’t even look me in the eyes, and if she did, it was only to frown at me. I drank some coffee left by her colleague on my table and turned my eyes to the drawing pad. I scribbled something, but I was not in the mood much. What was the point anymore?
A young couple entered noisily and sat at a table. They ordered food and then began to argue with each other as they were waiting. I took another glance at her and sighed. She acted like I didn’t exist. Probably, as far as she was concerned, there was no man sitting by the window, waiting for a modest smile from her — for a small sign that it wasn’t all lost, that there was still some hope left. She was two tables away from mine and she didn’t even glance at me. Nope, clearly, I didn’t exist for her anymore.
I began to scribble. I got lost in it for a while. A few minutes later, I raised my head to look at the couple. They were giggling. She held a bouquet of lilies in her hands, sniffing them. Pleased, the young man smiled. I smiled too, and then turned the page with the happy couple and began to draw something else.
There was an old man, all cold and grumpy, at a table in the back corner. He shivered and pulled his scarf closer around his throat. He looked around, throwing menacing glances at the other customers and the waitresses. I drew a steaming cup of red bush tea in front of him. The old man poured some milk in, sniffed and smiled, and then he began to drink it, full of joy.
I gazed at her again. She continued to ignore me. I glanced at the happy couple and the happy man sipping tea and a thought occurred to me. I began to scribble again, this time a little more excited than before.
Waves crashed into the sandy shore and threw drops of salty, cold water on my skin. The sand was ticking the soles of my feet. The sun was golden, glowing on the calm sea in the distance.
A bell rang and the alarming noise shifted me from my reverie. Few plates with food were soon delivered to a table of four — two adults and two young kids, a boy and a girl. I glanced back at the couple. They were getting ready to leave. He had just paid their bill and she waited for him with a warm smile on her face, holding the lilies near. I gazed at them for a few more seconds, watching how they held hands and walked happily out of the restaurant. Through the window, I saw the kiss they shared and that gave me hope.
Back inside, the situation hadn’t changed: she still didn’t talk to me. After all the years and the memories we had together, I couldn’t believe how easy it was for her to ignore me. I asked for another cup of coffee because I had finished my previous one, and because I hoped to get her to come to my table, but all she did was give me a frown in return. The old man drinking tea gave me a warm understanding look as if to say, ‘I’ve been there before, boy, hang on tight’. I half smiled at him briefly, sighed, and started drawing again.
She was playing in the sand. Her wavy long hair moved quickly with the wind. She looked ahead at a white seagull that was walking on the seashore, scratching the wet sand, unafraid of the foamy waves rushing toward him. I walked to her and took her in my arms. She stood up and we walked, hand in hand, across the shoreline. The fog was coming. She started to run away, giggling, and the seagull flew away too, high up into the sky, flapping his wings and flying with the wind. I looked at the writing in the sand. It said ‘I love you’. The wind blew harsh sand into my eyes. I fell to my knees and blacked out.
I woke up in a tunnel — some sort of narrow chamber, surrounded by soil. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t find an exit. I was suffocating. I have always been terrified of tight, narrow spaces. But here worms crawled on the walls, on the floor, sliding on my bare feet. I could feel them bite into my skin as if I was already dead and rotting and they decided I was their perfect meal. I tried shaking them off, but they were stuck to me, like a wet black cold. They depended on me and they were not going to let me go. I pushed my fists into the wall, trying to break them. My fists bled and, as hard as I tried and fight it, I had barely damaged the walls. The darkness terrified me. I began sweating profusely. A rush of anxiety flooded over me. I had murderous thoughts. Suicidal thoughts. And then, in that complete darkness, with worms crawling all over my body, sucking from me, draining me of energy, of any hope of survival, I thought of her smile, sweet and gentle, like the song of a nightingale on a spring night. A bolt of warm light hit me.
I woke up laying down on the floor of a dark room, only lit by a few candles. But I could breathe better now, and I could even see a shape this time — a human shape: I was not alone. She was in the room as well. My love. But then I saw the knife with the long, sharp blade; it was right in-between us. A pain in my temples was killing me and I was still looking at my surroundings. I couldn’t see much. Most of the room was cloaked in darkness like a velvet curtain had been pulled over it. It was eerily quiet. She began to wake up, and when she saw me, and the knife discarded on the floor, she rushed to grab it. The floor creaked as she moved hastily in the dim light to get the knife. I rushed too, but she reached it first and tried to slash me. She tried to cut me open twice this time and she did slit my shirt. Few lines of blood stained it. I didn’t feel the pain yet, but I knew it was coming soon. She tried to cut me again, but I managed to grab her hand and shook the knife away. It fell with a loud thud on the wooden floor. I embraced her and she accepted — she welcomed my touch and looked me in the eyes as if she recognized me — she remembered me. We began to kiss so we took over the small couch, making love.
Morning came. I woke up on a large white bed. See-through curtains filtered the warm, morning sun. I smiled at her, sleeping peacefully in my arms. I could hear giggles and robins chirping outside, in the bluebell forest. I stood up quietly and burned the remaining pages of the sketching notepad. I’ve put the ashes away and went back to join her in bed. But I held on to the pencil. I thought I hid it well. Maybe that was my (fatal) mistake. In fact, I know it was. Next time, if I do get another chance, I’ll burn everything. I’ll leave no traces, no opportunities, nothing that could separate us.
She is gone again. She found a way and sketched her own life. A new life. I am alone in the forest of bluebells now. No matter how hard I try, she escapes me. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. I wonder if I’ll ever get her back, or if she’ll forever forget who I am this time. I wonder if she’ll find her way back to me. Maybe we are destined to be alone, never to find each other for too long. Maybe we are unfinished, messed-up drawings in someone else’s life. Someone who knows better. Did we really think we had control? A way to love and be free? We are all puppets — I am just a puppet now. Forgotten, discarded. But not her, she can save us both.
Here, in the forest of bluebells, I wait for you. Come back to me.
This book is available in standard print (5 by 8 in), large print (A4), and as a digital book from here.
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Cover art by Vanessa Tavares (aka Psyca)
Psyca is an artist from Portugal. Her paintings are bold, colourful, and often deal with themes of mental illness. She adores cats (which make the subject of many of her wonderful works).
Interior art by Florin Cristea
Florin Cristea is an artist with over 25 years experience as a professional sculptor. His work has been exhibited internationally in countries like Israel, France, Germany, the UK. He creates his work in a countryside studio located in Vrancea, Romania.
Text, cover and interior design by Crina-Ludmila Cristea
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