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1996
Literary Art
Visual Art
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Deliverance
Elaine Borgonia
Wherever heroes and heroines exist, they do not exist here.
The city has been sacked seven times this month and everyone pretends as if God will deliver them soon from their present state.
The parishoners of the old Catholic church at the end of the street poured into the courtyard. All of them willing to help in the cleaning of their sanctuary.
Emile was one of those God-fearing people whose faith remained intact under the vengeful hands of heaven. He was at the church everyday, very early in the morning, picking up the shattered redmains of the stained glass windows. He picked up the shard pieces one by one, carefully placing them in a box that he carried. One by one he collected them, filling his box very slowly, but diligently.
"Why do you do it?" I used to ask him every night upon his return.
He used to shake his head at me. His eyes filled with pain.
"Tu ne compredrai pas," he would whisper, taking my hand and pressing it against his cheeks. Often he would cry, and I would feel his warm tears on my hand, on my skin.
I kept the house as orderly as I could in those times of hardships. Many times it was impossible to keep the floors spotless with all of those people coming in and going out. I told Emile many times that his friends must not come in and dirty my floor.
"Aie de la patience, ma cherie. Us n'ont nulle part aller." he would answer.
"And so they come here? Why does it have to be here?"
Emile, always with that pained look I had once learned to despise, would lift his eyes at me. His dark green eyes pale from crying.
"Ma cherie, ils n'ont rien. Le Seigneur asks us to share with others," he would say, reaching for my hand.
I would take a step back, out of his reach and stare at him with harsh ignorant eyes.
"And what do we have?"
Always, Emile would gasp at my reaction. Terror would flood his face.
"Ecoute, m'ecoute," he would plead.
But I would not listen, as I shut the door behind me. I would always shut him out of the bedroom. His portion of the bed would remain empty and cold for the rest of the night. I would lie in bed with the covers pulled up to my neck, listening for some sort of movement in the other room. And I would cry to myself, always wondering about the shattered windows. My thoughts always returned to Emile. But too embittered by my dirty floor, I would wrestle with the cold damp air.
Every morning, before the old rooster of the abbey could crow, I would slip out of the sheets and open the door a crack. I would stand behind the strength of the door to watch Emile, with his face in his hands, cry to himself.
"Non, non, non...Mon Dieu, il faut que vous la sauviez," (you must save her) he would mumble.
He would kiss me before heading for the church.
"Viens avec moi," Emile would whisper.
"Go now, I will be here when you return," I would say as I pushed him away.
I would watch him from the doorway. He knew that I watched him because he would turn around and blow me a kiss. I would reach out my hand and grab it, and I would blow him one back. He would throw his arms wide open and embrace it on his way to church. I would keep watching him until I could no longer see him.
I loved Emile too much and he loved me even more. I wondered how much love he had for me, love I was not able to return. I tried to accept his God and his faith, but I could not find comfort in all those lies about salvation. No Saviour can deliver me as he did.
The parish priest used to tell Emile that my soul was in grave danger. My past life had delivered me to the doors of hell. Emile used to tell me everything the priest had told him with much agitation. I used to laugh at him.
"Come now, don't tell me that you didn't know I am possessed by the devil?" I used to say, mockingly.
Emile hated those words, but he never raised his voice nor his hand in anger at me. He would just embrace me and sob, saying a prayer on my behalf, asking "Our Father, Who art in heaven..." to forgive me.
But I would only laugh louder.
If heroes and heroines exist, they no longer exist here. The last of their breed delivered me from hell.
The city was once again sacked.
I was in the courtyard sweeping the leaves into little mounds. Emile was only a few feet away from me, picking up the shattered remains of the windows. Once in a while, from the corner of my eye, I would catch him glancing in my direction. A smile contentedly rested on his lips.
The church bell had barely sounded the noon hour when just beyond the walls of the old church came the sudden cries of the people. Their frightful shrieks and wails siezed the courtyard with confusion.
Men on horseback rode into our city with their blunt swords raised. They thundered through the streets, heading toward the church, following, trampling those who ran to the open gates of the sanctuary.
"Ma cherie, ou vas-tu?" Emile called above the confusion that separated us.
For the first time I prayed to God. I prayed to God as loud as I could, but no amount of prayer brought me within Emile's reach. God could not hear my prayers above the drowning cries that filled His church.
I have haunted the outskirts of the city with this sword hidden under my cloak. It feels cold to the touch; and I have carried it as a reminder of Emile's sacrifice. But his eyes have been sufficient reminders. They have beckoned to me in my dreams, and yet I only linger outside the city. If I could only find the strength to return, I would lie where my saviour had died because, now, after all these years, I have learned how to return what he had given me.
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