My name was Adelaide Molyneux, my grandparents being of French descent. I was a young child at the time, not more than thirteen summers old, with a stubbornness well beyond my years. I was living in a small village, north of a larger one, which in effect probably branched off into a further. It was called Loville after a desolate little creature that had once lived there. Charles Richard Loville. A strange being with deep thoughts and a furrowed brow. Such a pensive soul was he that none dared to enter his presence. I remember him to be a tall figure - a man that had to stoop to enter church, but yet he still had some godlike elegance about him. Father had often tried to restrain my wonders.
Winter was never my favourite season; the trees would stand devoid of their leaves, almost like a person with no soul, and without a soul what be a person? The icy artic winds would blow, and the frail rigid leaves would scatter. One should not be expected to leave one’s home in such conditions, yet they worsened. The rain would cascade with an estranged antagonism. T’was a day indifferent to this that I not more than a year later received my first telegram, but I was not to know of that for moons to come.
I had lived in Loville for many years, all thirteen of them. It was an ugly village - both in the sights and inhabitants - not one of picturesque scenes. Yet I was drawn still, to it’s convoluted buildings; they were not of great splendour but there was no stipulation that they were not intricately built. They had elongated pewter coloured sculptures, the sculptor wished them be described as ‘incarnations’ despite their obvious incongruence. The buildings themselves were not much of a spectacle: encrusted with thin sandstone, the walls themselves being almost completely perforated. My younger self was a lacklustre little being - an erratic soul with a negligible conscience - one which often overpowered me. Despite my insubordinate nature I was a composed creature among my parents, content with the sound of my own thoughts. I had no siblings excepting my brother. Marcel Molyneux.
I recall one of the many converstaions I had with him:
“What be truth really?”, I had asked.
“Truth; truth be the sun set over there, truth be this unspeakable incongruent life, truth be, no. Adie, truth be what we want it to be, truth be mouldable, there’s no real truth. Well none really, truth be a mere word, the real truth lies within you”. I had pondered many nights over that, t’was my brother’s way to offer no explanation. On the contrary he was an extremely clever being. A philosopher as he liked to describe hisself.
T’was a Thursday he was born if I recall correctly - or so said his birth certificate. The 9th of October 1896, making him eligible and conscripted to go to war. The thought ran shivers down my spine. He was not a man of weary fatigue, nor was he of diminutive vigour yet there was an air of fragility around him. How easily his spine could be fragmented, but more so how effortlessly his soul could be shattered -- how simply and thoughtlessly his spirit could be crushed:
“Need you go to war Marcel?”, I had asked him rather irate.
“Adie, Adie, Adie, you be a clever being do you not? Be you not of the knowledge that I will be fine - don’t fear Adie, never fear, for fear be the overpowering emotion. Let it in and it’ll eat up your whole essence, it’ll ebb out all goodness from your life Adie, don’t let it in.”
“S’not that Marcel, I don’t want you to go. I be not happy alone. I be not contented with mother’s presence, that sounds most discourteous, but Marcel, I need you here. I don’t want you to go Marcel.”
“You be scared Adelaide. I can tell.”
“Yes, I do be scared but I be not scared for me. I be not scared for mother or even for father - father be strong and he be not easily distracted. But Marcel, what about you? What about you.”
“You let passion get too close Adie” he gestured towards a solitary tear rolling from my eyes. My soul was absent. “You should not let passion get too close either Adie - for passion be not a deadly killer but it be a danger, a chronic danger, let passion too close and it will never leave Adie. For me? You fear for me”, he laughed, a curious spectacle in such a conversation.
“And why be that so funny?”, I demanded growing infuriated.
“Aah! Adie. Do not worry, I will be fine, it be just a little touch of fate. Fate intertwines with every life; as much as you would like to think otherwise. Fate be not a subject of fear, look upon it as a spectacle of routine. As much as I wish to reside amongst my dreams it be simply not respectable to waste one’s life wishing upon stars. It be not acceptable to forget to live within the real world. It be not appropriate for me to dwell on anything but reality. Promise me one thing Adie, if you ever promise me anything. Promise me that you will not fear, Adie. Promise me.”
“I will try Marcel. I will. But I be not in a position to promise you Marcel. It be not possible.”
I was always the one to brood. My brother had his own way of fretting within hisself. Yet he was rather reclusive, more philosophical than most. He was a being of high principles. A most irregular soul, with deep abysmal roan eyes, and a most distinct nose that stood almost completely perpendicular. He had a monocle that he would sometimes place on an eye, and look down at me while I would laugh most hysterically and deride his strange ways. My brother was a most perplexing creature - almost elusive.
T’was a pleasant Autumn that year. I recall the wind blowing sweetly , yet verging on macabrely, perhaps the notion that this would not develop into a further storm pleased me. The leaves blew, like rigid skeletal bodies, their frames shivering. The sky was devoid of a sun, but yet glimpses of light were visible through the ample clouds. So began my story …
Worse, in fact.
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