a short story that apparently was too hard for my English teacher to understand
Rain. It poured through every crevice of her torn windcheater and permeated her very soul. had always been a wanderer, a daydreamer much like the geniuses of the past, where they beheld formulae, intangible, just out of grasp of the layman’s weary eye. She was never conventional, not a genius in the perfect sense of the word, but one that is evil, a necromancer perhaps. A diamond in the rough.
Her youth is something that she has treasured. For those who saw her- sun tanned deeply brown skin, jet black hair that reflected off of the sun’s crimson rays, forming countless prisms of shades expanding, growing far beyond the rainbows that hide legends, tomes of gold. Her eyes? Almond-shaped, streaked cerulean and violet, never had anything like it been seen before. The things we love never last, and her fading beauty was proof of it. She had come there to seek out a remedy, down a quaint country lane, out of a children’s book almost.
“What do you seek, child, and do you think this is where you shall find it?” a man’s voice rang out through the gathered oak trees, lilting and swaying like the wind. He emerged from a nearby bench and walked towards it, his calloused palm extended. “The Fountain Of Youth, at long last. Oh, I won’t be long sir.”, she wondered aloud. He muttered something incomprehensible then, and beckoned her to approach it.
The fountain was simple, unassuming, really, but no Trevi or Flora could ever match its excellence. The only decoration was a carving ‘levis est puer dominae suae’. The Latin she had heard, whispered from alleyways and the friends that had long slipped through her fingers escaped her then. She could only have faith, as she stepped forward for a drink from its freezing waters, not in scripture any longer but in what object lay before her.
She is awoken by the steady drip of rainwater, yet again. But not a torrent, reminiscent of tempests she is thankful to evade, but a drizzle. A haggard woman lies before her, her back strewn across the cave’s floor, a cripple. There was a glint in her almond-shaped eyes, however, vaguely, almost hauntingly familiar. A gentle, croaky voice erupts into the shadows “R-Run, while you can. RUN” and the glint disappears, a gentle glow replaces moves , ignited by the urgency in her voice, but she is stopped short by another voice, the man. He was back. “Youth is a flighty mistress, child.” Suddenly, it comes flooding back, as the man’s laughter rings out through the tepid air and memories rewind in her head- this was what was carved on the fountain. That was the last thing she remembered, as she felt her worn knees buckle to the cold, hard ground. She does not remember an echo.