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The Woman Who Does Not Kiss Twice

Ana Kostadinova
[svastika@abv.bg]

The moon was full. Its yellowish face scarcely threw weak misty rays through the inky sky. The stars, cloud-capped, were so pale that their blind gaze couldn't fight the dark. The air stood heavily still above the thick pinewood. Most daytime creatures seemed almost as silent as dead in their night rest. Not a single nocturnal being was in sight as if all of them had hidden in the recesses of the wood.

           Suddenly something broke the deep silence, something amongst the trees. It cracked and then just hardly audible motion in the air left. What was making the waft was a slender figure, mixing with the gloom. It walked fast through the thick set grass and bushes, free of even grazing them. The breathing was panted and the face as though covered by hair, but one could say the dusk had embraced the figure's outlook and having stuck to it made it a part of its deep secrets.

           And it was only when the body reached a glade that the half-obscured moon light it with grayish, silver rays. And one would hardly believe if told of such creature. One would hardly fathom that there might exist such desperate sadness and exhaustion a person could ever have in appearance.

           Jet black, waist-length straight hair that shaded in color of the ankle-length dress was hanging in locks across a pale face. Its gentle lineaments, the large eyes full as if of dying embers, the exquisitely shaped whitish lips seemed even more wasted by inner misery. She lifted her head up and her thick locks made a frame for her ashen beauty. She looked like a little girl with a strange strength in her glance, a girl lost in a place which would fear her heart with every single sight or sound. But after a second look one would think she was at the right place and, indeed, what could bear scariness in her was everything but the muddled stillness or blackness or desolation or sadness of the night itself.

           And the hope in her eyes, her whole uneasy body gave away that she was waiting for something or somebody. Thus after at times peering in the distance, at times looking down in the grass she sat down with legs drawn in, slightly aside. Minutes past. Then for a second time the quietness was broken. She started. Stood up and went towards the sound. Several crackling steps ensued and a man came out from the trees and stopped in front of her. She became a little gloomy at the sight of his thoughtful face, but her eyes were still hoping. She fastened them on him -- his eyes avoided meeting hers. He was nervous, worried.

           "I'm so sorry, My Love," he whispered.

           "You did not find a priest, did you?," her voice was beseeched.

           "I begged them, I wanted to pay them but they all rejected. They were too scared." He kept silence for a little while. He was tired and sad.

           "Can't we wait ‘till tomorrow night? Can't we?"

           She sighed. Looked down again. Now she seemed to have diminished as though something had been eating her soul from inside.

           "No, that's impossible," she uttered, "The hunger, the thirst cannot wait tonight. I shall not bear it."

           "Oh, My Love." He was helpless.

           She gazed at him once more. But this time there was no track of despair or weakness on her face. Her eyes glittered.

           "Hold me," She said softly.

           He hugged her as she was stroking gently his neck with her cool, thin fingers. A tear rolled down on her cheek and then she drove in her long canine teeth through his skin. The man tried to repel her, but in vain. Her embrace was too strong to escape. With lips on his neck, little by little, as she drank his blood, she drank the life in him. He dragged down slipping out of her arms. She knelt slowly over him, panting, and kept looking at him with enlarged, bright eyes. She stroke his face and the heavy tears of her misery mingled with the blood on her lips and chin.

           When at last she felt the dew start to soak her dress she startled.

           "The dawn," she whispered.

           The woman stood up, had a last look at her beloved and ran into the woods, leaving the glade to the yellowish gaze of the moon.



About the Author (click here) © 2001 Ana Kostadinova, all rights reserved
 appears here by permission



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