My face has skin that is not like any other skin; not carefully pressed over my bones structure. The skin is mashed-in and lumpy, like a figurine made out of mud by a child who didnít know how to make anything wonderful. The farthest end of one eye droops down, perforated and molded, and l have no eyebrows.
l have weak, contorted eyes, eyes that always look for the abyss, at the places others stand and walk alongside of, and also for Agatha, my daughter, clutching at some maidís chest before my face was broken into. Agatha was trying to climb up into the maid's skirts, trying to run from me. My face is deceiving, expressionless, though l have passion building in my very bones. The time starts to pass when l look towards the wall where a grand jewel-crusted mirror hangs low before my bedroom.
I hide my entire face with a special cloth, else the little tykes scream out.
ďlím sorry,Ē someone said to me long ago in a gesture of loyalty before they all left me.
Sorry for what, l still wonder bitterly.
Right before they all fled, l just stood there, my boots coated with dust and mud, as if líd been freely adventuring in the sylvan farmlands right outside my doors.
Now the sun fills my consciousness while a candid recollection leaves me picking up the pieces.
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