The Revolutionary

A photograph, when etched in the cheek of Time, bears neither the impression of mere souls gracing a celluloid skin—nor the pockmarked truth of Vision’s allegiance—but is the serial scar of Light’s captive embrace. It is such illumination that leads to the eventual scarring of the entire face of Time, and sands the allegorical surfaces of its sinking alabaster down to bleeding Epoch—a swelling gash which opens itself to receive the breath of the Widow…that warm lace fragrant with the numbing breeze of enquiry.

It is ironic that she has never been seen, her breath the mere evidence she admits for consideration by our fleeing flesh.

* * *

Bethany Johansson’s voice permeated the amethyst air as it escaped her thin lips. The house staff was used to occasional outbursts such as this every Wednesday morning between the hours of eight o’clock and 9:15 a.m. Sequestered like a lost juror in her boudoir, she deliberated. Screaming ritualistically with the calls of unprovoked passion, she longed to pass judgement on her missing husband. She wished desperately to hate him, to find him guilty of neglecting her, to pack up and leave the confines of their estate, to flee. It was a neglect which was just as meaningful as it was deleterious. She screamed again, “Ivory thorn! Wretched, agony in stone! Ahhh!”, and took another drink from the crystal decanter lounging beside her on the vanity table.

Sanity was in short supply these last three months at Harrington House. About two weeks ago, Bethany had torn all the drapes down. Breathing hastily like an enraged beast, she incinerated all the upholstery in the drawing room and hallway, hoping to create a blaze so grand as to create a beacon of degenerate light, signaling to her husband her new-found desire for independence; a desire which was marred by the vulnerable second-thoughts which had crept into her ears. He had been dead the entire time and independence had long since been hers. Her revolution was a little too lately enacted, but the shining guillotine of her bright thoughts was quick enough to cause most countryside heads to roll, and she had taken a tumble, after all. The Widow was without her wits.