I remember the day, March 22nd 1528. I was walking in the streets of Braseham minding my own business when I came to a white, plain house whose extravagantly decorated windows were open. There I heard a voice emitting from a window, which I immediately recognized as my neighbour’s husband. His wife, well what can I say? Words cannot describe how much I loathed her. Her face, her voice, her presence would drive anyone mad. However, her husband was a different case.
In this town, he was considered as a nobleman and the wisest of them all. Any brawl, he could end in peace and any problem, he could provide the solution. My thoughts were momentarily interrupted by his voice again emitting from the windows. It was very soft yet it had charming tone to it. I nosily moved slightly towards the window to get a better view of what he was doing. He was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, almost in a meditating position, and humbly reading from a book. I was curious as to what he was reading, so I listened carefully. He uttered these words:
“If you do good actions, you do good to yourselves. Likewise, if you do evil actions, you do evil to yourselves.”
At this point, I didn’t care how great he was or how well respected he was in this town, what he spoke was totally incorrect. He is wrong, I thought and I wanted to prove him wrong. Since my mother always said, actions speak louder than words; I searched through my mind for a clever plan. And there it was the perfect idea. I hastily walked to my house inches away from my neighbour’s and entered my small, cramped kitchen to put the plan into action.
I immediately reached for the sweets from the bottom shelf and placed them on the kitchen table. Then, I placed my hand into one of my pockets and took hold of a small bottle safely wrapped around a scarlet coloured cloth. I clutched the bottle tightly in my hands and pulled it out of my pocket. Afterwards, I carefully unwrapped the fragile cloth and placed my other free hand on the lid and slowly unloosened it. Afterwards, I raised the bottle to my nose and sniffed the sweet smell of poison. Oh how pleasant is the smell of snake’s venom?
Turning around to face the table, I poured tiny droplets of the yellow liquid into the sweet Pears. Pleased with what I had done so far, I couldn’t stop myself from cackling amiably and took hold of the plate and headed to my neighbour’s house once again. It was a short walk from my home and in minutes I arrived there and stood in front of it.
The colour of the exterior of the house was as white as marble; his front porch had an array of wild flowers all in different colours shapes and sizes beautifully carpeting the mint-green earth. I walked gracefully to the front door and knocked, then patiently stood waiting for an answer. Seconds later, there before my eyes, stood my neighbour’s husband. He was surprised to see me and gestured to welcome me in, but I shyly refused and told him that I came here only to deliver the sweets that I prepared this morning. He reached for the plate and I placed it on his hands. He thanked me for my kind gift and promised to return the favour. I warily smiled at him and bid him farewell, my task completed I turned around and returned home.
In the afternoon as the soft ray of the golden yellow sun oozed across the turquoise sky, I proceeded, as usual to the busy market for my daily grocery shopping awaiting the spectacular awakening of this busy hive. Walking into the vintage cobbled streets of Sangria Market feels like a public library of sights and smells brought to life by its buzzing activity. I could hear the welcoming voices of the shopkeepers inviting customers into their colourful interiors and filling the streets with the exuberance of life. Around the corner, I could smell
the fresh aroma of coffee and the baker’s sweet buttery perfume. It was so fresh, so distinct; I felt so relaxed about this morning’s events and it felt like they went by in a blur. By now, I knew that he would take a bite of the Pear and collapse before his wife’s tearful eyes.
Nearing my house, the rhythm of my walking was interrupted by a loud high-pitched scream and I was convinced that it was my neighbour mourning her husband’s death; I followed the crowd and swiftly walked to the source of the scream. I couldn’t see much due to the vast number of people surrounding the body of the man.
The man I killed. But, I heard a velvety voice sounding out in the distance. My mind, reluctant to re-act, dismissed the voice as an illusion but the voice sounded too true, too real to be a figment of my imagination. It was him. My neighbour and he is still alive. I pushed through the crowd, avoiding their grunting complaints and went into the centre of the circle. There he stood, surrounded by the town’s people and he was pointing at the grubby floor of the marketplace. I traced the direction of his finger and focused my sight on the two bodies whose faces were still and emotionless, they were clearly dead.
I breathed very slowly. The horrible, unavoidable realisation came over me like a wave of icy water. I felt like the wall I had been leaning against had suddenly been taken away. There were a split second of the crowd starring at me in concern, then everything went fuzzy and I felt myself fall on my knees. I was crying uncontrollably then hysterically. I reached for the two young boys and held them against my aching chest, brushing the dust of their soft black hair and pleaded them to wake up, to wake up from their deep, very deep sleep, but there was no answer. I sat there on the paved floor of the street market and stared at the sky. Red tears of anger were flooding out of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks. Right now, right this moment I now know I was wrong, and he was right about what he said this morning.
I remember the day. March 22nd 1528, the day my two sons died.