Her blue eyed grandfather would come and find her like that, in her underwear, while lying on the cold tales of the kitchen. The summer light from the above was strong and hot but the drips gathering next to her were cold. A sickening reddish. Fresh flesh and the teary pink blue eyes looking down on her. He would be hurt, the soft man, seeing all of this, he would shiver and shake while carrying her. She knew blood had always made him throw up, but she could not open her mouth to say she was sorry, she did not know it would be so much.

Days followed without the right answers, without the right questions.

One winter day, in the hollow ghostly classroom, while her eyes were lost on the white hills of the town, a hand came and gently sat on her bandaged soul. She knew he will become her lifelong friend, the teacher who taught History of Religions. A priest. The long talks, the right questions, would come to soothe her years to come. And his wrists were wearing the same mark of the wondering ones. The mark of the ones who asked too much, demanded and needed too much, the ones who had to find out what it was all about to be alive. The mark of the ones who watched their flesh cut open and smelt their yearnings flowing out of their veins. The marks of the ones who went beyond and came back with their true meaning for life.

She was feeling the scar under her fingers now, while lying down on the cold benches of the little white church at the high intersection of the roads leading to the beach. The high little windows brought in the same hot light but this time there were no cold blood drops gathering next to her, but his warm, naked body. He was holding her from behind, choking her a little bit, sweating, being inside her. All forbidden, wet and eternal, the offering on the altar.  Sin, love and kindness, just like in Heaven. Them and the echo of their half whispered words and moans. And she felt cleaned and revived each time she came out in the salty breeze. They would always meet in the one room church at noon, while the priests were off to do their Ouzo and coffee siesta on the small crumped cafeterias on the roads behind the seafront.

She was wondering how many of them wear the same scar as her and her best friend, the priest.





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s