Her Shape, Her Form
geneva found herself near the creek. she had wandered a bit farther than expected, but only because she had found a wonderful rock on which to sit.
she was on holiday with henry, an elusive and cantankerous man. he was a painter, known far and wide for his muddy, ugly portraits of diplomats. it was very transgressive, for the time.
henry had asked geneva to accompany him to his summer cabin, but now she wondered why she was there at all. she was not good at riding the horses, she did not know how to cook. she mostly sat with a far off look in her eye. it all felt like another misplaced piece in her curious puzzle.
but his cabin was a distant memory now. it wasn’t where she belonged, so she slipped away some time ago, opting to explore her thoughts, wherever her feet could take her.
and so she had found the creek. how refreshing a thing it is!, she thought.
the water is glimmering, clear. she dips her fingers in, then out. this is the true marvel. the water holds her, anytime she moves. she puts her legs in and she is enveloped once more. it feels like ice, but the sun is so hot. there is a performance happening; a balancing act between elements.
the undercurrents of geneva’s own life were more restless than this stream. she had no solid ground to stand on in the big city. constantly, the friends moved through her not unlike water. it was all transitory. time is finite, though, and this seemed a natural enough place to end it all.
there was no need for any more, geneva decided. so she braced herself for the cold plunge. the swirling, pushing current. it was a slow death march but not nearly slow enough.
there are no official records, but some would posture geneva spent almost a decade dying.
decaying in the creek, some years it was beautiful. she could see the world clearly through dead eyes. but sometimes her bones splintered, and maggots would find their way into her skull. this was a pesky occurrence, but geneva had always taken obstacles in stride.
henry was, of course, heartbroken by geneva’s demise. he had failed to locate her after one miserable hour of circling the small property. how was he supposed to go on? geneva’s body was very cold by the time henry instructed his search party to drink to her memory. sweet geneva, they poured wine in her honor.
she could feel all the laughter mixed with sobs. maybe there were even screams, but she wasn’t sure. the water turned to wine and it ran over geneva’s purple lips onto her grey tongue that first night.
henry spoke of geneva often, mostly at parties. he could talk of the sacrifices he made for her, for hours. it was a strange feeling geneva would get when henry did this. in the beginning, a chill would run down her spine. after the spine had disintegrated, she’d feel something more psychic in her tibia.
geneva was able to pass peacefully and thoroughly after henry suffered a hunting accident that rendered him mute.
she wasn’t bones or skin by then, just consciousness. in the many interim years, geneva thought heavily of her life if she had lived it. would henry continue on with her? would her friends have liked her, if they had not mourned her?
she did not regret her slow demise. even if it was boring, it was predicted.
she could watch the sun set and not care what had been accomplished that day, because it did not matter. everything had been created, only to be destroyed. birds would still chirp, dogs would still bark. what is a girl to a God? geneva knew now.
the greatest thing geneva could have ever been was accomplished; it was so clear like water. her final form was alone.
