Hostage

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She was Lucía, and Lucía was beautiful and young, or at least she was. She was Lucía, and Lucía was beautiful inside, she was beautiful on the outside. She was Lucía, the cheerful girl from the village, the one who always smelled of roses and wore her dress of yellow sunflowers. She was Lucía, but no one called her that anymore, not for long. She was Lucía, but it seemed everyone had forgotten her. On the papers she signed, she was Luci; in the office where she worked, she was Miss Lu. But to him, to his love, to the stranger to others, in her perfumed letters, she was simply L.

"I'll be back soon, L. I'll be back for you. You have to wait for me. I'll be back. Don't forget me, L. I'll always be yours. With love, yours, A.

That was 20 years ago, and since then, the life of Lucía, of Lucy, of Miss Lu, has been on a complete pause, suspended in a fragment of time and space, in a fragment of memory almost forgotten by others but very much alive for her, all too alive. From one day to the next, from one day to the next, Lucía became the hostage, the hostage of many names, of promise and waiting... The letter grew blurrier each year, perhaps because of the mixture of kisses and tears he gave her each night. The ink faded more and more each day, and she remained a hostage of the time of waiting. Lucía was there, every afternoon, every night, sitting on the same balcony, reading the same letter, the same promise, the same balcony, the same dress of yellow sunflowers. She knew he loved it very much, and she wore it with the wait, the longing that when he arrived, she would be wearing it. The wind brought her echoes of their last embrace, their last kiss, and she picked up and carried on her shoulders the invisible chain that bound her, that held her hostage. Sometimes she felt footsteps that reminded her of his journey, and she gathered that hope like crumbs of bread. Lucía was a hostage, yes, a hostage of love, of a love that seemed more distant every day, more impossible, but she was also a hostage of a name that didn’t belong to her. She was no longer Lucía, she was no longer Lucy, she was no longer Miss Lu, now she was only L, tied to a letter, to a yellowish paper with blurred ink from which chains emerged that trapped her. Lucía had existed before that letter and she had been happy, she was beautiful and young, she was beautiful inside, she was beautiful outside, she was Lucía, the happy girl from town, the one who always smelled of roses and wore her dress of yellow sunflowers, she was Lucía but no one called her that anymore, now she was L, and in her hair dyed the white color of time a memory was lost, a memory she had lost. She didn’t remember what the paper she always held said, she didn’t remember what drawings were on her dress. She knew what she was waiting for, she knew she was a hostage of time, only, but she didn’t know what she was waiting for and what those chains were that tied her to the paper and to the balcony. She waited without knowing what, without knowing who, she waited without knowing that she would wait forever.

One night, while everyone was asleep, L stepped off the balcony and into the sea. They say some young people saw her dissolve into foam in the tide, as if the sea wanted to free her from the chains and paper to which she was held hostage. The next day, the balcony dawned alone. A daisy had bloomed in a pot, and it was the freest daisy in the world. L was no longer anyone's hostage; perhaps she had finally reunited with her love.

The Inkwell Fiction Prompt #234▶ https://ecency.com/category/@theinkwell/the-inkwell-fiction-prompt-234

Rehén

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Ella era Lucía y Lucía era bella y joven o al menos lo fue ella era Lucía y Lucía era hermosa por dentro, era hermosa por fuera, ella era Lucía la chica alegre del pueblo, la que siempre olía a rosas y vestía su vestido de girasoles amarillos, ella era Lucía pero ya nadie la llamaba así, no desde hace mucho, ella era Lucía pero parecía que todos la habían olvidado. En los papeles que firmaba era: Luci, en la oficina donde trabajaba era Miss Lu, pero para él, para su amor, para el desconocido de los demás, en sus perfumadas cartas era simplemente: L.

-Volveré pronto L, volveré por ti, tienes que esperarme, volveré no te olvides de mí L, siempre seré tuyo. Con amor, tu A.

Eso fue hace 20 años y desde entonces la vida de Lucía, de Lucy, de Miss Lu, quedó en una pausa total, suspendida en un fragmento del tiempo y del espacio, en un fragmento de recuerdo casi olvidado por otros pero para ella muy vivo, demasiado vivo. Lucía se convirtió de un día a otro, de la noche a la mañana en la rehén, la rehén de muchos nombres de la promesa y de la espera... La carta cada año se hacía más borrosa quizás por la mezcla entre besos y lágrimas que le regalaba cada noche, la tinta se desvanecía cada día más y ella seguía de rehén de rehén del tiempo de la espera. Lucía estaba ahí, cada tarde, cada noche, sentada en el mismo balcón, leyendo la misma carta la misma promesa, el mismo balcón, el mismo vestido de girasoles amarillos, sabía que a él le gustaba mucho y lo usaba con la espera la añoranza de que cuando él llegara ella lo estaría usando. El viento le traía ecos de su último abrazo, de su último beso, y ella recogía y cargaba sobre sus hombros la cadena invisible que le ataba que la tenía de rehén, a veces sentía pasos que le recordaban su andar y ella recogía esa esperanza como migajas de pan.

Lucía era rehén sí, rehén del amor, de un amor que parecía cada día más lejano, más imposible pero también era rehén de un nombre que no le pertenecía, ya no era Lucía, ya no era Lucy, ya no era Miss Lu ahora solo, solamente era L, atada a una carta a un papel amarillento con tinta borrosa del que salían cadenas que la atrapaban. Lucía había existido antes de esa carta y había sido feliz era bella y joven, era hermosa por dentro, era hermosa por fuera, ella era Lucía la chica alegre del pueblo, la que siempre olía a rosas y vestía su vestido de girasoles amarillos, ella era Lucía pero ya nadie la llamaba así, ahora era L, y en su cabello teñido con el color blanco del tiempo se perdía una memoria, una memoria que había perdido, no recordaba qué decía el papel que siempre sostenía, no recordaba qué dibujos había en su vestido, ella sabía que esperaba, ella sabía que era rehén del tiempo, solamente, pero no sabía qué esperaba y de qué eran esas cadenas que la ataban al papel y al balcón. Esperaba sin saber qué, sin saber quién, esperaba sin saber que esperaría por siempre.

Una noche mientras todos dormían L bajó del balcón, y se adentró al Mar, cuentan que unos jóvenes la vieron cómo se deshacía en la marea convirtiéndose en espuma, como si el mar quisiera liberarla de las cadenas y el papel del que era rehén al día siguiente el balcón amaneció solo, una margarita había florecido en una maceta, y era la margarita más libre del mundo. Ya L no era rehén de nadie, quizás al fin se reunió con su amor.

The Inkwell Fiction Prompt #234▶ https://ecency.com/category/@theinkwell/the-inkwell-fiction-prompt-234