My Name is Rapunzel(17)

I should have aged and died long ago, but my prison didn't allow such luxuries. Cursed to live forever, frozen at the very age I'd last seen him—my love, the person to make my ever-after the happiest it could possibly be. With him gone, there was only darkness. There was only loneliness. And there was only the dull drone of my heart that used to beat for Henry. Many have longed for the chance to live forever, but none of those people understood the risk of an eternal existence with grief as an anchor chained to one’s heart forever.

Would I ever feel love again? Would I ever find peace in my heart? Would I ever awaken to face a new day and not pelt my unanswering consciousness with these same fruitless questions? If not after two hundred and fifty years, then when?

I threw the covers off my body and let the chill assault me. My muscles tightened against the frigid attack. The main rooms of the castle now had heat with the help of a monster furnace and some vents we’d had installed just last year. I just couldn’t see clear to allowing them to pump that gas-heated air into my chambers. The warmth would be nice on mornings like this, but I’d survived with nothing but woodstoves for many, many years. Then fireplaces. Then oil-filled heaters. I had to slow the mad race to the future somehow.

Besides, it was a reminder of my existence. If I didn't feel the cold or the heat, it would mean I was dead. If only. I punched the wall with my fist and left a smudge near the others. I stood and allowed my feet to meet the cold stone floor, then quickly found the warm slippers peeking out from under the bed. Grabbing the throw blanket from the corner of the bed, I swaddled it around my shoulders, cocooning myself in its warmth. The stone walls kept the room chilly, but it was nice during the heat of the day.

I shuffled over to my dressing area, pulling the blanket tighter. It wasn’t fair. I'd lost everything. Then lost it all again. Was I doomed to a life of endless pain? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I wasn’t so sure. It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't been forced to face that truth for so many days, the sweet escape of death so out of my reach.

My gaze narrowed as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It confirmed everything to be true—a bitter reflection of the very thing I knew I wanted so desperately to be false, to be a mere a figment of my imagination. But, the silent mirror was honest. Even though I looked just like her on the outside, I wasn't the giddy girl I was on the day of my first…and last…kiss.

Gripping the sides of the oval mirror, I pulled my face close and inspected the corners of my eyes for wrinkles, my neck for age spots, anything to signal that time was closing in on me. But as always, there were no promising developments.

I was still perfect.

I shrank back. This was why I didn’t look in the mirror very often. It only piled on more pain and zapped any hope of escape from my prison of flesh.

I turned my back on my reflection and scanned the room. Everything appeared to be just as I'd seen it last night. The wingback chairs stood proud on each side of the settee, positioned in front of a cozy stone fireplace—an invitation to non-existent guests. A sleek silver laptop sat open on the mahogany coffee table next to a vase of wilting flowers I’d picked a few days ago. The black screen slept until my touch would awaken it.

I'd never been good at remembering to turn it off after using it. Still so new and confusing to me compared to the days gone by when no such things existed. As reluctant as I was to embrace this new technology, I quickly grew fond of it, as it became a welcome diversion. The hours I spent sprawled on my bed, whiling away the time, were ones I wasn’t thinking of Henry.

Solitaire became my companion, each move like a conversation. And the computer made easy work of writing in my journal. Something felt cold and sterile about composing personal thoughts into a machine rather than scrawling them out by hand. It was almost too easy, but at least my private ramblings were protected by a password. Besides, it certainly beat plunking away at that dreadful old typewriter.

The book I’d been reading last night laid propped open on the floor where it had fallen, presumably after I’d dozed off the night before. A blue ribbon dangled from between the pages. At least my books had remained constant friends during my life. After so many years, I sometimes felt imprisoned, but through my books, I had been able to temporarily escape without ever leaving home. I comfortably traveled the world, and other worlds, by simply reading written words, and I never had to leave the safety of my tower chamber.

Historicals were my favorite. They took me back in time to a place that felt more familiar. More like home. Pride and Prejudice, really anything by Jane Austen, felt like I was reliving my own memories, or even farther back to times and places that no one could truly remember. What joy to find them on the pages of books. To realize that there was an existence before mine, even if there wouldn’t be one after.