As an innocent little lady my grandmother often told me one of those stories that, for a child so small, they were sad and mournful. No big bad wolves, no happy endings. Only legends with a sad truth in it.
It was a different kind of creature; white, pale, with a glance indescribably deep. It was a figure almost evanescent. His guardian took care of her, but every time they went for long walks in the Old Forest, the girl wept. This wood seemed endless stretch over several floors and the trees, once lush and radiant, appeared dismembered and suffering. The burned logs of the Old Forest told of past centuries and wars never won. Of intimacy and suicides. That creature could hear all of this and suffered with the forest, talking and listening to her.
I remember it was a winter day that the call became more and more sharp and insistent, that day when the sun and moon appeared as single on his face. Her sorrow showed as an ordeal: her transformation in the form of agony. Small leaves began to sprout from her back, harass between her tender strips of flesh. Long stems were prolonged by her thin arms, shaking and scratching and stabbing her white thin skin with spurs. Streams of blood distillated from the torn body, hungrily absorbed from the barren earth. Now only a figure gazed the macabre, stunning show.
"You can protect someone from something, but no one can protect her from herself."
The love of the world was focused on a single, bleak look. In an immortal embrace of pain. The worst goodbye and the sublime one. The memory of her extinct eye was fixed in his mind as the ultimate sweet memory. Suddenly all around burst of flowers and perfumes ever created.