She was Gabriela, black mossy hair dark eyes and skin white like milk. I have this picture of her in my mind: she was sitting at her desk, first row on the left just one step away from the teaching post. Her big eyes gazing at me in distress. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t have to. Her steady lips would never tell that her soul was weeping.
There were more than forty people in that classroom and none of them said a word.
I was young and immature before that I had never been hurt. I didn’t know what it felt to have your heart shattered in thousands of pieces.
Like my mother used to say: people are afraid that someone might do to them what they do to others. A critic is afraid of being criticized, a thief is afraid of being robbed and for a more plastic example: a lover is very much afraid of being loved. Now all I am afraid of is having my heart broken in pieces.
Little I knew about love back then and little I know even now. A friend told me that she was in love with me. And instead of being happy and nice to her … I just used it to my advantage asking her favours and when she denied my requests I just told her in front of everyone that I don’t love her and that I would never love her.
... to be continued
"Chapter 3 - How to Lift a Curse" ( part 1 )
--A. Dreamer
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