What was it he had really fallen in love with?

           What had made her so unique?

           What had been hers and nobody else’s?

           What was it?

            It was her suffering, of course.

           Her unspoken suffering.

           It could not be seen or smelt, or heard by anyone else.

           Its low notes were below the register of her laughter.

           Only her tongue could taste its bitterness.

            It was something only she could feel.

            But he had sensed it.

            There was no point in attempting to explain it to anybody else but during their short time together they had grown to become one and he had grown to know it as if it were his own.

           Together they had carried the weight of its phantom pregnancy and together the load was lighter.

           Through no single deliberate act other than love.

            Fortunately they both had a lot of love to give.

            But neither of them spoke of it. They did not need to. Compassion was their language. It was simply enough that it was known. If not in detail, at least in color and hue; in depth and shadow; in light and darkness.

            But most of all in darkness.

            For it would not allow her to sleep in the dark.

— Extract from ‘Babushka: The Warrior’s Angel’  (CHAPTER III. THE ONLY RACE IS WITH YOURSELF - password: ‘Troika’)

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           But then, no matter how hard she tried to blink it away, the unstoppable tear came calling, snailing its slimy trail down her grimy face.

           She still never looked back though.

           She still never let him see.

           She’d rather have died than let him see.

 

— Extract from ‘Babushka: The Warrior’s Angel’ (CHAPTER VIII. NEVER LOOK BACK - password: ‘Troika’)

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You can support independent British film by following the production of ‘Babushka’, on FacebookTwitter and Pinterest.

          Anyone who had ever lost anyone knew how it felt: what could be more banal?

           First they love you, then… Not.

           There one moment, then not.

           Then life goes on, like it always does.

           You start searching for the positive.

            The kopek in the snow, as she would have called it.

— Extract from ‘Babushka: The Warrior’s Angel’ (CHAPTER V. THE CREATURE IN THE MIRROR - password: ‘Troika’)

Links:

You can support independent British film by following the production of ‘Babushka’, on FacebookTwitter and Pinterest.

(Source: blowsive)


            He lowered his eyes and contemplated his empty hands. <How about the first time you read my palm?>

            Affectionately, she took one of his hands in her own and traced his love-line with an immaculately manicured fingernail. <It was in the maze,> she voxed tenderly. <I kissed the place where our love-lines cross.> Then, lightly kissing his palm, she added: <You had to scratch it because my lips tickled.>

            Re-living the moment, he had to once again scratch the tickle of her kiss away from the palm of his hand. <And you said,> he began to reminisce, only to be interrupted by her own recollection:

            <You can’t rub it away silly. Our futures are already sealed.>

— Extract from ‘Babushka: The Warrior’s Angel’ (CHAPTER VII. FOUR FIFTHS OF EVERYTHING)

(Source: headyhandmade-inactive)

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