the alabaster statue shines, an eerie deathly white in the forbidden forest; the serene smile on her face a distraction from the perfect shape of her eyes or the way her hair falls across her face. the moon casts its shadow on the veil on her head; its light falls almost like a spot light over the contours of her face, the etched lines of her eyelids, the miniscule marks upon her lips; every imaginary alabaster freckle.
it is the statue’s power that draws you to it; it is its silent call you and no one else hears, the walk on on forbidden soil, where every rustle sent alarm bells blaring off in your head–until the need to stand before her takes over you and throwing caution to wind, cut across the exposed lawn just to have that few seconds of a direct look full-on her face.
and even now, as you stand before her, willing every glance, every feature and every detail to memory, you know, as sure as you know there will be hell to pay for this entrance into the forbidden forest, you know that this moment, which feels like the most significant period in your life, will one day, just be one of the many lying in the bag of memories you’d have to carry for the rest of your life; one of those old bedtime stories you’d tell your grandchild sitting on your knee.
time is up, my friend, run, get out of there, but there you stand transfixed, seduced, mesmerised by the strange feeling that overwhelms and consumes and eats you out of gut and heart.