The Untamable Heart is one of my dearest stories, as well as one of my earliest works. It is a dark, kind-of-gothic dramatic story, featuring a young man who finds a manuscript in his home’s attic, a manuscript incidentally written by his namesake.
By reading that manuscript, Anthony (which is also the author’s name) will unveil the dark past of that old house, a past long forgotten – and for a reason.
All the short stories in the Cycle of Seven appear here in their first draft version. All formatting, spelling, and grammar mistakes were fixed in later versions of the stories, revised for self-publication. A link to the book will be provided when available.
Is there a more frightening pain than the one of love? A pain as equally bitter, excruciating for the human psyche? Is there anything equally able to slowly reduce one’s soul to a severed nail’s size, an insignificant grain of sand in the farthest part of our neverending Universe? Before I unveiled that manuscript in my attic, I probably didn’t even think of an answer to such question. To be fair, perhaps, I didn’t even think of the question itself.
Too many pains at once. Too many failures, hopes, delusions and shattered dreams. Everything – too much – came back to my mind in that instant, as I was sitting on the armchair in my living room, with nothing else but my heart in one hand and a fiery scalpel in the other. Ready to inflict the umpteenth wound that would leave the umpteenth scar.
That time, however, someone else had already engraved the wound in my place. I could feel it, there, under my skin, still fresh and spurting blood. I could already feel that I would need much more time than usual to let it heal clean. My shaking heart’s accelerating heartbeat was doing nothing but making my pain even more vivid. A recalcitrant and disobedient heart, suppressed by the infinite torment of my existence.
My sight was blurry, my fingers still wet from the tears shedded a few instants earlier. It was a moment of quiet. But my body and my heart were still calling for one more outburst, and there was no way out: it would come soon. It’s not like I was interested in avoiding it, anyway.
And there it was.
I felt every pain, every failure, every hope, every delusion, and every shattered dream in my lacrimal ducts, pushing outwards. With every tear flowing down my cheeks, my entire body complained and closed itself up in an unbearable sorrow, a pain going beyond the simple nerve impulse and engraving itself directly on my soul, twisted for the continuous strikes I was sending her from the outside world.
And every fragment of the person I was slipped away, from my eyes to my cheeks, from my cheeks to my chin, and from my chin to the ground. Forever.
Long gone was the time, now, in which I had been a pure person. Loved by everybody, hated by no one. The memories of my – according to others – most impeccable perks vanished into thin air. Perhaps they didn’t even exist anymore. Corrupted and cast away by suffered grievances, sent away by caused grievances, destined to be buried in the farthest part of my psyche, impossible to be found by who I was now.
The years of loneliness – the so-called “love” chanted by the highest poets, as close to men as it was far from me – pushed me on the edge of the darkest darkness from which, of course, nobody said it would be easy to get out.
When suddenly, one day, a light. Feeble, but discernable. Faint, but vivid. A wind of change that, maybe, could bring a breath of fresh air in my more and more meaningless life.
But it didn’t. And everything went down, faster, faster, just as, meanwhile, the edge of the cliff had never been closer.
That one came too, eventually. And it came exactly that day, in that moment, on that armchair of that living room. And I felt it touching me, annihilating me from the foundations, as quick and unpredictable as a thunderbolt cast at me from infuriating skies. Every remaining fragment of my goodness would slip away, outside a body which didn’t wish for it anymore. While my heart, fearless, would pound faster and faster, locked into the cage of my chest.
They say the body is the mirror of the mind… All I know is that, at the time, my body was my mind. And it felt a horrific, unbounded need to purge itself from any evil it believed to have found. Everything that, after all, wouldn’t have been bad, in a normal life.
Once, as a child, I climbed a hill too steep for my then small feet, and, when on the top, I was able to gaze at a body of water that would stretch for miles, starting from the bottom of the downhill below. Someone told me that the lake was made up of many small, miniscule drops of water that would work together to keep it strong and healthy, despite all that men could do to alterate the environment. But what would happen, I wonder, if the lake started to paradoxically hate all the drops of water he is made up of, without saving any of them?
A total rejection of any form of its being, from the highest to the lowest, perhaps. A desire to recreate itself, to renovate, to find something new, new droplets that would replace the old ones. And a vain, empty illusion to succeed, led by an even blinder will.
All of this was obviously impossible to achieve, whether it be a simple lake, whether it be me. But it wouldn’t prevent me anyway from feeling what was, undoubtedly, the most dreadful form of pain I ever tried before that point, one that prevented me from even noticing the oppressive nausea that stepped in, after I forced me to expel all those tears, and all that pain. Every single molecule of my body strived to channel into my lacrimal ducts to be expelled, every single molecule that would contain a mere trace of goodness, a mere, insignificant piece of my soul. My rejection and my hatred for the world were next to being desperate, and, despite all of this, my heart would still look as healthy as ever, as alive as ever, as if it drained power and energy from my weakening, as if it would rejoice of my sorrow, as gallopping in my chest as it was.
And, at that point, all I wanted, more than anything, was not the opportunity to redeem myself, or the opportunity to step into the game again – unlike the many times I had hoped and ardently wished to do so, in the past.
The only choice I had left, now, would be to accept the madness of my isolation.
Then, the story ended. With a sentence that would make my heart the size of a breadcrumb.
And, if you shed a few tears while reading this story, fear not: the man I spoke of in first person is not me.
After looking at that text for a few minutes, apparently unable to look away from it, I put the manuscript back into its original chest and exited the attic, in a respectful silence filled with thoughts. My eyes full of tears of commotion, I processed that choking story in an instant. And, in the same instant, I realised that those words, heartfelt in their purity, would never abandon my soul for the rest of my mortal life.
The next day I came back to the attic, led by the twisted and conflicting desire of pursuing what more could let us feel pain: by curiosity, hopeless master and ruler of all human impulses, even sexuals. My heart would speak in my stead: it couldn’t end like that, I refused to believe it. There must be something else.
It wouldn’t be much before I found what I was looking for, buried under a pile of books, not far from the chest that hosted the first part of the manuscript. The shaky stroke was unmistakeable, as they were the ink and its writing curve. However, I noticed an even bigger uncertainty in the text’s structure, decorated by uncountable cuts to equally uncountable sentences, and words. As if the head of the author was haunted by a whirlwind of thoughts that would continuously ram against each other, without clear criteria. Cut words and sentences were totally unreadable, conceiled with almost manic care and precision. The rest of the text, written in barely readable and faded ink, left no room for doubts. The author, victim of an uncontrollable inner struggle, was fighting with himself to not succumb. Perhaps, even with his heart, so loved and hated in the course of his life. Something, at that very moment, made me guess that he was only aware of one truth: that he would never win that battle.
After all, why would I fight? What good can it bring? I fought for a lifetime, and for what? For this? The umpteenth disappointment?
I left my studies, locking myself at home to listen to my profound wish for isolation from the whole world. Nobody came to look after me for days, from the outside, and I was almost left to myself. My only comfort was coming from my family, who, despite everything, couldn’t even understand my illness, and was more of a boredom than a form of help. I found out I had always been alone, already isolated in a hostile world, a world that would only apparently welcome me in his shadows like one of the family, far from rejecting a coward in his mansion – so long as that coward would, foolishly, keep on loving him.
That’s how my attic started to look like a comfort zone, sensitive, a place where I could think and seal myself off the world itself, looking for my inner peace like a pleasant awakening from a nightmare. And yet I knew that, every time I escaped, the nightmare – just like recurring dreams – would start again. And I started spending more and more time in the attic. More and more…
Only here, in this musty place, cheered up by a small circular window on farthest wall, my heart could finally find its peace. Only here, the wounds it welcomed could be healed and treated one by one, cared for and appeased like a baby in diapers. But here it is, the issue with babies in diapers: the more you care for them, the more they tend to grow up. And the numerous scars on my heart – reopened by new meditations, re-examined, undermined, and brought up to the surface more and more every day – could do nothing but behave exactly like children wanting to grow up.
The pain in my chest was stronger and stronger every time I went to the attic, as if that involontary muscle in the left part of my chest could not stand those continued pokes, that continued feeling of dying a bit more every day. And, after two weeks, the pain started to…
Again, suddenly, the story ended. This time, however, with no farewell. No clues on the author’s next move. Only a vowel, an “A”, suspended in the time and space of the attic I was into, undoubtedly the one mentioned by the manuscript. The rest of the sheet was missing, teared off by a couple of imprecise, shaking hands. Nonetheless, I believed to have read enough. For that hour, that day, that lifetime. The sinister journey into that boy’s soul started to be too much for me, a burden harder and harder to bear on my shoulders.
I went out of the attic, promising myself to never go back there.
That same night, I couldn’t sleep. No matter how many times I could turn around in bed, nor how many comfortable positions my body would find; my mind was still up there, in the loft. And my heart, a cold and scheming one for a lifetime, was probably there too, making good company for my thoughts like an old friend, and moved by the story of the boy it met less than twentyfour hours before.
To fall asleep was impossible – I was certain, now. So, I decided I would let my body rejoin the other two parts of my being, by allowing me a new trip in the heart of my young, new friend.
With nothing but a match and the moonlight’s aid, it would be a titanic venture to find other parts of the tale. I couldn’t believe an attic could be so chaotic, nor that it could conceal such dark secrets. However, unexpectedly, I eventually found another, short piece of the manuscript. It looked the very next part of the one I had read in the morning, but it wasn’t certainly the missing part. The sheet was entirely unharmed.
The stroke, now shakier than ever, almost ghostly, was embellished by much less precise cuts and scribbles, apparently carried out with superficiality, as if it didn’t matter to hide those written thoughts anymore. Without hesitation, I submerged into the one that would become the last reading of that dreadful story.
Here we are. The end. I saw it coming. I knew I wouldn’t resist for long. This pain is killing me. My life slips away at the same pace as the ink imprinting on this sheet of paper. But it doesn’t matter. I was not born to love, nor to be loved. And, perhaps, it is better this way. At least I shall be gone knowing that my heart – this tiny, insipid organ where feelings do not reside more than in the brain, would come along in my grave. And it won’t hurt me anymore.
But, if I might, and if my time has truly come, I want him, the untamable source of all my evils, to be rightly rewarded.
Only then, I noticed: the remaining parts of the paper, although yellowed by time, featured some faded stains which I could only see under the moonlight. I let the blood-stained sheet fall at my feet, as the shock made me instinctively loosen the tension of my fingers. Whatever the boy could have done, it was too late, now. That would have been the last message he left to the world: a message stained with blood, gushed from his own heart out of madness or, even more sadly so, out of excessive sanity.
I realised I had gone too deep into the matter, now, to get out of it just as easily.
In the following days, I became literally obsessed with the boy. I knew and guessed so little, of his unfortunate life: he was surely a young boy; he had loved many times, unreturned; he had endured all those pains, until he went mad. That was it. And, with no one else to blame but himself and his feelings, he decided to take it out on his own body, his own source of life: his heart.
I looked for clues all over his old house (which was now mine, after being empty for fifteen years or so), I flipped through all the books in his old library, I explored every cranny of his cursed attic looking for some more pieces of the manuscripts, or, simply, for the tiniest bit of information about him to shred light on the whole matter. In vain.
Then, one day, as I carried a big, old and worm-holed night table outside for the trash cart, I felt like the whole neighbourhood was staring at me. And it was exactly like that: among my many neighbours, all those who were outside, when I brought out the night table, started to look at me, as if I were holding a demonic piece of furniture.
Of all of them, however, it was the closest one to start talking to me. Actually, rather than talking, he was thinking out loud. He was an old man, probably sixty-years old, leaning with all his weight on a sturdy walking cane; and he stared at me with his eyes wide-open, in surprise, or more likely due to vision problems.
«Right, poor Anthony… We all miss that lad.»
As I heard that name, I jumped.
«Excuse me, what did you say?»
But the old man was already walking towards the entrance of his humble mansion, a small house that wasn’t even half as big as mine.
Generally, I wouldn’t be shocked if anybody else were to be called with my name. In that case, however, that “anybody else” was not “anybody” anymore.
Despite how much that scary coincidence could sound disturbing, though, I forced myself to avoid thinking of it for the rest of my busy day of cleaning and investigations around my house.
That night, my insomnia came back to haunt me.
I dreamt of a very young boy, pursued by a gigantic pulsing heart, which grew in size at every heartbeat. No matter how much the boy tried to send it away, that huge muscle wouldn’t give up. On the contrary, it raged more and more against him, by indirectly pushing him towards a big, wrought-iron gate, rising in the grey sky like a sinister manor; a gate that looked very familiar to me, in all honesty. Beyond the gate, a never-ending expanse of candid latin crosses, standing up on horizontal white-stoned slabs, made me guess that there, one way or another, the boy’s run would stop. Maybe, it had happened already.
When I woke up, a few instants later, a sudden flash went through my head, immediately suggesting me what to do next.
First thing in the morning, I went to the city hall looking for information on all the old owners of my house. That mansion had been mine for more than five months, during which time I totally ignored the secret hiding underneath it – or, I shall say, above it. However, no one would go and live in that house for at least fifteen years before me. Such truth was actually a nice bit of good luck, for me: it didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for, nor for me to notice that, at the city hall, all the functionaries were constantly stealing some glances at me, in a way no one had ever looked before. There was something strange, perhaps forbidden in my quest – a feeling that a sane man, maybe, would have just picked up as the right reason to stop in time. But, if there was something I shared with my new, unlucky friend, it was exactly some kind of barely perceivable, deep-rooted insanity. That kind of insanity that pushes you to always live on the edge; that kind of insanity that knows no peace, nor end.
When I managed to get all I needed, I stepped away from that place filled with hostility, and walked straight to my objective.
I wasn’t wrong when, as I woke up from my nightmare, I had the feeling to have seen that huge gate somewhere already. A gate that was now standing in front of me, sealed with a padlock to prevent all the stray animals from the neighbourhood from trespassing – and possibly outraging what was held beyond. Of course, by “stray animals”, I am also referring to bipeds of the very kind that built it, the gate.
The padlock didn’t catch me unprepared. I had predicted such obstacle, and it wasn’t hard to use a little hairpin to unlock the gate. Instead, it would certainly have been harder to find someone who couldn’t pick a lock, when all this story took place. Technically, I was committing a felony – but was it a good reason to stop right there, one step closer to my objective? Again, a man gifted with some sanity would answer “Yes” to that question. I, on the contrary, didn’t even think about giving up.
The expanse of white graves in the cimitery was as ghostly of a view as it was fascinating, perhaps because of the sky – which had turned grey several hours before. The wind blew North, carrying along a cold, humid Winter air that wouldn’t make me foresee anything good for the following hours.
It was impossible to stay unaltered in front of what showed up in front of my eyes: rows and rows of graves would succeed each other along a perfectly well-cared garden, stretching for dozens of yards as far as the eye could see. It could even be going as far as a couple miles. The feeling was that of getting into a fortified citadel, enclosed in a wall of unpolished bricks at least six feet tall, and aesthetically bare too. But, after all, who could complain about that, of the hundreds of citizens inside?
Though it wasn’t a common grave, the one I was looking for. According to what I found out at the city hall, Anthony’s family – God, if it isn’t weird to pronounce my same name for a dead person – had been rather wealthy in the past, and they once decided to approve the contruction of a grave-chapel, which would then be entitled to the whole family; construction which was finished just a few years before Anthony’s death, as if the project had been some kind of macabre foreshadowing. I highly doubt, however, that anybody – apart from him – had ever stepped inside to be awarded the last rites. That chapel had always been his, in the whole neighbourhood’s opinion and according to anybody who ever met Anthony. And many, probably with good reason, were way wary of visiting him. It was impossible, for a simple man of the world like myself, to guess the reason behind that veil of mystery.
The chapel was exactly what you would expect from a wealthy family, no more and no less. With its well-polished stone walls, it stood high among all of the other chapels – mainly because of a shiny dome on the top, probably made of brass, which featured an iron, broadly stylised latin cross on the summit. The entrance of the chapel, protected by a marble door with a single knocker which was almost as tall as the entire small building, was covered by a majestic iron grid – one that had definitely seen better days. Surprisingly enough, as if both of them were waiting for my arrival, the iron grid was wide open, and the marble door half-closed.
The deep silence surrounding me was perfectly suitable to the place where I was about to step in. There was no sound, not even from the road, be it carts or men. It was almost as like the whole world forgot to breathe, suddenly, as I was about to trespass the giant gate at the entrance.
A cold shiver went through my whole spine. I strived to believe it was the wind’s fault, which was turning icier and more violent behind my back. As I approached the chapel, a pungent odour of incense sneaked with ever-growing arrogance into my nostrils, probably a sign that someone had been in the chapel some time before… Or that something had set everything up to wait for me. By that time, as a vulnerable victim for the darkest of concerns, my fearful mind was prone to believing anything and anyone. Nonetheless, I couldn’t stop me from going on.
A dazzling lightning teared apart the mild quiet of the afternoon sky, feebly lit up by the sunlight – which was, although shyly, still present beyond the thick ceiling of grey clouds. Heavy rain started to hit the ground at increasing speed, creating puddles of mud all around me and on the naked dirt of the cemetery. At that point, perhaps for a trick of fate, I knew I had no other choice: I had to step into that small, claustrophobic chapel.
Darkness pierced through my bones, seemingly mixed to the smell of incense floating inside the small, dark chamber. Four little candles were lit up, placed at the four corners of the room, and their faint light allowed all the outlines and silhouettes in the chapel to be perfectly visible, even with the dark light coming from the little windows on the walls. It’s not like there was much to see, in there. The chapel was almost entirely empty, with a censer to the right of the entrance and a few dry leaves here and there, perhaps remains of a superficial cleansing performed by a lazy (or, more likely, impressionable) employer. The empty wall left no room to decorations, except the usual, almost dull iron latin cross on the back wall.
And then, the tombstone. White, pure, carefully kept, as if it had been placed there just a few hours earlier. Time didn’t seem to affect her at all, and not a single molecule of moss would venture up the candid slab of stone over the last few years. The white marble shimmered under the feeble light of the candles, with shaking little flames reflecting on the surface, and dancing in front of my eyes almost inviting me to get closer and closer. At the bottom of the tombstone, I noticed a series of indistinct shapes, probably some old flower pots made frail by time and humidity, unlike the tombstone that had just showed up in front of my eyes.
The heavy marble door at the entrance locked behind me with a violent noise, that shook the entire chapel from the inside out. I jumped, but I didn’t give it too much weight. Wind’s fault, I said to myself, probably to convince my own spirit. I then kept on approaching, slowly, young Anthony’s tombstone.
When my eyes could finally read the dates of his birth and death, I was shocked by the elementary calculation that my mind had just performed.
«This boy was just seventeen!», I said, thinking out loud.
I suddenly felt an awful kind of compassion for that unlucky soul, forced by her own, frail personality to abandon life way before it could really sprout. Instinctively, I brought my right hand to my mouth and I started clenching my lips between index and thumb, as I often did when I tried to keep my emotions at bay, in the past. And, as I was busy trying to hold up whatever the heartbreaking sight of that tombstone had provoked, my eyes moved, again and by pure accident, on one of the numerous shapes at the base of the tombstone.
A smiling teddy bear, snow-white and spotless as the tomb, was sitting up still, looking at the front door. At his feet, I noticed a note, creased yet perfectly readable, written by the shaky hand of a child with still an uncertain handwriting.
I crouched, and, opening my eyes wide, tried to read and make out what was written there.
To my big brother, because he knows that I love him so much after all. Mum said this teddy bear was always in your crib, that you hugged him and kissed him like a little brother. I hope he will keep you more company than us, now that we aren’t with you anymore.
Daddy doesn’t want to come and visit anymore. He says it’s his fault, that he cannot stand the view of your tomb… I think it’s because your tomb never grows old, and he instead is starting to grow white hair. Don’t tell him I said that, though!
Mum instead says that your tombstone doesn’t grow old because God knows you died young. I don’t believe her. I think you are still alive. And I know that one day you’ll come back to us.
Mum doesn’t want me to talk like that, though… She says that I’m hurting myself, and that I’m hurting her too. I always ask you what you would do in my place, before I sleep, you know? And I wait for your answer, I turn around to see you in your bed, hoping to see you there. But you still don’t come back.
I Miss You.
See you soon,
Your little sister.
My sight blurred almost instantly. My leg muscles wouldn’t stand me in that position anymore, and they forced me to fall over on the ground. Before I even noticed, I had my palms on my face, in a futile attempt to push back tears for a reason that wasn’t even clear to me. I didn’t know myself what was happening. But it was then that I realised a simple truth: ever since I had found that manuscript in my loft, my life and my soul had mutated profoundly. I had always bragged about having a strong and resistant heart, but now… Tears would roll down on their own, as if I were the same author of the message lying at the feet of the teddy bear. I realised that my life, my entire life, filled with superficiality and materialistic satisfaction, never had a one, true meaning. And I cleansed myself, just like Anthony: I purified from all the evil I had welcomed over my almost-thirty, long years.
Then, suddenly, I heard something.
A wail. A contained and delicate sobbing, shy, almost. I thought it was the echo of my own lament, but, even when I stopped to listen, it wouldn’t shut down.
It was coming from the tombstone. From the grave, directly beneath me. From the walls of the chapel. Even from the entrance door. It was like the whole tomb was suffering from a pain no man can know, nor imagine. It was almost like, I would dare to say, it was partaking in my same sorrow. However, the sobbing voice was the one of a man, and, despite the muffled reverberation, clearly defined too. Perhaps more human than I had been myself, before getting to know Anthony’s story.
It was then that I finally heard something else too. A deep sound, this time clearly sprouting from the grave, under the tombstone.
A few hits, muffled just like the wails surrounding me. Nothing artificial, no: they weren’t human hands, the one I heard pounding, and they weren’t muffled hits against a surface. It sounded more like a guttural, profound sound, with a short pause every two rapid hits. A pause that would grow smaller and smaller. I had to totally regain my lucidity, before I could realise that I perfectly knew that sound already, for it was something that I had been hearing ever since the day I was born: a pure, simple heartbeat.
Impossible, I thought, without actually thinking; Anthony killed himself by stabbing his heart! It was in all the newspapers!
And yet, that sound was unmistakable. A heartbeat, coming from the depths of Earth; a sound impossible to hear unless your ears are properly isolated – and yet, now emerging from the cavity under my feet, with quivering arrogance, desperately trying to contrast all the pain that the whole chapel, around me, had been feeling for at least two minutes.
I was assaulted by an increasing sense of anxiety, as the violent heartbeat tried to plant its roots in my brain. My whole head was pounding, the wails became more and more unbearable and heavy, and a sinister whisper suddenly came at me, sprouting from the inscriptions on the very grave.
Then, suddenly, all was clear.
A wave of memories invaded my mind, bringing me back to the happiest moments of my childhood. A happy family, a caring mother and father, a little sister with whom I often fought and who had rarely seen my true affection towards her. Old items, junk, and toys that had no meaning to me anymore. Except…
A teddy. White, smiling, its eyes fixed in front of itself. Some pictures of me, in a cradle, as I hugged it with innocent bliss, as if I didn’t wish for anything else in all my existence. And I saw myself living a happy childhood, and tormented teenage years, and a thousand joys and a thousand pains and a thousand more letdowns that, as they hit my brain, became more and more difficult to bear. I saw myself with a pen in hand, putting down in black and white a story that – I hoped – nobody would ever read. I remembered the pains in my chest, a recalcitrant heart that woudn’t stand a body and a mind such as mine, home to a frail soul which, at the same time, was almost unique. And I remembered how I could never finish that manuscript before it was too late.
But I also realised that such life, which was now flowing through my brain as a flash, had never been mine.
And then, I saw that our dates of birth perfectly matched. Our heart, no. Not until that point, at least.
The wails, the whispers, the sounds inside that dark chapel slowly ceased, fading away into darkness. The tombstone and the teddy bear started to consume, dissolve, get old. In a few seconds, I saw on them the effects of a time long gone, and I admired them as their purity and their perfection abandoned them, as if they were slowly being passed on something else, somebody else. I saw the creased note turn into dust in front of my eyes, and I remembered the little girl, Anthony’s sister – and God knows where she might be now.
A new energy, lying dormant for far too long in that tomb, filled my soul and established in my heart. It was then that I lived on my skin all the pains of young Anthony, my namesake – and, if only he had been still alive, my contemporary. My old, empty life, my vain memories, everything was washed away by the newcomer, who implanted all his joys and pains in the deepest part of my being – where finally, after so many years, he found a place willing to welcome him. Forever.
All I remember is that, at some point, after too many minutes standing up to stare at Anthony’s tombstone and teddy bear – which were now completely worn out –, I went out of the chapel without even thinking about the rain and the mud, messing with my clothes and part of my body. Mainly because my body had, at that point of my life and ever since, lost even the most insignificant of its lowest values.
Today, I don’t know if Anthony’s soul managed to find its peace, after unloading that heavy burden that haunted him, in life. I don’t even know why it had been so difficult to break free from it, to say the truth. But after all, my dearest friends, what can a simple man do, in front of the purest of hearts? It might be possible to scratch it, hurt it for a short time, perhaps, but there’s no limpid and innocent heart, nor a heart capable of sincere and devote love, that would be vulnerable to human-inflicted wounds. And Anthony, I know it quite well now, he did: he had the purest heart of all.
Copyright © 2018, Anthony Wolf