The Writers' Circle

Chapter 1
The snow bites at her withered feet - her shoes are finely woven but do not protect her from this freeze. She feels pushed about by the irregular shapes which jut out in an alarming manner. As she makes her way through the alley, branches from deadened trees attempt to grab at her, their sheer blandness engulf the miserable scene. And finally she finds a place on the ground where snow has not managed to creep, and she falls down - more exhausted than she has ever been. From this place she has a much clearer view of the church from which just came. It looks upon her, grandly surveying the city, its detailed glass windows acting as eyes. And who knew, maybe somebody was watching inside the church? Waiting to see what she would do when the clouds thicken and soft flakes drift down out of the blackness. 
And the beginning? 
She is born into a relationship that has just been lost. 
And the end? 
She will return to this place and we will stop when she stops. Drawing her final breath - whether in agony or in peace, that is the end. But for now she struggles to stay in the impoverished community and runs to find somewhere new. And she is desperate, almost clawing onto the remains of life, to meet someone new.
And he comes. 
And he leads her across whitened streets, their hands in each others like it was always meant to be that way, to a park, covered with everything that isn't human. 
And she can only fall.
Into his arms, into a new life, into tragedy, deeper than she had ever imagined before. 

"Katrina get up."
His voice is clear and firm.
She pushed herself up against the head of their bed and went to kiss him but he averts his eyes into hers, telling her to stop. 
"Have you had breakfast?" She asked.
He is on the edge and she does not want to make him cross, like the many times before. 
"No, I have not."
She remembers, hesitantly, when he used to say this to her every morning, slightly embarrassed of himself for waking her up just to get him food. He would stare at the floor until she laughed, or stroked his face with amusement and affection.
He ate loudly, but did not speak. 
She hovered around the kitchen, which was brightening with the newest of daylights. 
The subtle russets of her copper pans caught the light and sent it dancing across the room. She watched in silent awe, her entire body rigid, but it a gentle way, as she takes it in. The fireplace had small mosaic tiles which line the floor. They become alive, like the sea in a bitter tempest. 
He followed her gaze. 
"What are you staring at?" 
For a moment she was still locked in the tranquillity of it. Before she can answer - letting the colour fall back into her face and allowing a small breath to escape her mouth - he was on his feet.
From a distance it seems he was holding her in embrace. But his eyes plunged into hers, and like before she cannot breathe, but her heart is frantic with terror, not because she is following the freedom of the light. He held his face up to hers and does not need to say a word. His features have turned to expose his malevolent heart. The enmity laced across his crooked smile told her never to ignore him again.
Within seconds he let go of her and was out the door, and onto the street. She could hear a neighbour of theirs greet him and his gentle voice carried through the open window and sat by her ears for a long time. 
So quickly he could become.
The truth, whatever that was to anybody.
She imagined that there was a box, on the table, near to where he always sat. And all of the beautiful things she wanted to look at, like the delicate performance of the virgin light, were waiting for her in that box. 
And realising that she had not moved in a long time she walked over to the furnace, and opened it. 
"This is where I will put it." 
She said it incredibly quietly but she was still shocked that she has said it out loud. All of her thoughts were tightly kept in every place she could think to hide them. But it was not a thought she wanted to hide inside the furnace, it was his black side, she wanted it to rot and burn. 
She closed her eyes. She pleaded with someone to return him to her. She feels as if her husband had been lost in war, because she cannot be released of the hope that he is not gone. But maybe that warm spirit had never been hers to lose in the first place. 

Alana's eyes widen when Katrina walked in. Her face, usually a beautiful and emotionless mask, was torn with pain and sorrow. Alana said nothing as Katrina walked through the kitchen, except goes to turn the Open sign to Closed at the door. She thought that now that she has the space, and the time, all the right words will come to her.
But they did not. 
Katrina reached for a knife, and Alana gasped, but felt embarrassed when Katrina starts to prepare the food. The knife seems far too heavy and masculine to fit in her dainty fingers, and yet Katrina used the blade as if it is a part of her, her eyes were elsewhere as she cuts. 
"I am sure there are people waiting Alana, you can open the shop." 
Alana waited, but for no more than a few seconds, and left. She has seen her friend in pain like this many times before but she cannot help wanting to feel it with her. 
Katrina sighed with the space she now felt, but she would never feel like she was away from him. Not completely. This was his kitchen. She felt it every time she moved, that he was everywhere, his eyes on her. If she did not have Alana to tend her wounds in the silent way that she did, Katrina knew she would fall down with the utter betrayal and torment of her husbands hate. 
She remembered being this way the last time she cried for him. When she had found out what she was to him. She remembered feeling like an unloved child, craving for attention. That is what hurts her the most - knowing that there was no end and he did not save her. She cast her mind back to that day with deep regret because she knew that when she unlocks this memory it will feast on her heart, like a leech. She had told him that their darling little café needed brightening, excitedly showing him her plans to revive the place. But he just looked down, the façade slipping away. But he did not touch her. No, it was worse that he ignored her. Katrina was confused and sought Alana's advice, when was the last time he painted the place she asked. Alana's heavy laugh stunned Katrina, no, no, no, she bellowed, Peter would never touch this place, it was his mother who loved it like you do. He had inherited the café. She clung to her chest because she could not breathe. She had been thrown aside, put behind the walls so no-one could see her. It was never theirs. It was his and she was merely an object that would satisfy him because she was so blind with love. Too blind to hear the lies in his promises, that they would live, and love, and breathe together. But she worked for him. And she cried, letting all the humanity in her drain away.
She was done. 

Chapter 2
When Katrina had first come she was the object of gossip. She had appeared quite suddenly and people were curious as well as suspicious. Peter had a wife, and she was young and beautiful. Katrina was just as surprised, she had let her mind run away with fantasies of Berlin, not expecting that she would live quite so far from the vibrant lifestyle that she had imagined. Peter lived in the suburbs, and was quite content that Katrina fit in with the life that he had planned. And she did not care. She demanded at once to see the café he had told her about, she was giddy. And when she worked behind the walls, in the musty kitchen, the neighbours stopped gossiping about her simply because they had lost interest. It was not until many months later that Mrs Cordan brought her up again, not because she reappeared, but because when they did see her, she had changed. 
"It is like she is hollow, if I knocked, I would hear the echo" As if the demonstrate the sound Mrs Cordan tapped her fist on the table.
"I have seen women like this before, they are so. tired, but she is so young!"
"I know it is a shame, a waste." 
Mrs Cordan had five women sitting around her table, cards and cigarettes in their hands. She felt that now she had spoken about the difference in Katrina it was no less puzzling, even more so because no one could give an explanation. 
"Here, I know what it is, the usual, MEN!" 
They all burst into laughter and brushed aside what that meant.
Mrs Cordan's son listened just outside the door. He was fascinated with Katrina, he remembered how she had been, and he could see the change as well. He sighed with admiration, recalling her perfect white skin, and the effortless beauty to her voice, like wind-chimes catching the breeze. He saw her everyday, because he timed leaving the house at the same time she did. And she always used to smile, her footsteps light, almost like dancing. But his mother was right, she was hollow now, and if he could have one wish it would be to see her smile again.

Katrina was down on her knees, tending the fire. He watched from across the room, knowing she will make a mistake, he had not forgotten the morning. Katrina noticed the mystique of the sky, the violet clouds blotting out the beaming crescent. Every so often the stars were unprotected by the haze, the tiny droplets of light hanging beautifully in the sky. She knew the compassion this scene used to bring her, but she did not feel it. She felt like she has forgotten something as important as breathing or blinking, she had forgotten how to love. Katrina knew that her heart used to swell painfully in her chest because she could not fit in all the new love that she possessed but she did not feel it, it lays limp, beating only as a necessity. 
He was talking, his voice growing louder, but she was numb. She hears him as if he was in the next room but he was a few feet away. She knew that it was coming and preferred to look in the morning when the damage was done; she can not bear to see what he has become.  

Mrs Cordan's son walked toward his home. He hesitated when crossing the road; he wanted so badly to look into her house. Just to see her, he just needed to know that she was happy, somewhere. The conversation between his mother and her friends a few weeks before has sparked his heart into believing that she was joyful, but it was in private. He knew that this was a lie, but how could he even begin to think about the truth? That was why he could not turn right away, he needed to decide whether his selfishness to imagine that she was well was going to take over what he knew was right. But when he did look he fell to the floor, agony enveloping his entire body. He lay there until the first light rose over the line of houses.
"James, come inside" 
His mother's voice was not angry, she knew what he had seen, she knew the way he looked at her.  

NEW: 19/01/09
Chapter 3
Katrina lay in her bed for a long time; he told them she was sick. He did not look at her. He drank every night, which softened him rather than fuelled his hate. 
When she went back to work Alana pleaded with her but she was defiant that she would keep silent. There was a new boy who collected the bin - she recognised him, even if his face was blurred in her memory. 
"I'm James"
The corners of her mouth tightened, he assumed it was a greeting. 
"When did you start working around here?" 
"About a week ago, my dad gave me the job, Mr Cordan; you live across the street from us."
"Yes, I know Mr Cordan, but your mother better."
"So, where have you been then?" 
Katrina's heart fluttered, no-one had asked her yet. 
"Oh, I was sick; you probably shouldn't stand so close to me." 
She intended it to be a joke but he frowned. 
"I have to go know, I will see you, err I don't know actually-"
"Tomorrow? Don't you work full time?"
"Err yes, yes I do"
He walked out the door, how ridiculous to be so flustered and panicky. 
"James I didn't tell you my name!" she called to him.
"Don't worry about it Katrina!" he grinned at her, how could she think he would not know her? 

Katrina had never learnt how to cook before she met Peter. His teaching was excellent, and it seemed the talent ran through her. Over time she began to learn new skills on her own, but this was in London. For four months they lived above his gallery, and the shock of happiness overwhelmed her. Berlin intrigued Katrina, her curiosity to seek the new and the wonderful bid her well in the move to the foreign city. The marriage was set, it could hardly be called a wedding, they lived for only each other in abundant isolation. The day that they were set to leave Katrina started a letter to her mother - she had never felt any guilt that she had left her parents behind, to feast off each other's selfishness - but she had realised they must think she was dead. The rich didn't let the police know it cases like this, they hired whoever they could find who would get the job done. At the age of 19 Katrina wondered whether her parents had given up and left her to wander London alone. She never sent the letter, she watched it burn in the last fire they had above the gallery, the crisp flame spreading across the paper, engulfing it forever.