UNDER SIEGE (A Story Of Hope)

by Ciuri Di Badia

  UNDER SIEGE (A Story Of Hope)

  By

  Ciuri Di Badia

  ©2011

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to all people out there whom have had difficulties in finding the right suitor. Whoever they have found, if any, have given out for one reason or another. They long for a better day that ever seems elusive. I have one such person on my mind; Evelyn, a maiden in Diaspora I used to know.

  The tribulations that we all partake either strengthen or weaken our will power. How you cope with them determines if they will make or break you. -The author-

  Chapter 1

  She was simply pretty damn hot, a sirloin or, to a large extent, an eye candy as any casual observant man could have depicted her to a fellow man who didn’t know her. She puzzled many. The men liked her style. Some women were jealous of her. But, to sum up all that it was apparent that she was noticeable.

  On this fashion and fair filled occasion, she appeared prettier and more beautiful than she usually was. Her moist skin shone dimly under the low lighted bulb that illuminated the guestroom. Her flamboyant red dress matched her lean body as her roman-nose and loaded lips made her even more striking. She had a curvaceous-pea shaped face with dancing almond-shaped eyes. This became evident, especially in the times when she squinted them. A dark zit blotched her left cheek. A clear, protuberant back garnished with her long, tawny and elegant legs complemented all of what she had.

  For a long time, she had been hermiting herself from gregarious occasions and usually preferred solitary maneuvers, not of xenophobic euphoria, but rather, as a recovery ritual; that was, since she lost her first and true love. However, just as all of us, she had had numerous crashes before. Some of those were unforgettable while others had faded out in oblivion.

  On that experience, it was both traumatic and tragic that she first met her lover and an ex-husband-to-be on his burial. It gave her much thoughts and apprehension as many people were skeptical that she had been cursed or maybe destined not to know a happy and enjoyable love life. There were others who believed that fate did not want her to know true love, let alone, having an opportunity to learn it in order to know it.

  It was the most difficult part of her life. It was a part that she wished that she could expunge from her past if she could. She lived in IFs as she often pictured how life would have gone if her lover was still alive.

  Quinsy had been living in a lonely schizoidity. Although willing to mingle, she had spent a better part of her life weighting for her Mr. Right to come by if not; come knocking. She had unsuccessfully hoped that one day a handsome and a romantic man would fall for her and they would start a relationship. Possibly, they would have a matrimony coming thereafter. She was somehow submissive in her quest, in that, she was not concerned a lot with what she [herself] would be feeling for the man, but rather, much of what her lucky charm would be feeling about her

  She felt that she could no longer wait because much of her hopes had landed on some miragic suitors who did not make any substantial moves on her-just contrary to her anticipations. Besides, time was quickly elapsing, turning it into a crest fallen ordeal.

  That bore out one thing to her; when one puts their hopes upon some miragic niceties, they ends up being disappointed. Everything happens for a reason. True; life plays out as a prorate test as one gets his dues according to his needs. That is seen in that; destiny gives gratification to those who need what nature gives not those who give what nature needs-time. If you give it time, you may not make substantial progress with your life. You may find yourself waiting forever for your ambitions to be grunted, but all in vain. Never, ever try to please destiny by giving it time. If you do, you will always end up in disappointments.

  She enlisted into a popular local networking site. The site was a harmonious acquaintance dating club for prospecting singles. A lot of couples were reported to have been hooked-up on the site. Most of them were a success story except for the few who fell into the traps of some pranks and jokers. Those buffoons were a nuisance. With their jousting caricatures, they ended up shattering the hopes of honest hearts that were purely looking for their alike to love them.

  One would argue that the people who get interested in you over social networking sites are either socially inept in the real world or look a cross of a warthog and a gorilla. They have a conspicuous point there. Real people get dates in the real world. They find mates in meetings, weddings, working places, shopping malls etc. those are the worth it. If not, they go to social networking sites. But for Quinsy, she was a sample of my idea of a perfect girl

  It is said that a drowning man would clutch to a straw, knowing too well that it can’t keep him afloat. The above proverb explains the analogy that when one is fighting a loosing battle, he finds ways of keeping himself moving no matter how they seem hopeless or fruitless. This helps in prolonging ones self-esteem and in keeping a solid heart.

  At first, she neither expected that a handful of young men would be keen on getting hooked-up with her nor did it occur to her that the ones who would present themselves would be such hunks. At some point, she had expected to bump upon some love desperados like herself.

  To her perplexing surprise, she found twenty eligible guys yearning to capture her heart and if not accommodating, just a consideration. She listened to their voices which they had uploaded to the voice mailbox of her account. She went round and round, viciously listening to their messages. As she gave it a go for the last time, she was certain that her pick was as per her preference.

  She ‘short listed’ five out of the twenty. Those had the kind of voices that appealed to her most. She decided to go for their photos on a separate gallery.

  The first one looked rather old, more so with his snub-nose. In some way, he appeared as if he was around fifty years. He had the most shapeless mug of a face that had been screwed up in the ugliest scowl that was not pleasing to look at, at all. Without more ado, she rejected him.

  The second one had popping eyes. An eye pop? No. she couldn’t imagine staring at him as he passionately, no, popingly talked to her. She therefore rebuffed his offer.

  It seemed that Quinsy was using the elimination principle to get to her favorite. That was evident especially when it came to the third guy who turned out to be bald-headed.

  She wondered “what would I do with a person who’s having a scalp covered by the extension of his forehead?”

  She quickly scrolled through.

  The next one was a brawny looking gentleman. He had a perfect-round-face. She admired his glittering blue eyes. She then stretched out her fingers and reached out to his photo on the screen.

  A silent voice from within started talking to her, saying “finally here he comes; a stalwart, somebody whom my being can feel. He seems to fill the description of the kind of a man that I am looking for. I don’t know him but there is something about him that is telling me that he may be the one”

  She did not care to find out who the last but not least luck-seeker was. Could he have turned out to be just a chubby-chap; he could have had her already high expectations, dwindle. To her, she had already found her self perceived Mr. Right.

  The Mr. Right had triggered that which comes from within, the prime motivator of faith and hope and the sweet servant who can be a cruel master; love. He had done just that. He had whipped up the madness of the dragon that comes from the innermost of the inner core.

  That providential bachelor did the meaningful. His voice alone made her feel wanted. The photo made her eyes glow and her face brighten up with a smile. She pictured how life would be if she would meet him, fall in love and set something going between them. It rekindled a feeling that she hadn’t
felt for years; happiness and contentment that came from emotional gratification, deep within.

  She immediately called him. They talked ecstatically as if they had known each other for ages. Dickson portrayed himself as a loving, caring and supportive friend of quinsy. He appeared as an invisible companion who was always there for Quinsy. On the other hand, Quinsy developed a strong and passionate love for him. Though in Diaspora, She felt as if she was with him at that moment.

  Love is usually proud of itself; it shirks out even with the tightest security. This was substantiated by friends of Quinsy, who at times, jeered at her due to her unusual change of character. She had suddenly acquired a more vibrant and always-smiling character that she never had before.

  They natured their relationship for weeks, maximizing every opportunity they had to communicate. In particular, phone calls and e-mails played an instrumental role in that endeavor.

  Although they could not touch one another physically, they felt each others presence in their midst, for love knows neither boundaries nor obstacles. Love is one thing that does not discriminate; it does not single out men or women, between the rich and the poor. It does not have a preference on the healthy over the sick. It evens out everyone and is blind to any alienation.

  Dickson severally nagged Quinsy over their physical meeting. She at most times calmed his doggedness by simply telling him that it would come as a surprise or rather, as a drive of fate.

  He simply succumbed to her explanations and accepted the status-quo to prevail. That is the trend with most men. A man in love usually gives in to what their partners want. They neither like to appear as persistent nor assertive. They fall prisoners to the second thought syndrome.

  One day Dickson made an unusual, casual call to Quinsy.

  He talked in a cunning voice and said “Hello darl”

  “Hello honey” Quinsy replied, smiling.

  While lowering and softening his voice, Dickson continued

  “Sweetheart; I am so happy that our acquaintance of yester-days came to pass. Now, we should focus on what is coming tomorrow let us make it a call for a merry. In the pursuit of that dream, we should no longer share our future on the phone conversations that we do so enjoy--Dear; they are now droning and incorporeal. We should steal some ecstatic moments together, back from that old thief called time.

  You see, ill not be happy in not having your presence when I want it but in wanting it when I have it.

  Angel, why don’t we meet tomorrow?! We can set a romantic dinner at bridges inn. Or perhaps we can take a drive through the dark city-imagine that moonlight, the streets not forgetting the twinkling stars above us.

  What do you say about that? Why on earth would you hold that seventh heaven from us?”

  Quinsy held the receiver closer and tighter to her right ear. Her other hand was patting on her left knee. In a hoarse voice, she slowly started to speak.

  “Honey, I agree with you. I have been thinking about a similar idea and I have reached a deliberation that seems to be in your favour. Its time we meet face to face and wade off that familiarity that we enjoy through fantasy and experience that of physical intimacy.

  As you suggested, I think that the venue is appropriate. Lets the date be at 7 pm tomorrow--if it’s ok with you”.

  “As you say darling: your wish is my command”. Dickson acquiesced joyfully.

  As any fatalist would have it, the tryst day coincided with Friday the backers’ dozen. It did not occur to the two love birds that the event of that day would change the course of their lives forever. None of them could have imagined that what lay ahead was a tragic-half meeting.

  The day started calm. Each of them was in full anticipation. Waiting for the evening, for them, felt like a lifetime. Quinsy in particular spent the afternoon titivating her looks. She manicured her nails afresh and worked on her hair to an infinite satisfaction. She ironed her dress and made sure that all was well before the psychedelic meeting on that evening.

  At some point, she contemplated calling Dickson but a bizarre premonition put a damper on to her thoughts.

  At around 6pm, she received a call from a New York homicide detective, summoning her to his office. She made vain efforts in finding out what that was all about. Instead, the detective insisted that it was a matter that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.

  With contempt for patience, she immediately left in order to keep and save time for the date with Dickson. She drove in a moderate speed as her mind revolved around what the detective had in store for her and how her date with Dickson would be like. She saw herself embracing her passionately. She planned the questions that she would ask him. She also perused over answers that she would give incase Dickson asked the questions that she guessed that he would ask.

  She cursed at a driver who was reversing slowly from a crammed parking lot. She saw him as a holdup to her endeavors. Nevertheless, she smoothly carried on to the station.

  On arrival she found detective Allen nervously waiting for her. He stood from his chair and went to offer a seat to Quinsy.

  “Have a seat miss Quinsy. How are you doing?” in a laryngitic voice the detective asked. He was used to start a conversation in a similar manner.

  “Fine detective?” she responded inquisitively.

  Detective Allen walked back and sat on his chair; right across from Quinsy. He looked sternly at her eyes and floundered.

  “I am glad that you have made it. I have some unexpected tidings for you……mhhn…..Do you know a person by the name Dickson Ramson Jimmy?”

  “Yes I do--he is my suitor. What’s with him?”

  “Have you spoken with him today?” the detective asked with a mourning voice.

  “No; we were supposed to meet up in about thirty minutes from now. What’s wrong?”

  “Be patient…….you‘ll get to know it all….. In a moment” detective Allan lisped calmly.

  “Please; tell me right away. I don’t need this drama and am not afraid of words. Just say it--point blank, because what’s there is there. After all I believe that you didn’t summon me here to just know if I have met him or not”. Quinsy remarked, fuming.

  There was a short silence before the detective answered.

  “The main reason why I called you is to inform you that he has been identified as the corpse that was taken to Kemby’s morgue this morning. He was shot dead in the street yesterday evening”.

  “What? It can’t be! No! No! How? Why? Who did that?” Quinsy grizzled then squalled out.

  “It was discovered that a gang that had broken into a jewelry shop near the bloody scene was responsible. He is said to have just come out of the raided shop from where he bought a diamond engagement ring. It was just after that that the disaster struck”.

  A fleeting silence crept in.

  “We found your number in his house and since his family lives in Seattle. We decided to call his close relation here; that happens to be you”.

  Quinsy was out of words. She sat there completely quiescent, shaken and paralyzed to the soul. The shocking tidings had finished her. The disbelief was ruining the already sniveled Quinsy.

  They say that love is the knot that knots what not in the knot of friendship, and when the knot is unknot; it unknots what’s not in the knot that knots what’s not in happiness-pain.

  She mourned for days, during which she did not eat nor talk to anyone. She was confounded, baffled or conceivably left devastated by her better half-Jimmy.

  No matter how people tried to console her, Quinsy could not muddle through the reality. She was in a world of her own of which she found almost impossible to get by. She carried her sorrow all through. Especially on the interment day, she bawled and wailed till she didn’t have any more tears to shed. The only man she had ever truly-loved was dead; furthermore she was first meeting him during his funeral. What a cruel world that was!

  It was all tears at the grave site, so grim that I only opt to state this: when the casket was being lowered
to the grave, Quinsy threw herself into the tomb to be buried with Dickson. She hit the sarcophagus with a thump, injuring her left knee. She was not alone in the eccentricity. There were two of Dickson’s relatives who created scenes that were characterized as unconventional.

  For many days that followed, she had difficulties in forgetting what had befallen her lover. She hardly hacked with it. She took time to acknowledge that her life had to go on.

  What kind of fate was involved there? That of robbing her of her own happiness or that of denying her the honor of being with her lover, let alone seeing him alive? I think fate favors some of us and denies others of what they think of as theirs. It is cruel and generous at the same time. It depends on which side of it falls on you, hence it is said that it was meant not meant to be.

  But as they say, time cools, time clarifies that no mood can be maintained quite unaltered for along time through the course of hours, that is; there is no grief that does not soften or lessen with time.