Persephone Belleville

“Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story” Persephone wrote in her beloved diary with roughed edges and browned paper. She believed the quote as hers for it had not occurred to her that it might have been something she read from her vast collection of novels. For Persephone loved reading. She had a taste for culture in general, thinking that a woman of blood and bones should possess at least a mere comprehension of art – in all shapes and forms. Persephone took pride in her erudition from a very early age and was often considered frighteningly bright by her older peers to whom writings such as “Macbeth”, “The Flea” or “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” were far too overwhelming for a child her age. Nevertheless, this exposure turned her into a cultured lady for whom the ambiguities of theatre, music or poetry were nothing but simple riddles, she could untangle in her sleep.

Persephone stood up and strode to the mirror, fixing her dark brown hair. Oh, yes. While Persephone was aware of her intelligence, she was no fool and didn’t have an ounce of naivety in her veins. She understood that society (especially the male side) valued beauty over the brain. And oh… oh was she beautiful. She found herself lost in her dark eyes, her rosy cheeks, her simply perfect nose. A vision, she assessed. Because she was indeed a masterpiece, belonging to the aforementioned gems of art. She thought her narcissism (a word she would never utter in the description of herself) justified. She was, undeniably, a walking image of Petrarch’s Laura. “As far as she outshines the rest,” she thought and smiled.

‘Thou hath a poisonous touch’ her grandma used to say, Persephone recalled. And what could she do but agree? Her wit and allure combined were a magnet for the male sex. Persephone was aware that her grace caused men to fall to their knees. “What’s thy name, fair lady?” they would ask and she would say “Clementine, dear sir.” Wasn’t this fruit as sweet as her? She would smile, glowing with charm. Oh… in front of men, she was a hypnotizing woman. Delicious… but forbidden. She would flirt but gently… almost too mysterious with her courtly remarks. She never let the men touch her or talk with her for too long. She was a vanishing dream. An unreachable desire… and the longer she was out of their grasp… the longer the men yearned for her.

Even though, sweet and gentle… Persephone was daring. A gleam of boldness shone in her brown eyes, as she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut a small leg slit in her dress. Her unconventional ways of exposing her craving for difference were yet again, another way to lure people in. She enjoyed being in the centre, the eyes of everyone transfixed on her, as she walked through the town. How she loved to cause gasps and be the object of local gossip. ‘Has she gone mad? Yesterday, she was walking barefoot!’, ‘Have you heard? She was accompanied by three men,’ ‘Wasn’t it last week when she was seen with flowers in her hair and a book in her hand? A forbidden book, sir!’. But she adored it… the mystery, the aura of enigmatic fog that encircled her very being.

Persephone put on her dress and spun around her room in a dance, as if in a trance. There was more to her than met the eye. There was darkness lurking underneath the graceful attire and fair face. Persephone’s witty nature was more than a mere tool for her femme fatale-like endeavours. She used it to… well, perhaps that’s for her to know. She fixed her lips, patting in a tinge of red and then (with a graceful step), stepped out, her chin held high and a smile gracing her pale features.

“I may have lost my heart, but not my self-control,” she thought, noting that she should write it in her diary when the darkness of the evening surrounded the town.