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Maryka Wife Monologue

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June, 1935: It has been a long day. The last few days have been long, drawn out by the uncertainty and anger my wife and I share. We have every reason to stand together, hold each other and lament, cry in to each other’s shoulders. However, we stand with our backs to each other, a growing distance between us. Our daughter, Malva, our brand new baby girl not much more than two years old, is dying. She is so young, but still the hands of death reach for her. Her head is swollen. Cerebrospinal fluid, the fluid that is supposed to keep you brain safe, protecting it from life’s falls and trauma. Instead, it is killing her. She has too much of it, it is swelling inside her head, pushing on her skull and brain. Despite the tragedy we share, Maryka…show more content…
I live in my nice house, here on Isla Negra. However, what I’ve done to get me here, it haunts me. I have not killed anybody myself, there is no blood staining my hands. However, it feels like there should be, for all I have survived. For all those who stood by me, that bled. There is only so much a person should have to live with, only so much a person can live with before the darkness behind them becomes overwhelming. I feel like, looking back on everything that I have experienced, that everybody has a past that is dark. Everybody has things they have seen that haunt them, that cloud the memories you would like to preserve, tainting them with the sorrow of another time. When I look back, I see those I have lost, such as Malva and Maryka, my first true love. She left to go back to Europe, and that was the last time I ever saw her. She took my only daughter with her, where she would die 6 years later. I try to think back to the times where we loved each other, where we had no quarrel or conflict, but it is clouded by the years of turmoil and anger. I too moved to Europe, where I stayed with Delia del Carril in France before moving to a diplomatic position in Spain. Here, I met with a new group of literary enthusiasts, some much younger and some my age. However, living and writing in Spain was not long-lived. A friend, Federico García Lorca, was executed by Franco. The area of Madrid that I lived in was attacked and burned, children killed by merciless soldiers. The time before the fall, the peace before the storm, is blurred out and empty to think about, as it is overshadowed by the tragedy and loss that it proceeded. I know that my memories are unique to me, and that some carry some much worse, and that others don’t carry very many in the first place. Things have changed, my perspective and understanding of the world and the way its inhabitants work has been altered greatly. I see the light of my past, reflecting back upon the things I have
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