Lenora, the love of my life.
The day that I met her will forever be ingrained in my soul. We were both so young, so fragile, with so much life ahead. Star-crossed lovers who were destined by fate to create a life together. I can still see her looking up at me, aqua eyes with quiet sorrow. Pain hidden behind a kind smile.
Her mother was a whore, she worked in the next town over, thinking it would protect her from being found out. Like wildfire, the news spread. She was soon shunned for her work, though she only did what she must to provide for the daughter she never wanted.
Lenora was the product of something sinister, yet something so angelic was held within her. It seemed only I could see that. I saw it on that fateful day. I saw it as my mother pulled me away from her, thinking I would catch a disease. She was small, malnourished from a weak diet, and constantly moving from place to place. Her hair ran the length of her back, tangled like vines from a tree. Dark brown mixed with light tones that bounced light.
Plagued with grease and dirt, yet something in me found her wonderful.
Under pale moonlight, I would sneak away to give her food. Bread, pasta, baked goods that my mother made, anything that I could get my hands on. She was thankful but quiet, never truly saying a word. We spoke in silence with our eyes; I saw the appreciation, the joy.
This went on for years.
Her mother died from a disease, and she began living on the street. I never asked if she sold herself; I never cared to know. I knew where she stayed, under the bridge that led to the other town. I still took her food every day. Even on the days when I couldn't find her, I left the food for her.
Then, one night, we sat under the bridge, and she offered herself to me, having seen her mother do it for much less, and when I pushed her away, she finally spoke. "Am I not good enough?"
I saw the damage in her eyes, how my rejection broke her. Something inside me changed that day. I had already fallen in love with this girl, though we never spoke.
I brushed her hair behind her ear, and she cowered away from me as if I was going to hit her. "No like this." That's all I said.
We were sixteen. A year older than my parents were when they were wed.
I took her home, no longer afraid of my mother, for she had been killed a few months before by the illness that was now killing my father. There would be no protest when she came home with me.
I washed her frail body, cleaned her grease-stained hair, and as I did that, she wept. Never knowing this kindness. As her tears mingled with the water, I held her close. I cooked her a hot meal, gave her fresh, clean clothing, and then offered for her to stay with me.
A month later, my father died.
Lenora and I burned the body; she held my hand as I sobbed in the rain. We had each other, all we had was each other. I finally told her that I loved her, and I asked her to marry me. Within a week, our local priest had pronounced us husband and wife.
When she offered herself again, I didn't refuse.