Think of those fairy tales we were told as children.
Think of how they remain impressed in our minds and stick to our memories. Think of how we grow up fascinated by those impossible stories and the romantic plots. Everybody remembers those famous titles, those characters that stand out for their heroism, bravery and passion, all in an era back in the time where magic, mystery, love and chivalry were still commonplace.
And from a commonplace, one would likely expect to read about a beautiful princess imprisoned in a lonesome tower and about her long lying in wait for her rescuer to turn up; about a handsome prince who leaps into impossible enterprises to bring her to safety – purely out of love.
Fairy tales are basically commonplaces, facts that recur almost in the same order and lead to a happy ending. The key is probably in them to be told out and be widely known, as well as in their famous titles – as if all fairy tales had one.
Some stories from today perfectly reflect this structural refrain.
Terrible news was broadcasted two months ago! A tower block burned down in West London causing the death of almost 50 tenants. The fire at the tower block was allegedly due to poor electric wiring and low-quality elements. Firemen intervention was prompt, however it didn’t prevent damage to the building and the nearby area. In the tower, a young Italian couple got stuck in their apartment and had to fight for their lives in the blazing fire. They say, she called her parents for a final farewell, while he could only hold her hands tight until they acknowledged that no rescuer would turn up and that their fate was already written. They remained victim of the fire and their bodies were eventually found burned but still hugging one another. The news was on the media and in London, everybody learned about the one which will be remembered as the fire at Grenfell Tower.
But as said, other stories might not get to be as famous as fairy tales, and although nobody will ever learn about them, they’re still tales to be told.
The girl who lived in the tower belonged to a wild South.
The termination of her commitment left her without any certainty – aimless, careless. She mostly stood staring at the outside world from the window on that third level. Her eyes would be drawn by the contours of the typical row of English houses and would then meet the one on the parallel street where her friend used to live, right before she gave up the city for a change for the better – or the easier. That messy backyard was a spot of wonderful memories – drinks, chats, and fun moments – and perhaps she can still picture the two of them in that safe and steady spot. Perhaps, in that backyard, she can still see their final farewell on her leaving party. Still hugging one another – tight.
A smile would illuminate her face.
But before long, her look would lose itself in the dense grey of that gloomy sky, full of ashes, whispers and noises she couldn’t hope to face. Anxiety got ahold of her: that being a prisoner rather than a princess started contaminating her vivid and joyous personality. That feeling of failure, of betrayal, that door slammed in her face. All was painfully overwhelming.
Over time, her luminous blond hair turned dark brown and so too did her ice blue eyes. What happened? She was not too demanding, she was not too obsessed with her own vices and comfort zones, she was not even alone – though loneliness wasn’t late to come. That’s why she laid her hopes in that inconsistent and vanishing love, in that prince who should have climbed all the way up to set her free from those hurtfully oppressing walls. Truth is, she wasn’t tired of begging someone to love her. So she kept waiting.
Day after day, the waiting never fulfilled its promises. The knock on the door didn’t come and she remained locked in her regrets, in unwittingly unsettling indecision.
What bind kept her tied to that place? Why did she stay?
She simply couldn’t run. She remained stuck in the Pemberton tower, torn between love and acceptance.
Recently, someone passing by the tower saw that girl staring at the window. She crawled out and stood still on the cornice. Seeing her on the edge, that guy on the street started shouting out loud. He ran towards the tower and tried to enter the main door apparently locked. She was going to jump, “crap, she’s really going to jump!” He called for help, caught the attention of the passers-by and asked for their intervention. People turned out at the tower but none of them could see anything on that cornice. “I swear to my life a girl was standing out there.” – claimed he all shaken up.
But nobody believed. Nobody could see.
She had just disappeared.
From a fairy tale, from a commonplace, one would likely expect to read…well, one would just expect to read about it. But so many stories remain untold, untitled, and nobody knew that that girl had actually disappeared in the July of 1720.
Facts say, she died forgotten in that commonplace, in an unknown fairy tale. In the one that by then had remained untold and untitled: the story of The girl in the tower.
The Britalian Post