//creative//
Fall 2018
Hieronimo
Ruthie Gottesman
The subway ride downtown was long.
As I climbed up the subway stairs, dreary Christopher Street rose with me. Everything become one; drizzle melted glowing shop signs and street lights bled onto the pavement. I hugged my torso, so as to prevent my body from blending into my surroundings as well. That night I was aware of how my feet lightly stepped on the street, of how my hair tickled my cheek. I released each breath, excising it violently from the chambers of my chest. I remembered learning to breathe like this, sitting on the side of a path in the woods, listening to the rustle of leaves and the hum of a plane passing overhead.
It’s during walks like this, late at night in the busy city, that I collect the leftover love inside of me. I find it pooled in the cups of my hands, squished in between my toes, and glazed over my eyes. This extra love always makes me feel like a stranger to myself. It doesn’t belong to me, I long to give it away.
The billboard of the theater loomed into view. The letters that spelled The Spanish Tragedy were care- fully lined up in a row. Groups of people stood outside, chatting in long dark coats under black umbrellas with metal ribs extending from their centers. I swung open the large glass door and stepped into the faded green carpeted lobby. The usher glanced at my bent ticket and pointed me upstairs. I settled in my seat and looked at the stage. It was framed from my point-of-view by stage lights and wires. The stage seemed blurry; I felt as though I was looking at it through a pane of glass.
The tragedy unfolded over the course of four hours, saved by a 15 minute intermission. I sat in my plush seat all the while, wrapped in my sweater. And at the very end of it all, after bloodshed and loss, the King demanded Hieronimo to tell him what happened. Hieronimo stood boldly in the center of the stage and with a heaving chest explained. He talked for what felt like an hour, tears streaming down his face. The King begged him to speak more, the explanation did not answer for everything. No! Hieronimo knelt on the ground, pulled out a knife, and cut out his own tongue.
The hero insisted with this action: there is more left inside of me, there is more left inside of me, that I don’t have the means to express.
As I climbed up the subway stairs, dreary Christopher Street rose with me. Everything become one; drizzle melted glowing shop signs and street lights bled onto the pavement. I hugged my torso, so as to prevent my body from blending into my surroundings as well. That night I was aware of how my feet lightly stepped on the street, of how my hair tickled my cheek. I released each breath, excising it violently from the chambers of my chest. I remembered learning to breathe like this, sitting on the side of a path in the woods, listening to the rustle of leaves and the hum of a plane passing overhead.
It’s during walks like this, late at night in the busy city, that I collect the leftover love inside of me. I find it pooled in the cups of my hands, squished in between my toes, and glazed over my eyes. This extra love always makes me feel like a stranger to myself. It doesn’t belong to me, I long to give it away.
The billboard of the theater loomed into view. The letters that spelled The Spanish Tragedy were care- fully lined up in a row. Groups of people stood outside, chatting in long dark coats under black umbrellas with metal ribs extending from their centers. I swung open the large glass door and stepped into the faded green carpeted lobby. The usher glanced at my bent ticket and pointed me upstairs. I settled in my seat and looked at the stage. It was framed from my point-of-view by stage lights and wires. The stage seemed blurry; I felt as though I was looking at it through a pane of glass.
The tragedy unfolded over the course of four hours, saved by a 15 minute intermission. I sat in my plush seat all the while, wrapped in my sweater. And at the very end of it all, after bloodshed and loss, the King demanded Hieronimo to tell him what happened. Hieronimo stood boldly in the center of the stage and with a heaving chest explained. He talked for what felt like an hour, tears streaming down his face. The King begged him to speak more, the explanation did not answer for everything. No! Hieronimo knelt on the ground, pulled out a knife, and cut out his own tongue.
The hero insisted with this action: there is more left inside of me, there is more left inside of me, that I don’t have the means to express.
//RUTHIE GOTTESMAN is a junior in Columbia College and Creative Editor of The Current. She can be reached at [email protected].