Work Text:
I waited for you
In that spot you said to wait
In the city, on the park bench
In the middle of the pourin' rain
'Cause I adored you
I just wanted things to be the same
You said to meet me up there tomorrow
But tomorrow never came
Hilda had always been quick to discern all political events as complementary in her life. Hailing from privilege, ignoring politics when she could was one habit she never unlearned even in her stay at the Hotel Marvelous — where her involvement as a camellia was persistently, inherently political.
At most, she recognized it. Only when it affected her in the immediate sense. She recognized involvement as necessary, but the opportunistic silver spoon upbringing would have primed her to stray away from concrete political ideals, just to keep her options and access to people as wide as possible.
So then, she let it be. She minded her business, just as she'd expect others to do in her context. Hypocritically, whenever she could leverage her fame in her favor, she would choose a side. From against, to with. It's how she further lolled Malthus over via a publically open hand-in-marriage casting call — and the rest was history.
That’s exactly how stubborn she was when she strolled impetuously into the violence-ridden pavements of the plaza, easily floating her line of vision away from the escalating tensions between the polarized people who had gathered to fight for a cause, to each their own.
Hilda convinced herself that it wasn’t because she couldn’t care less what was happening in Belo Horizonte. She had bought two tickets to restart her life anyway, and more importantly, she would be starting on a clean slate with the town’s saint, her loyal God-devoted Malthus.
The idea made her blush and giggle, as she made herself comfortable under a tree’s shade. She imagined the look on his face if he strolled up to her right there and then.
The plaza’s surrounding ruckus and clamor would shut out instantly. Daydreaming, she would see Malthus stepping toward her, big, adoring, brown eyes ready to give love a try.
Her mind began constructing maladaptive-like conceptions of their planned meet-up. Would he be in his robe? Would he be wearing the civilian wear he once wore to see her at the district? Would he sweep her in his arms, and kiss her in front of a tensed crowd?
Hilda’s thoughts spun into a dizzy descent, vision forming a hazy bokeh around her. She refused to shake the romantic spell off, intoxicated on such thrill.
Yet as the day went on, her absent-minded fantasies began to manifest as false truths. Illusions. Had the saint led her on?
Hilda tapped her heel on the rough pavement impatiently. Where was he? The sun was beginning to set.
Then, a smoking can is thrown her way. She snaps out of her love-hangovered daze and into the unsettling reality of the still ongoing clash behind her.
With the little amount of time she had to react, she shrieked, stumbling away from the minute explosion. All she could do at this point was crawl on the brick panels away from the protest's eye, dragging all that was left of her life in the last half-decade within a small suitcase.
Frustrated, she murmurs to herself, nowhere near resignation yet. ‘Where is Malthus?’
In all too familar deja vu, there was no in the grand scheme of things that would enlighten or placate all the betrayals her mind had assumed. He’d left her hanging, again.
She may have been a lover, but Hilda refused to tag herself foolish and run around in circles forever.
All her life, she's lived in blind faith. Trust and hope melded into attempts of finding someone who would love her for all that she was, and all that she would be. Had that man come in before she tried finding purpose, she would have led a much more socially-acceptable life of feigned dignity, still encased, albeit safe within the cradles of the wealth she grew up with.
With a resentful grunt, she hoists her pride, and then herself up onto stumbling feet. Fighting the prickling sting of her eyes, a tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. Hilda's brows furrow in denial. Not even the thick fog of smoke could elicit such a candid emotion from her. Was faith meant to wound her so badly for what she'd resorted to?
Malthus still, in all his feigned care and honesty, managed to find a way to serve what she interpret as closure. Worse, revenge served in form of leaving her lonely. Out of all the people who could do her wrong, it had been a man who had ingrained the values of compassion and kindness.
She now knew betrayal personally. It wasn’t petty like how high society snubbed her as soon as riding her parents’ coattails were of no use. It wasn’t when her classmates and friends at the tennis club scrunched their noses and dragged their husbands away in fear of reeking promiscuity.
True betrayal could only hurt when the tomorrow Malthus promised her, never came.
Hilda was going to leave Belo Horizonte for good, with, or without him — although she would never quell her thoughts to wish the one she loved had come along.