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75 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 2, 2015
*Update posle ponovnog čitanja: Slobodno mogu da kažem da je ovo toliko prelepo da me usred čitanja svaki put uhvati neverica. Very poetic, ali nikada ne prelazi u patetično. Čisti najež i mislim da će mnogo vode proteći rekom Stiks dok se ne pojavi neko ko će kao Pauline psihološki i emotivno razumeti ovaj mit čija su (loša) prepričavanja i više nego aktuelna poslednjih godina.
PS: Sada imam najlepše izdanje na svetu 😍

A large, clear room; a subtle luxury. The door is dark wood, the walls are white and taupe. There is no window, no wind, no air. In the centre, a crimson sofa strewn with round pillows, a coffee table littered with withered flowers, a crystal bowl of pomegranates, a mirror. There is a rich rug underfoot, something elegant, something comfortable: they are attempting to win her trust, the bastards.
She’s on the sofa, she’s silent. She’s dark and slight, wearing white. She has cupped her face in her hands. She’s thinking. She stands suddenly, goes to the door, shakes the handle, hits the dark wood; all is still.
She howls with all her might. A long time. Wounded beast.
PERSEPHONE, screaming still, wolfish: You fucking bastards! Let me go! I command you to let me go! I demand that you let me go! Someone will come for me, I’m telling you, someone will come! My mother will have your head! (louder, louder) My mother will cut your throat!
She comes back to the centre, trembling, nervous.
Someone knocks on the door, roughly. She starts and pulls herself together, wipes her snow tears if tears there were, smooths the wrinkles of her white dress, and stands up. She looks at the door. She’s afraid and defiant. She clenches her small, sharp fists.
PERSEPHONE: Bring me water or go away!
There’s a short laugh behind the door. Dry, brief, derisory. A man.
PERSEPHONE: Yeah, right, get lost! I don’t care! I don’t even care!
The door opens and she stands still. Startled deer. The man is high and sombre, with dark hair and dull clothes. He’s thin, a shadow, a skeleton. He towers over her. In his hand he has a rich, golden goblet—scarlet wine. He’s at home: he moves with ease; he dominates.
PERSEPHONE, scornful: Not a moment too soon, it seems. Perhaps you could give me something to drink and tell me what I’m doing here. No, wait, I’ve got a better idea: why don’t you bring me clothes or bring me a basin or just open the bloody door and let me go?
HADES: I brought wine.
PERSEPHONE: I hate wine.
HADES: There’s nothing else. The water is bad here: bodies rot in it.
PERSEPHONE, louder: I want water.
HADES, quieter: It’s still no.
Hades: ....But it is poetry, you know —poetry comes from the guts and is spat out in a cry.
PERSEPHONE: Liar. Poetry is morning dew and wind between my knuckles.
HADES: No. It’s a kiss full of teeth, and a metallic taste on your tongue, the pain under the stomach, there, just there, where you hide your fear and your power.