A good friend of mine has penned the following letter about me:
When I looked at her photo, I cringed, as if I have touched something cold and unpleasant.
I looked at it again. There was a lovely young girl in that photo, she did not wear a stitch of clothes. She had a firm, thin body, and she was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes.
She seemed strangely familiar; I thought she was a nude model.
I stared at the photo.
Mina! It’s her – I thought.
She was the girl for whom I had fallen a few years ago. Gabika, her best friend had introduced me to her. Back then, Mina had been almost twenty, three years my senior. Initially I had not loved her at all. I have always liked happy, friendly girls, ones with long legs and full breasts. Mina had been too thin, sickly pallid, and she had seemed commonplace. She had been spoiled and angry. I often had met Gabriella when Mina was there, too - she was there, sitting in a corner, with her nose in some book. Her presence, if anything, had unnerved me.
Then somehow Gabika had mentioned my hobbies and Mina had happened to hear the conversation. Her face had brightened up when she found out that I was in a Shaolin Kung Fu training and once I, by chance, had beaten up a fellow Shaolin fighter during a training and he had ended up in a hospital.
When she heard that, she had drawn closer to us. She had even told a few words, and had risked a look at me.
It turned out that we had had another common interest: Fantasy and horror stor fictions in Hungarian, which was our mother tongue. I tell you she wrote fine stories in Hungarian. She had worked for book publishers, and she knew a handful of editors personally (I always suspected that she had her romance with some of them).
I grew to like her. Later I did not understand how I could ever see her plain. She was striking, with silky brown hair and bright blue-green eyes. Her straight nose was prominent, her chin strong, her cheekbones wide, her dark eyebrows too thick, but I loved her face and slim figure. I also found out that she was quite a lover. True that there had been her „technical” cautions, but the rest had been awesome. She knew where to touch and how (both me and herself), and she had the sweetest mouth.
On a sad day she had disappeared without saying a word.
I could not found her via acquaintances, since we had no acquaintances in common (with the exception of Gabika who knew next to nothing: Mina had moved to Budapest and rarely had returned home).
Three years had passed by. Sometimes I had wondered where she must have been... and I had found her by chance on a sleazy webpage. Then I browsed the web for her, and found Mina Jade's blog, even a book. And nude photos. She was just as fragile as I remembered. For a moment I recalled how sensitive her nipples were, and felt a stir of excitement.
How did she end up as a stripper? She was too delicate, too proud - stripping was beyond her dignity. Back then, no male seemed good enough for her. Nothing seemed good enough for her, an ambitious and arrogant girl she was. She had great plans for her future – only the finest things. When I had the guts to laugh at her, she refused to talk to me for two days.
She had loved horror stories. Me too, but she had been obsessed.
She was interested, amongst others, in Báthory Erzsébet, the witch of Csejte, who had lived in the 16th century in Hungary and had been infamous for her gory crimes. Mina admired Lady Báthory, her interest was somewhat more intense than one could consider it normal. Other young girls admire actresses or models; Mina loved odd historical persons, in particular, females with ill reputation.
It was unnerving. Whilst she was intelligent and bright, her nerves were imperfect.
Once I, when she was not present, slipped a funny remark about her mental state to Gabika; she cringed and started to talk about something else. I dropped the subject and did not mention it anymore.
Probably that was why Mina started writing horror fictions. Her genre was a mixture of dark fantasy, crime, and horror, she summed it up in one word: Minacious.
She still writes weird stories. Sometimes I ponder what is true of her books and what is not, but I doubt that I would ever find out that. Mina is elusive when it comes to telling the truth. Truth and fantasy intermingle in her mind.
Worst of all, sometimes I think that, like Lovecraft’s character Pickman who painted demons, Mina has actually seen the things about she writes. How much of her memories are true?
One day I should ask her about it...
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