I roam in the wood, like a beast in cage. This is the fact: I’m dead, but I’m alive. My soul was stronger than the flames that scraped my body, the ashes of my flesh has been dragged away, my essence remains on earth, restless.

The heat of the fire that killed me remained around me, inside me. The hurt disappeared as long as my soul left behind my mortal body, but the flames are always with me, my pain became my company, my mark, my gown.

I hate the most part of the living. After centuries from my death, an hypocrite decided to build a statue in remembrance of my condemnation, as if a commemorative sculpture in the middle of a square has been able to be a delayed way to wash consciences. But innocent blood can never be washed clean. I have so much fun appearing suddenly in front of that statue, frightening drunken teenagers, couples and passers-by. I have fun making them try what is the fear.

It’s the only right way to perpetuate the memory of my sacrifice. People read a tarnished brassy tag, move on and forget me. Only seeing me, like I am now, with my pale shiny skin under the moonlight and the bites of flames on my cheeks, can remain a permanent memory of the atrocities they make me suffer. They can’t forget Guendalina. A woman who lived for love, and killed for ignorance.