In her mother tongue, that would mean "beautiful lady". She was exactly that in my eyes. Her silky, sepia hair draped her shoulders that rounded when she laughed. I had once told her that she was beautiful, and the moment after it was clear to me that she was more. "God, no," she rasped, and giggled. Her set smile left me wondering what she was thinking then. Hopefully, that she was indeed perfection.
Any botanist would advise that its leaves, fruit and flowers should not be touched. A pinch of any part of the plant was lethal to a human being and yet, some still foolishly have a try and they perish. They are to blame, but so is the matter itself. The fruit is sweet, its colour enticing. People have been said to hallucinate after having a taste of it.
Certainly I wasn't hallucinating when I saw her face. She was real, very real to me, and I had to pursue her. Even if it meant death. My attraction to Belladonna was as strong as her poison was to my poor, throbbing, aching, bleeding, ambitious heart. That alone was enough to make me imprudent. I would eat of the fruit to cherish a second of its enchanting violet pigment and sweetness, whether I'd end up lost or paralysed.