The rain tapped against the window sill, gently, a caress from a mother and a vision from God.Standing there, tea in a shot glass shuddering at his fingertips, felt like the hardest part of being alive. He imagined the people behind the half-open Venetian blinds, streaming through the sidewalk. Umbrellas. Umbrellas the color of mourning, and water, joining the flow until it reaches the gutters, into the ocean once more. Until the people flock back home.Drowning. There was a flood at home, he recalled. A flood, soaking the floral wallpaper, devouring the robed women holding up the mahogany coffee table they’d sit by, claiming the deer heads Father robbed when they were infants. “I’d do many things for you, baby brother,” she would’ve said, as her white dress danced under the water, head descending slowly into it. “Many, many horrendous things.”
“Dr. Crest?” Dr. Crest, Dr. Crest. His fingers
stopped drumming at the metal sill, and he turned away. Charity was standing,
the way she always stood—in the uncomfortable looking high heels she’d worn
because of societal pressure, a demanding mother, her list of abusive
boyfriends, Electra complexes. She had her crimson dyed hair rolled into a
muddled bun, a pair of Ray-Bans, that Louisiana accent he appealed to. It was
non-threatening, he reminded himself. The dangers of familiarity were too harsh
on him. “The January’s arrived early. They look battered down.”He nodded, rubbing at the bottom part of his
eyelids. “Send them in,” he said, striding back into his velvet armchair. It
was old-fashioned, pre-Drowned, with gold lacings and intricate carvings at the
wooden feet. One of the few pieces he hadn’t sold to friends, the few not
dripping with memory and rain water. “Mr. Harrison’s done with—oh, and would
you kindly ring Ms. Luzhin in later on? She missed our last meeting.”Charity nodded, and froze. “You mean Ms. Lucia?”Cyril tilted his head, and broke out chuckling. “Of
course, pardon me,” he hid his mouth behind his hand, flushing with
embarrassment. If he had a club he’d strike himself. “Misspoke. You must
understand.”“Very much, Doc,” she laughed back, without
restraint. “Very much.”She closed the door behind her, but he could still
hear her calling the two in the hall. He’d only noticed the construction-site
like noises, clanging and shouting, approaching his office. The January’s
crashed into his bubble of silence, a portly old man and a younger, taller blonde
wife, spitting venom at each other. They were both dressed in casual clothing,
the man in a buttoned white shirt that accentuated his bulging stomach, with
his black coat over his hairy arm, the woman still in hers, exposed collarbones
suggesting no clothing underneath.“We want a divorce,” Mr. January finally turned to
him, screaming. “We demand a
divorce.”“You’re a selfish, obtuse, bitter old man, you know
that?” Mrs. January shot back, jabbing a manicured finger into the air.
“Haven’t you thought of those wretched spawns you’ve released into the world?
Didn’t you have one second of doubt what would occur when screwed that good for
nothing gold digger on our own bed?”“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Mr. January retorted,
returning to the scuffle. “When are we going to talk about that ‘repairman’
we’ve had come around every afternoon, hm? And the duck tie I found behind the
closet?”“How dare you--”Divorce. Such a powerful word. “It’d be nice if you
two would welcome yourself to a seat,” he said, gesturing towards the brown couch
across the Persian carpet, long enough for them to sit a considerable distance
away from each other. Severing the bond between two atoms, two people, with
volatile results. Did these people realize the devastation they were about to
cause? “so that we may do something constructive, instead of tearing each other
down.”“The woman needs to be taken down a peg or two
anyway,” Mr. January replied to a nonexistent insult.He forced himself to grin. “You could say we all do,
Mr. January,” he started, taking on a stern, but relatively friendly position.
“To be human is to assume that there are others who are our equal, with their
own internal conflict and quirks. No one would need to be taken down a peg or
two, if they simply adhered to the rules of the universe: you may be as
precious as a diamond, but in the end none of us are any more significant than
a dust mote.” He straightened his expression. “Kindly sit back down, Gerald.”Gerald stared at him, stupidly, before concluding
the man had said something insulting and dropping his weight on the poor couch,
Mrs. January following shortly after. Cyril stared at the picturesque scene,
breathing in. The rain tapped against the window sill, carrying forward. In his
head, his father was yelling bubbles out his mouth, his step mom foaming back
at him. Chess pieces hung above his head—floating, like dead bodies.…He rubbed the veins jutting out of the back of his
hand, staring back at the empty mug in front of him. New York City vibrated
against the café glass next to him, every heartbeat momentous, every second
life-changing. It was alright, he
told himself, years ago. The noise is
good. Hectic is fine. Everything is peaceful, now. Peaceful.
“More coffee?”He dragged himself up. White apron, blue dress.
Wrinkled, caked, hinting of past beauty. He smiled. “Please,” he asked,
quietly. The waitress filled his mug, smiling back at him. “Tough day at work?”
she asked, her drawl intriguing.He laughed. “There’s no use complaining,” he said,
staring as the downpour drew itself back. “Though it’s nice of you to ask.”She winked at him. “It’s my job, sweetie.”She stood by, as if she knew he was going to ask. As
if she knew there was something more he wanted from her. He shuddered slightly,
his hands rubbing at their veins with heightened tenacity, before glancing back
up at her. “I know it’s not proper to ask,” he asked, calmly, “But is there any
chance you have a chessboard lying around?”The waitress eyed him with curiosity, before
breaking out in a grin. “I thought you were going to start wailing about a dead
wife or something,” she laughed. He made himself laugh with her, despite the
ache in his chest. “We’ve got one in the back—Marty likes playing a match or
two with his drinking buddies. I could call after him for you, if you’d like.
He ain’t used to playing strangers, but he’s always ready for a quarrel--”“Oh, no. Please,” he smiled, awkwardly. His hands
were burning from the rubbing. “I just—I’d like to play over a lost match. Mull
over it, if you will.”The old woman laughed, wagging her index finger.
“Got ya, pal,” she pulled out an open palm. “Wait a minute, won’t you?”A minute felt like an hour. He cursed himself,
praying to God the waitress forgot, the waitress tripped up and received a dose
of amnesia, anything so long as the waitress didn’t come back. The back of his
hand was scarred. His pocket seemed to shake like an earthquake, rumbling
louder than all of New York. The waitress came back, laying out a pouch of
chess pieces and a worn out chessboard. The black squares were faded and the
white was gray, blurring the lines between the two.He whispered a thank you to the waitress, waiting
for her to leave him be. His scarred hand travelled down his coat pocket,
plucking out the handkerchief from his pocket. He unwrapped it from the object
inside, the tiny figure fluid, almost gliding him into madness. A white queen.I’d
do many things for you.The shaking fingers of a former violinist, of a
lifetime coward, placing the woman onto a faded background. The crowned woman
with her carved out eyes and her billowing robes stared at him, as if she could
track droplets from the window sill. As if she could watch his old self from
the rain and the snow, as it busied the broken glass Cecilia watched the world
from. Safe, even from the touch of sunlight.Many,
many horrible things.“You couldn’t stay safe, though,” he chuckled to
himself. “You never could.” It was only then he allowed himself to fall apart.
Sabtu, 04 Juli 2015
Selasa, 02 Juni 2015
Normally I'm not as generous, though I felt like giving introductions. First off:
a) Yes, I believe the gods made monsters. But really, if it were true, who do you think the real monsters are?
b) I believe in a god, though it doesn't mean I'm too concerned of it.
c) I am a writer. I will not be here for long, as the fact is being in an equal state of mind almost always gets altered by some outside force. The older I get the farther away from the person you see I'll become. Enjoy the view--this is a temporary deal.
d) I write from whatever genre is necessary, though thriller and speculative fiction are a specialty of mine (if you require me to pigeonhole it for you).
e) 15 years. No, I don't write girly fanfiction. I've burnt most of those already.
f) Sadness was a tendency in my early years. Now its more neutral. If you're going to watch the world burn, why give the arsonist the satisfaction of emotion?
And that's the facts. I hope you enjoy your time here--I'll certainly try.