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Constance, Chapter 1 |
| Written by August Blackwood | |
| Friday, 16 May 2008 | |
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Share it:      Preface
A doorway is a device by which freedom of property and purpose is adjusted. Isolated enclosure, privacy, peace, integrity, evil, and righteousness are all made possible by the alternating functions of the opening and closing of both time and space.
A cabinet floated across the Atlantic Ocean, approaching land at last. Its metal hinges remained sensibly intact, its once lavish wood festering beyond recognition. A soft whisper in the sea lapped across its back side, craving every dark, sensual lick. Yet, waters were soft, for fear of its gateway: the two shutters: for whoever may come, should a symmetrical standpoint be graciously aligned. Demented, the darkness of its definition of the empty interior, with which eyes may never cease to separate. Voices chanted through vibrations of waves against rock, and the words awakened covert ambitions, ready...and waiting.
Chapter 1 With a sudden snatch and a few hostile words, Roadrunner took the keys from my hand. A soft giggle escaped from my mouth as I raised my hand after noticing his overwhelmingly disgusted face that seemed to say, "Sister, what are you doing?" When exactly was the last time I stole his keys? I'm uncertain. It was perhaps last summer, but the date is too vague for me. All I know is that this is the fifth time, for I had the number written in a dateless journal entry...the last one I ever wrote. However, I can recall the first day I did. I was five then. I was standing in the middle of the apple orchard behind our lovely house, directly on top of a newly formed mound. I heard my brother running up to me behind my back and demanding for the keys. Although I have no direct memory of the hidden location of his keys, I can guess quite hypothetically that my brother's favorite play toy was underneath my toes. After all, what was I to assume after remembering the filthy black dirt in my brother's small palm as he smiled his widest grin of all my memories? Oh, how I loved to tease him. Here we are now, walking through our house my family brought for us last year. Stepping into the main lobby, I again remembered its beauty. The glass chandelier glistened above us with a series of angelic rays that reflected off the marble walls. The light wasn't unbearable, however. In fact, I always found it quite dream-like. Our house stood thirty-four feet high. Its outer walls were made of hard, varnished Oakwood that shone a brownish-red. Our generous gardener and maintenance worker, Mr. Bartholomew, who gave it a splendid atmosphere of tame nature, always cared for the lawn. Fortunately, my brother and I weren't the only ones to share the beauty. Our parents, both being busy with their own lives, allowed us to live on our own under a body guard since our youth. Now that we're adults, we were given the opportunity to live without supervision: our parents were wealthy enough to spoil us, so they didn't bother to check. We wanted a location far away from them, beautiful, and clean. That was no problem for my parents. This isolated island on which we stood now was not a choice that would have caused them to toss and turn in their beds, sleepless every night. They had other issues in their lives. Being super stars, the magazines would have probably given them the most headaches. Our house had about fifteen people living in it. Located on an island with rules on which architecture designs were based off of, our home had a unique combination of an apartment, a house, and a hotel. Since the individual apartments could be bought, it gave it the sense of a combo. But, since there was only one building in which all the little apartments were, the entire thing seemed like a house with a lot of rooms. The lobby on the first floor, where residents could talk and socialize, gave it the sense of a private hotel. The front door led directly into that lobby. We walked in and met our first couple of residents that afternoon. They have always been a very warm-hearted people. I hardly called most of them by their first names, though. Usually, their last names were sufficient enough. They were all quite young, except for one scrounging old man who obsessively counted his money every morning on the round table at the very corner of the lobby, where the maids usually stacked the chairs up as nature's bright light sunk into its horizon. No one would dare to touch his coins and paper dollar bills. We all knew our boundaries. I continued to smile at everyone who was sitting around, drinking tea, carrying conversations, or reading. They all looked up. I greeted to the left side of the room, while my brother looked to the right. I could tell by the absence of his breath on my skin. My brother was the first to take foot onto the stairway that led to our individual rooms. I walked up behind him, staring down at my feet. What face did he make when greeting all those people? I didn't know; I didn't look. I didn't know if he even greeted them at all. We reached our rooms. My eyes reached his. He passed me the keys and told me to return them the next day. I slid one of the keys into my door lock and unlocked it. Then, walking the opposite side of the hallway, I unlocked his apartment as well. I slowly moved back to my door and entered. I wouldn't be seeing him until the next day. I placed the keys on my bed, my bedroom being the first room to see after entering, which was another characteristic of a hotel. The feeling of the keys' rough edges in my hand slowly disappeared. It reminded me of how we shared those keys interchangeably from time to time. When one of us had our hands on them, we had access to the other's room, as well as our own. The landlord didn't decide this for us. We had to share. My brother liked keys, especially those that gave him authority. But, anyway, when the day is over, it is over. As I lied on my soft mattress, I felt at peace with myself and with all that occurred around me. My life felt somewhat rosy today. I felt light-headed too, as if I was in a dream that I would awaken from soon. Yet, underneath these pinkish colors in my mind, I felt a slight disturbance. I wondered if this peaceful world of mine could be torn away from me. It seemed possible. Maybe this room in which I lay was also a dream, a fantasy I created in my heart. The curtains of a nice golden finish with silver roses hung over the windows to the floor. My bed comforter was covered with a similar design, except with lilies instead. The carpeting was a bluish gray, light and clean looking. Or perhaps this wasn't a dream. Still, it could be taken away. The only thing that I hoped would not be stolen was my sleep. My day was busy with my new clients. Listening to their individual problems led me to stop worrying about my own. Satisfying, yet tiring; important, yet sometimes useless; my career was a paradox. I pulled my covers over my body, switched off the lamplight, and quickly fell into a deep sleep. -------------------------------------------------------❄----------------------------------------------------------
It was dark. I noticed that I had woken up because my vision had cleared and nothing around me was twisted or unusual as they were in my dreams. The sensation of air was clear, unlike the vague and unnoticed breathing found in my nightly visions. I looked around myself, trying to see what the cause was for the interruption of my slumber. That was when I heard the loud sound. It was coming from the hallway. I wondered what it was. I am and always was a curious girl, but I didn't really know who wouldn't want to see whatever was causing the thumping out there. I'm sure my brother would. Long vibrations of temptation rang through the door with each collision-like sound. Enticing, beautiful, and mysterious were its qualities. I couldn't resist. Curiosity killed the cat, but it was the car wheels that lured the feline. Nevertheless, as long as the wheels don't turn, curiosity can crawl to safety. I must stay quiet, better not to disturb the mama bear...only it wasn't a mama bear behind the door. At least, I didn't think so. No, I didn't believe it was dangerous, I just loved the idea that it could be. I must keep quiet, as that song my mother used to sing to me, called "Ecouter Entendre." It's something in French, but I didn't know and I still don't know what it means. "And not a single word should moan through that sewn mouth of yours, stitched beneath a sash of crimson satin, iron threads entwined." At least I understood the song. It was in English. The pounding continued, approaching...slowly. Usually, it would have seemed as though it were approaching, but the sound echoed in a quite peculiar way. It gave the sensation of moving closer, moving away, and staying put all at once. Intriguing, I thought. The hallways here were very interesting. But, of course, I've never heard anything that loud come into that hallway, so I had no means of knowing which the cause was: the hallway, or whatever was passing through it. The sounds rumbled, screeched, and pounded even stronger. I just lied here in bed, staring at the door, when I lifted myself from my mattress (bouncing off, of course) and rushed to the door, opening it with a swift motion. Because of my sudden opening of the door, wind from the hallway gently brushed against my face, relieving my skin from irritating hair for that time being. Whatever it was that was making all that noise was right in front of me, behind that man. That man was someone I knew. It was Mr. Bartholomew. He looked at me, "Why, good morning, Constance. You're early today." A pause. I blinked.
"Constance?" Mr. Bartholomew looked at me with waiting eyes. I didn't answer. He shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to pull that huge something behind himself. It rolled on wheels. But, of course it did. How else would it have moved? I suddenly shot up, aware. "Stop! I - I mean stop, please, sir?" I sounded a little insecure, but my burning curiosity must be satisfied, or else... or else I would feel as if the end of the world was approaching. Mr. Bartholomew turned around, now about five feet down the hall from my door. I could tell that he had turned by his hair peeking out from behind the large object covered in a rugged black cloth. I hadn't noticed the cloth until now. Mr. Bartholomew came back, pushing, saying, "Be right with you in a minute." Watching him coming back and hearing those words almost made me laugh. When he arrived at my door, I asked him what exactly it was that he was doing that morning. "Well, you see...," he said, patting his hand on the hidden object, "I got this cabinet and I was thinking of putting it in my room." He leaned on the side of the "cabinet." Wheels screeched underneath. The sound made shivers trickle down my spine. It was then that I realized what was causing all that pounding earlier. I stepped forward to face him, "here, let me help you. It must have been hard enough for you to haul this...cabinet up the stairway. I'll help you from here." The man shook his head, but smiled earnestly. "It's alright, Constance. I can do this on my own. Besides, it's an old splintered thing you're talking about. Wouldn't want you to get hurt, you know. You go ahead and finish up your beauty sleep." I laughed and he winked at me, "sorry for waking you up." Watching him go down the hallway once more, I felt left in peace for some reason. He was a nice man. I was glad to have known him. With that thought in mind, I started to close my door. The soothing air didn't blow this time, because the door moved very slowly under my touch. As the door came close to shutting, the wheels of the cabinet squeaked again. The edge of the door grazed against its meeting point with the wall, and then shut completely. I turned around to face my bed and thought, but why this early?
Squeak.
And why hadn't my brother come out of his room?
Squeak.
And, just as I thought, the echoes hadn't moved a bit.
Copyright 2008 August Blackwood |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 17 June 2008 ) |
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