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Constance, Chapter 4This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by August Blackwood | |
| Friday, 13 June 2008 | |
Roadrunner and I entered Mr. Bartholomew's bedroom in a quiet, careful way. Looking around, I observed that the light was dimly on and an air conditioner was jammed in the right hand corner, the fan slowly revolving unevenly inside. The bed sheets were torn into shreds. The cabinet stood opposite from the air conditioner. I turned my eyes to see curtains floating due to wind blowing in through the shattered window, cooling the room and making it feel a little uncomfortable. A bird perched itself on a branch just outside, looking in. Its eyes shone red in the light of the room. It screeched and began to trim its ebony-black feathers.
I turned to my brother and inquired of him if we should call the police. I was thinking that we might be considered as suspects (we might be any way, though) of the crime scene if we didn't contact the police now and I hoped that he'd understand that. "You should go see the body. You have good observation skills," he said, putting emphasis on "observation skills". His face was tight-looking and his chin appeared as though it was being painfully pressed down to his neck, restricting his movement. His words insulted me a little, I must admit. However, I knew not to argue with his word choice because Roadrunner was most likely extremely sensitive at the moment and I wished to help him through this. "I...I don't know, I don't like seeing blood," I said, talking quietly so as to not sound angry. "Who said anything about blood?" "There is blood." I didn't know why I said that specifically. There wasn't a speck of red anywhere in the room, other than the bird by the window. I felt my stomach knot up uncomfortably. This didn't feel right. I looked up at Roadrunner and noticed his eyes moving from side to side in a rapid quirky tempo, though his body stayed put by my side. We both stood close by the door, rigid and stiff as statues.
I moved first. My brother went next, moving behind me very slowly, almost as if I were his shield. I looked back at my brother. But, I had to do this. "Connie?" Roadrunner said in a rather loud, yet quivering tone of voice. "Shhh!" I silenced him. My vocal projection echoed somewhere and I instantly looked at the cabinet. Suddenly, I heard a door open and realized that someone had walked out of his or her room across the hallway. "Keep it quiet!" I could hear a voice say. It was that stingy old man, the one who obsessively counted his coins. I walked back and peered out of Mr. Bartholomew's door. The live-action Mr. Scrooge stared directly at me. "What do you think you're doing there, this early in the morning?" I answered, "My brother and I were just helping Mr. Bartholomew move a cabine..." "Connie!" my brother yelled at me. He came out of the room beside me and told the old man what had happened. "Well, what do you expect?" the old man laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's dead. He got that good for nothing cabinet. Probably got some sickness from that filthy old thing. It's an antique for sure, but it isn't any better than a hundred year old spoon. It's like I always say, ‘If it ain't good enough to sell, don't get it in the first place.'"He gave another laugh, jingled a bag of coins in his hand, entered his room, and closed the door, locking it. I stood there, speechless. I waited a few minutes before saying, "I really think we should call the police." "I really think you should see the body first," Roadrunner said as he pulled me back in. I I spotted the cabinet again, but I didn't have time to stop because Roadrunner tugged at my arm, leading me to the kitchen door. As I approached the door, I felt a strong tightness grow in my chest. Slowly opening the door, he stared down at the floor. I followed his eyes and gasped. Kitchen knives had cracked the tile floor and stuck into the wood underneath. The tile pieces were shattered and scattered so far apart from each other that I was certain the person who did this had thrown the knives at a tremendous speed. A toothpick stuck out from one of the tile pieces. I saw it there, standing proudly and seductively. Then, walking in with the intent of pulling it out, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. I looked to the side and found Mr. Bartholomew lying on the floor, stomach down, with knifes planted into his back. His head was twisted up to face the ceiling and his tongue stuck out of a wide-open mouth that also had a knife inserted into it. His eyes bulged from expressions of pain and fear. I could just imagine how he must have felt. A viscous red pool flowed from his body to under the refrigerator. I looked away and covered my mouth, feeling my internal liquids rise up my throat. My brother was standing by the doorway, looking calm for some odd reason. Or perhaps he was just trying to put himself together and stand strong. Why was I feeling so nauseated? I should be able to handle this. I looked at Roadrunner and muffled behind my hands, "Can I go now?" He nodded, and so I did as I pleased. Once out of the kitchen, my eyes fell on the cabinet again. My awareness shot at it just like the time Roadrunner came into my room and I zoomed in onto the tiny space between its two shutters. A lock through each loop handle kept its mysterious inside secure and untouched. A soft hum-like vibration came into contact with my awareness and I snapped back into myself. ‘Am I sick?' I asked myself, placing my hands on my head. I must be.
The vibrations from the cabinet seemed more like a pulse, or rather, like a warm, yet agitated heartbeat. Slowly, I stepped forward. I stared intently on the wooden texture and its dark, arcane impression. Coming close enough, I reached out my finger and slid it over the splintered surface. It was slick and wet, smooth like a stone polished in a riding river. Intrigued, I raised my finger to my nostrils and sniffed. "The sea," I told myself and wiped the wetness onto my pajamas. Next, I placed my ears onto the cabinet and listened carefully. Although it was probably strange for me to think of such a thing this way, I thought I heard the sound of the ocean, like when I once put a seashell over my ear. My body relaxed and I sunk into my internal depths. I I made my way, with my brother, down the stairs towards our rooms, my shoes clacking gently against marble tile. "See? Calling the police wasn't too bad," I told him. He shrugged. "Aren't you nervous or panicked?" he asked me. "Of course I am. I just act strong because you need comfort all the time," I said, reaching up to playfully pinch my brother's cheek. I giggled and he showed a smile that expressed repressed discomfort. "Of course you were acting strong," he sneered at me, "strong enough to leave me behind with that body." "I was scared." "You're 32." "You gave me permission to go." He nudged me in the shoulder with his elbow and I took the opportunity to wrap my hands around his arm, giving it a soft squeeze. I stepped onto the base of the stairs and started to walk down the hallway with him, still holding onto him. I could feel the warmth of his body, so full of life and so comforting... it is a wonder how your key to joy is always closer than you think. "Instead of Mr. Bartholomew, it could have been me," my brother told me. I felt the vibrations from his voice run through his arm.It felt nice. "Don't worry; I'll help you through this. I won't leave you behind," he heard me say. I looked up at my brother's face and I noticed his corny smile and his blushing cheeks. He nodded, "thank you, Constance." I looked back up the stairs. I heard a silent hum in the air. It was like what you hear when you are in complete silence, only that this time the feet of my brother and I were destructing the peace of noiseless twilight. Shivers ran up and down my spine, and I eyed the area suspiciously. I "Y' know, doc?" "Yes?" I said, looking up from my coffee and from the steam that rose along with its visual stimuli. "I heard ‘bout your bro. From my sis, yeah. Had her first date with him yesterday."
I flinched slightly, "Why, I didn't know that. Thank you for informing me." "Mr. Coffin," I said, "where did you get all this information about me?"
"My sis tells me all ‘bout you. Damn right she does! Since last year, when you moved into this crappy old place. Your house has stood for over a ‘undred years. Wouldn't be surprised if it crumbled t'the ground." "Now, enough about me," I said, leaning over and peering intently into his eyes, "Enough about me," I repeated when his mouth blurted the starting word "you." I continued, "If you really want to be happy, we need to get to the core of your thoughts.... I'm asking again. What are you telling yourself?" He returned my glance, "This island's ****** up." "Are you sure that's what you're thinking?" "Yeah." "Drake, dear, if this island is ****** up, how's the rest of the world?" "I dunno. I guess I'll keep on searchin' for happy land. But, even then, I'm gonna guess that I'll never find it anyway." "Drake, you can find happiness. But, first, you need to define happiness. Happiness is a very broad word. Once you can narrow that down, you're happy land isn't so far away." "I'll think ‘bout it." I took another sip from my coffee and he looked annoyed by that, his lips twitching. "That will be your homework for next time," I said.
Suddenly, the image of the cabinet appeared in my head.
Copyright 2008 August Blackwood |
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