White Paint and Varnish

By Kayal S

Sometimes, some things are better left in the dark…

As they are…

To play out…

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Solitude in the light of the sunset. 

The ravishing sunset, revelled in a spectrum of colours, fading into one another. The bold tropical hues gave way to twilight, streaking the sky, its blank canvas. Carefully curated colours painted it over time.

The decadent atmosphere caressed the wooden roofs that engraved their silhouettes in the sky, the view bordering the horizon that reached just farther than the mortal’s sight.

The street widened at the curve, the paved designs merged into the dull background, its ubiquity chafing, as it weathered due to the pressure of the memories leaning upon it. Unique, thanks to the efforts of its fairytale picket fence margin, and the redstone tints; the ones that deepened with the mellow touch of the pitter patter of the rain in visibly stagnant droplets, to release a sickly sweet aroma that wafted through the neighbourhood. But of course, upon this parched evening the desiccated road was drained of all signs of moisture, bone-dry, as it was of life.

The pattern weaved its way inside and out of the gaps between the classic British architectural houses, the space buried within an enigmatic aura and basking in the glow shed by the arrival of thrilling adventure, contradicting its reality, which destined the avenue to dwell in its own drab aesthetic, at the very least to the neglecting eyes.

White paint. Varnish. 

Slathered to a fine finish.

Evidently not an animated town.

Animated?

What am I even saying?

You travel down the winding path, allowing it to define your destination. And as you arrive you set your sights on the final beaming mansion, and surprisingly the feature that first catches attention was not the building’s elaborate creative “embroidery”, rather opposing its visaged bay windows, and certainly not the maple wood door, pigmented a vibrant shade of maroon. 

But perhaps it was the monstrously sized billboard planted amongst the evergreen lawn advertising the sale of the customized construction, as an icon that with-held the blood, sweat and tears of the resident…literally or rather figuratively is a distinguishing no-one is willing to risk.

Plastered across with a scarlett graphic that stated “SOLD”, a well-manicured hand was left to trace the columns and crevices of its thickly administered font…mine.

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Arrival of the Alumni.

A striking force beamed down from the heavens taking the form of a heavy roll of thunder, echoing throughout the region, oscillating the flimsy metal of the board itself. They passed through my skin, as my flesh rippled with noiseless energy, in a meagre attempt to transit a message.

A whirlpool of emotions trembled my mind, as the sound of boots meeting tile rose to accompany the futile. 

I shifted my hands, sweat laminating my palms with its shine. My fingers neighbouring the entrance, infinitely within reach of the portal nestled inside. 

I thrusted open the door, broadening the set jaws that swallowed my figure whole as I walked through, embedding me in the darkness inside. Light flooded the room at the flip of a switch, yellow and glimmering as it bounded off the polished surfaces. But in my eyes all that was revealed by it, was the portraits of remembrance, that perforated the shadows  with it. Odd, aged, primal and vain, the strokes of the oils layered on the frames was textured to retain the tales of the days. The bright contrasted the dark as it phased out on the stretched silk. The horror going against the living. In one picture.

I continued, further trudging through the twisted corridors of the ancient house at even more ancestral hours, as the blurred windows dimmed around me, the ceiling lights executed the role of a spotlight. My fingers dipped into the caramel walls, and cream tabletops; the copper dimensioning a highlight to the image I glanced. The spiral staircase erupted into the superior levels as the edge of my flowing dress trailed along the solid structures. Unbolting several settled doors, my feet traversed the illustrative flooring, up to the front of one which no one dared enter. Facing it with cowardice muddled amongst faulty courage.

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Visit to the memories. 

It was a stark destruction to the theme, of the natural tones that were laden over the furnishing across the remains of the abandoned home. 

Tainted with deposits of the childish happiness, forgotten a long way away; from the silvery glitter scattered about the door to the left-over bubblegum paint that splattered about the seams, highlighted by dollar store neon graffiti that lettered uplifting quotes and motivational dilemmas.

Inside you would visualize time frozen; a moment in the past brought to life in the present through calculated precision, and positioning. As well as an ounce of psychotic freedom. 

The items were placed in their exact locations, not diverted an inch, their dust-free outlines etching their orientation into the sea of material around them.

That bold first step through the boundary of time, drove the feelings to the sky. 

The plush blanket, that lay strewn, dangling from the edge of the bed, reminded me of that gloomy morning when she refused to gather her sheets, and fold them as we were supposed to. The miscellaneous pillow or two, that cushioned the cool corners, forced me to revisit our fight, the picture of us tossing and turning to avoid getting striked by the harmless toy later that misty afternoon, flashing through my mind. The tell-tale string lights that bunched around the photos within jagged perimeters, aided me in recalling the snapshots in the dusk that were stilled in my cell phone that night in the forest trickling with rain. 

From which I turned drowsy and insane, returning to lay in the very jumble of disarray, wrapped in the same blanket, and illuminated by the equivalent dingey brightness of misorganized fairy lights. The night of her last breath. The sleep that would keep her eyes closed, all the way into the dirt. The dark that consumed her soul. She didn’t make it. 

Her playful cheer rips from the heart of the earth. The lost innocence suppresses our worth. The banished creativity, dulls the warmth of our hearth. 

And yet the spirit that drifted, the devilish grin that would punctuate her limp face, as well as the sewn eyes that hold her from passing to her next life, roamed incessantly in the stale atmosphere. The sheltered shrine incapable of restraining her restless, rhythmic pulses of thoughts. The fact comforted me…

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Empty heart, empty home.

The door closed.

 A peek of the amber skyline, visible from the distance, through the crack in its pose, no other brightness left to muffle its beauty. I continued. 

However, a hushed whisper stole my concentration. I swivelled, eyes darting across the space, eerily quiet as to reward the capture of my attention. Reversing, I placidly stepped away, wary of the monsters that came out to play. The demons that saunter these hallways are no stranger to my history.

My journey beyond the perimeter defined by time paused, at the gateway to my room. Purely deserving that title, for only the next 8 or so hours. 

I melted into the lamented bed. Becoming one altogether, as foam piled higher around my weight. My eyes could only enclose the panoramic view of the blades of the fan, circulating the surroundings with the stifling, stagnant air, below only the attic that accentuated the obscurity of this “place”. 

My arms were wrapped together, to protect against the elements, as my feet shivered with the whistle of freezing wind against my bare soles, but my limbs went numb soon enough due to the rush of cold. No blankets or towels in the lower section of the bedside table, where they would be predicted to be, no sheets on the bed, no clothes in the cupboards which stood upon the multiple moving mechanisms, and the missing objects alternatively stuffed into dull cardboard boxes stamped with addresses, packed into the 2018 Honda Civic in the roadside downstairs in a sleek midnight blue. 

The stale and repeating patterns that plagued the area were augmented by my imagination with graphic characters laden with dazzling colours, hopping between the rest of the bland hues, chirping indecipherably. My eyelids drooped down, gradually clouding my vision, uninterrupted by any more obnoxious noises, until it was contaminated completely with blackness. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mourn the return of the monster.

“Your turn!” she emphasized the words, splitting them with dramatic pause and deadly tension pressured on both. She added an upturn to her speech at the end, referencing her confidence, a light yet mighty smirk playing on her lips, her identifying dimple carving out a gap in her cheek.

Who? My eyes traced her pale complexion, her heightened features and her sharp glance at the cards, delicately balanced in her fingers. I looked down, to see mine. All Aces. 

“I fold” I shuddered, still managing to sound defiant. Cards downturned on the ”plush” of the blanket? Infiltrating my mind once more, I see. 

Her expression immediately morphed into a smile, filled with glee. Her words, unnecessary, as her eyes did all the talking. She hadn’t aged a day. As if a hand reached back in time and grasped her in its clutches to return her to her moral place, beside me… Come to think of it; it might be me who turned back time, as I was unveiled once more to the luminescence that this room once encompassed. 

“Izzy?” I questioned, hesitantly. 

“What?”

The same annoyance; the irritant tone, the same highs and lows given to her words, the same speed, volume and sparky attitude. Death is yet to defile her. 

“Place the money on the table, honey” she stated firmly, but maintaining our playful banter. Oh how I missed this. 

I rolled my eyes, rotating in their sockets at a level where they could have popped behind, to pay a visit to my skull. I lifted my purse from next to me, with the motive of paying her what I owed. Extending my hands into the undone zipper, I felt around for the cash nestled inside, slipping into the chasm’s crevasses to the point where it was probably lost forever in the folds. I grappled around, until my fingers sheathed my purse, running over the chilled leather. 

I had hardly grabbed it when a glitch in my senses led to a pair of hands swaddling my neck, suffocating me, breaking airflow. 

“Isabel, what are you doing!” I choked out, sputtering with every word I utter.

“Why’d you let me go?” she threatened, her nails digging into the sides of my throat, a tapering pierce that cuts my skin, a warm fluid that escapes the wound and drips down my spine.

“I-” I began, but she seized my flailing wrists, and interrupted me.

“You could have saved me.” she murmured against my ear. “You could have crawled out from under that patch of moss” she paused, inhaling a wheezy bout of air. “You could have-” she raised her voice provokingly, the temperature of her flesh steadily rising. I couldn’t breathe, I started to lose control of my motor functions, and my consciousness started fading out.

“Why didn’t you?”’ she asked, her comments articulated with a quiver. Not angry, or intonated with a background of a temper. But laced with sadness, genuine disappointment. It broke something in me, something previously buried at depths lacking emotions. A tear hastily exuded her eyes, trickling, and splashing against my face. Saturated with a complex scarlett shade. 

She blended into the atmosphere, disappearing into a world of nothingness. But the abnormality pursued. 

A gasp resonated, escaping the secure space of my mouth. 

The walls reshaped themselves, caving into a mess of unrecognizable abstract art. But as it aligned, “it” shredded everything of ours in a multitude of repetitive sweeping movements portraying devastating finality. Mercilessly distorted in a cloud of raged distress. 

I attempted to scream, in the shrill height of panic.

I ventured to run, away from the grotesque mutations I encountered.

I strived to hide, from the unexplained sentiment of betrayal, contradicted by the perception of utmost anarchy, wrecking havoc upon my most highly valued possessions.

But I couldn’t.

I was trapped. Physically and mentally, as the subtle impressions of the transformations seeped their way into my mind, supplementing hypnotic actions. Alongside, the slamming floorboards that detached from their place proceeded to snake their way around my ankles, grounding me, applying unevenly distributed pressure, gagging me indirectly. 

The panelled glass shattered, shards spreading across the ground and dissipating into the air, claiming blood. The bookshelves tumbled, centuries of eminent paper and wearing parchment raining out on the beholder, fearing the fractured rack which splintered its bark, contorting to weave my palm, unravelling the skin ebbing from the bone, as I wreathed in pain. 

I never believed pain could be felt in a nightmare, however, I couldn’t possibly share this “discovery” once more. Goodbye, was close by. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Enter; the horror.

I shuddered awake, my eyes peeling open to disclose the tranquility of my environment once more; my mind portraying the part of a jester, to satisfy for the demands of entertainment for my vision. The sublime walls paused their endless shifting, and the tapestry of mundane objectivity, wounded through my conscience, heavy with guilt, overflowing, overwhelming, from the crevices of the entities distributed in a disheveled organization about my circumference, and from the solemn fractures in my wretched soul, blackened by the “nostalgic” instances of my past, that eternally scarred my being. 

The phone tucked into the folds of my palm, the 11:59 carved into its finger-print matted screen, glistened in the room, an unnatural shade of tourmaline that paled in comparison to the case, transparency withholding the glitter and glamour basted on the background with its elasticity, the rainbow of colours, a pain on the eyes, straining the ability to visualize style past the limit set. The clock scintillated against the tempest of cloth that waved in the gentle breeze, signifying midnight with its signature 00:00. 

The sweat seeped out of my pores, motionless past the oily barricade across my limbs. 

A knock escaped the silence of the night.

Matching the moment of the ding resounding from the well toward mature speakers of my phone.  

Fragmenting the unflustered atmosphere that practically beckoned its plight. 

I witnessed its journey. Reverberating the ceiling with its electrifying impacts. I traced it with my eyes, following its mesmerizing counts as it foraged thoroughly through the matter above. 

The pace duplicated the steady beat of my heart, like a bass drum. Its pounds creeping unto the scale, rising to meet the climax, as…

“It” paused. 

Directly above my head. Just marvelous wasn’t it.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mind Games, that end in blames.

A primal instinct drilled into our brains. Wedged into our bones. The headline of our programming.

Fueling our basic functions, and pumping through my veins, febrile, as it propelled me forward, taking over. 

The oppressive branches of the trees shielded me, concealing me from vicious eyes. 

The odour emanating from the earth, soothing and rich, masked the romantic aroma of roses that encompassed my clothes.

The gushing of the waterfall, shrouded my shrill movements, with its intensity. 

I was invisible…

I could only watch- my gaze blank, stunned, appalled- the scene before me… 

The figure loomed in the darkness, not so distant. Its profile sketched into the landscape. It fit. He fit. Into the premises, like a puzzle piece, he belonged, and we didn’t. 

His presence was unmistakable. Blatant, and assertive; manifested into the surroundings. An arrogant aura of glaring confidence, an undertone in his frame. 

He wasn’t focussed on me. Scrutinizing something smoothly harmonized amongst the grass. Someone. 

He eclipsed them. Toweringly dominant when upright, a scalpel playfully twirling between his massacred nails, chewed to the nubs. Its fresh metallic sheen glossed over, with rustic stains of dried blood, pigmented just enough. The jagged remains of blank space, graciously alluring pristine drops of blush. 

His laugh, hollow and pained. 

He held it like a sceptre, a ruler in his realm. 

His pupils dilated, like those of a madman, grappling for vengeance. Nothing to reflect, a void of pitch dark. The haunting begins.

Up.

He scans the grounds.

Left. Then, right. 

His mouth in motion, chewing on unarticulated words. An implicit melody muffled to “human” ears. 

The rattle of the fissure ripples. Broken Twigs. 

He ceases his approach. Immobile. Stiff. But sensing. 

Hearing.

Listening.

For a signal to perforate the insufferable silence. 

The veins lining his forearms, bold against the insipid background, visibly pulsating, crimson and merlot torrenting through the conduits.

The tension is palpable. 

Like a scene from a gripping and atmospheric psychological thriller, reenacted.

Almost cinematic… under different circumstances. 

Movement. Quivering through the undergrowth.

A dulled shadow, of soft salmon, transcended the boundary of the brambles, to extend to my vision. The flesh prominent with ominous bruises and oozing cuts, branding him as ones’ belonging, as an object inscribed with a legacy of lament. 

His visage fading, an adversary to mine. 

Obscured by the foliage that dared to spread its vines.

He challenged me. Competing against me. In a game that I was not willing to partake. 

His chiselled profile one of an outlier, a rebel. A one man mutiny.

And he desired revenge. Releasing his rage on the wrong people. 

My heart thrashed about, my ribs struggling to contain its aggravation. 

Breathing ragged as I scrutinized him, absorbing the cerulean of his hazed eyes. Aimlessly wandering, unaware of their onlooker. 

A hand reached up. Empty. Unarmed. 

But still sinister, as it got closer. Within reach of my precious jugular. In contact with the cascading vegetation. Parting the plants, stroking the flowers, with his blood-thirsty fists.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

2 (and a half) feet below. 

Irritability and a short temper are decided to be some of my defining characteristics.

And these “incidents”are not aiding my mental health. Pushing my buttons. Testing the limits, to see how far I’ll be willing to go. Wading into the perimeter of extravagance. Oblivious to the consequences. 

Hence, fear was shoved into that unfathomable precipice, shunted out of my mind, and propelled, to overcome the apprehensions that are residual of the jagged serrations on the blade of memory.

I thrusted the leadwood door open, its gaping jaws unbarred, its weighty presence foreboding. The room, sturdy, with its unsettling burdens, their own poetic and descriptive nuance. An ambiguous atmosphere, heavy to reel in one’s imagination. 

Yet, I hauled on. 

The spectacle of existential dread, with its staggering quantity of sediment and grime draping its upholstery, dragging behind with its filth. The brooding domain didn’t concern me, trepidation interlacing intrepidity, bleeding into one another, merging their identities. 

But now that I am here. Tiered by the discrete jeopardy of the artistic composition and structural depth, I’m not so sure. 

The velvet curtains, slipping between my silky fingers, dramatic, and luxurious, flickering in the faint flush of fluorescent light showered by the moon, thick with secrets superimposed, stratified with intricate weaves that desperately energized it as a whole. 

Elegance at its peak. 

Gradating verdant hues, giving the study a sheen of glamour, while denoting the refined couture. 

The suite’s build, a dazzling, designer representation of runway associated trends, exclusive to the secluded chamber within the attic, even with no decorative artifacts to enunciate its tender beauty. 

That mild-mannered observation being the reverence to this riddle. 

The key to getting any sleep tonight. 

Nothing. 

A clean slate. Recently drawn. Polished off with poise. 

Well. I suppose this discovery isn’t a phenomenon impending off-guard. 

Planned.

Organized. 

Thoroughly accomplished; is certainly a comment well-deserved here. 

I had seen it all, being gathered together in bulk, loaded cumbersomely as cargo into freight trains, which lugged the consignments along the lane to Paris. Awaiting my arrival, in my apartment, a restrictively tailored fit. The Latin Quarter, famous for its vibrancy is student life, abundance in book shops and intellectual ambiance. “It’s a beautiful place, homey. A change.” , the affirmation I often recollect consoling myself with, and convincing others with. 

Huh. There’s a quirk. Peculiarly unconventional in a charming way. 

The floorboard under my boot clung to the heel, abnormally loose. 

I flick the thinning shingle aside, stacking it in a corner, as it shredded apart into its monomers, to broaden the prognosis. And even there in the murky integrity of the gleam, the object twinkled for a split second, before, disappearing quickly, as a delicate, wavering light. 

I buckled down on a knee, to submerge my hand below the surface via the cavernous indentation, in the vacant space. My knuckles sheathed around the series of documents, buzzing about the rotting tiles, binded using metal fastenings, packaged to hide the products, swathed in an unusual fabric most likely derived from brown paper bags, ripped to pieces and rearranged in alignment. 

And overlaying the decking of papers, a densely solid article, that pressures it down, discreetly locking the clutter in geographic placement. A refreshing perspective is cherished by the embers of the degrading woods, delivering distinction in a package of satisfaction as I exposed the interior, accessing it only to an extent due to the screeching, suffocating hinges, unravelled by rust. 

I grazed the lock intertwined with the box’s divides. Smears of natural oils secreted from my skin, perceivable on its undeniable openings. Irises casually browsing the elements of the outer planes. Perusing to analyze their values. How much could they be worth?

The shimmering gold highlights were definitely reassuring. 

I descended the stairs. Strutting across the steps, as they orchestrated the symphony to function as the backtrack for my footsteps’, recurring, recognizable tune. Mind preoccupied with the venture of cracking open the bolt, and scouring the contents secured within. The authentic initiative of clambering up those stairs forgotten, ignored, utterly replaced by the pioneering notion of the curious, little box. 

But nevertheless, purposefully conformed, to the custody of confirmation, following the ideologies of physical perception. 

I sat atop the comforter, wrinkled and unsteadily crumpled, while inspecting the subject through probing of its rifts. The jostling from my motion demonstrates an acute, tapered-edged, tool scratching off the keen, defined paint, in continuous razor-like inflicted cuts, unveiling the anonymous. 

Intrigue achieves the better of me, yearning for the acquisition of the origin of the case. 

Catalyzed by necessity, a sudden realization absorbed in an instance, like lightning’s striking impact on the foundational terrain. 

Leaning over the peripheral laterals of the bed, I injected my angular nails into the bedside table’s platform, in reach of the drawer, withdrawing a spoiling nail that I unscrewed from the source. 

Which, I stabbed into the singularity, jabbing it around in small, ovoid motions to slip the restraints. With an unsympathetic, blaring, crack, incapacitating the lock. Utilizing its susceptibility, to access it under a momentary lapse of judgement. Declining its proclaimed confidentiality. 

It's a set back, vantage point, an outlook to see the new day. 

It’s change in the ambiguously ended novel’s tale, seeping into the bounds of reality.

It’s the “something” that will alter the reiterated reference, to consolidate it to the present age. 

It’s an innovation in strategy. That’s what it was…

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Red Thread Network.

Daylight sparkled.

Refracting intermittently through the pane of glass integrated into the wall, divotting a breach in the smooth continuity and cohesion of it all, to be awarded recognition by bikers led astray as their unfocussed pupils wander criss-crossedly around in their socket. 

Rays of light disseminated, bouncing about the metal indulgently veneering the structure of the tin cans, containing fluids infiltrated with sugar (basically, attaining an entire composition plainly consisting of sugar, with dollops of caffeine to top it off), a fatal cocktail designed to arouse the discharge of adrenaline and dopamine into one’s bloodstream; collaborating to prompt an increase in heart rate (mine; currently in recovery, as the thumping muffles in reach of my ears), and an elevation in the feelings of pleasure and motivation to heighten one’s ability to focus, a responsibility handled accurately in a period set in the past, whereas the repercussions of such, cause me to lay upraised, diminished and unconscious, upon the bed situated in an enclosed nook recessed in the corner of the motel room, which I rented out for the next weeks. A choice elected at midnight a few nights ago, causational of emotionally traumatic injuries, therefore, not thoroughly evaluated and certainly not provisional of clarity. 

The curtains established, collapsed on the floor spewed in a tangled mess, a rage ensued decision settled in haste, resulting in the golden hues of sunshine searing through, casting the expansion in an elusively substantial tinge of chromatic  dispense, swallowed in a gradient ranging rosewood to aspen, in a citrine saturation.

My eyes scared away from the petrifyingly bright light slithering its way in through the crack of my eyelid dwindling open, forcing a pressure in demand of exertion downward, to seal it, the hairs on my arms bristling to signify dawn breaking past the intimidating dusk. 

My bones shook, a twisted sensation of shivering, like an infection reacting by reflex to the experimental undercurrent. 

I rolled over my stature, proceeding to bury myself into the covers, a marshmallow-like pillow enveloping my head in a cloud of mush, preventing the distill of raucously adamant noise partially compatible with exuberant dissonance, from prying open my shell raised to have myself swivel in my own sorrow and regret. It accommodates a capacity to adapt my mind to thrive in loneliness, the punishing for yet unforgiven actions, lasting to  “improve” my future. 

My ring, embossed with silver, caught on a spool of yarn, an astoundingly energetic shade of red, that wrapped about the ring’s decorations now beautified by figurative ruby. 

The papers once deposited, worryless, into a treacherous pit, sharpened their bite, as they tentatively arranged across the length of a boarded backing, a spiderweb fabricated along its width splashing the dullness with optimistic menace, a red masquerading as a snarling part of the awfully dangerous games here at play. 

The inky richness staggered weakly, diffusing through the room disguised as the scent of markers laden on fibres of paper, but one fragrance tyrannized them all. Vague, feeble, dainty; but possessing an imperceptible kind of power. 

Further stirring, untucked the corner of the sheets.

It allows a collection of stacks of cash to tumble down, ancient but maintaining their startlingly brilliant green, bundled up with ribbons and bows declining to unwoven paper clip chains. 

A small fortune. At an eye’s glance, a reasonable feat of an easy hundreds of thousands.

Sorted into conspired categories, obsessively. 

Labelled by colour and fluctuation in type of binding. 

A comforting companion, familiar… acclimated.

Almost conventional. 

The means trapped in an expression overflowing with unknowns. 

A mammoth of a question mark branding it for a lifetime. A life’s time. Not all.

Surprisingly short time. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wake up call. 

The drawl was endless. 

An incessant war, that ever so torturously conducts between recreation and the drudgery. 

The casualty; my willpower.

 The sacrifice to make to carouse relaxation.

The comfort of the lush medium stretched out taut beneath me, inviting…

An underestimation.

Alluring.

Better. 

Suddenly, infinite sleep didn’t seem an appalling agenda. 

There it was. Unmasked. 

That shrouded shadow, hugging the air. Thick and dense.

Humid with the moist of muted tears. It was smothering.

Killjoy. 

Let’s get this over with. 

I hoisted myself to be able to accept the reinforcement provided by my arms extending behind me, coiled to down turned fists. 

The next events were a blur of half my wits. A borderline level management to brace the pounds that my anatomy seemed to have accumulated. 

Drowsy, alienated and disassociated with my own body’s undertaking. 

However, lack of autonomy did not fail my reminiscence. 

The walk to the grimy bathroom, the devilish chill of frosty petros, dissolving to dampness, stinging my soles. 

The swish of “salty” water that glazed my face. Never chose to question it. 

Probably infectious. 

The alarm bells tolled again outside, sounding out distantly. 

More on the side of ”sinisterly”, since it rang earlier. Tearing me from my slumber. Seven in the morning was far too late, to emerge as my sleep off-set, so, what was it?

My eyes skipped away from their imitation in the reflection, unfurled across the scale mirror. Distracted by the racket that instituted a cacophony in the room. 

I was foaming at the corner of my mouth, from toothpaste that lapped at my teeth, a resemblance to peppermint, with its cool aromatic tendencies; now, lazily cross-stepping over the clutter eclipsing the room.

A clutter that was busy painting a portrait, describing the psychotic wreck my mind was at the moment, 

A compulsion. 

A madness that…burrowed within me, nestling deeper over the past 21 years. 

A spirit released by grief that debilitates me. 

A long-dormant monster stirred awake.

Now, it can’t be stopped. 

I lifted it. The phone. 

The screen igniting to elucidate a halo, inundating me.

Relief washed over, flooding the barrage. 

A phone call. 

Huh. Misleading ringtone. 

Rational reasoning took control. Invading with sincerity, devoted to my safety. 

NO CALLER ID. A confession made. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Underlying conditions with unanimously invalid explanations. 

I slid my thumb, across the ablazed section of the screen, aligning the trajectory to arrive at the green button, remarking the ring threading the ridges, with its tendrils of garnetted twine. 

“Hello.”

A rebellious huff. 

Inquisitive, yet studded with reserve.

Gentle mindful touches, deliberate quakes. 

Never surrendering, hardly withdrawing, neither charging. 

Assertive to carry the confidence, not arrogant. 

The key to dealing with an enemy in a disciplined candor, when you don’t have knowledge of them, is to host an unfazed composure, which does not conceive cracks through a countenance, fabricated to submit the relentless potency within. 

“Well, Ms.Maurice, took you long enough!”

The roll of the tongue, that so venomously spat sarcasm. The gamble his chords toyed with trust. The unmistakable hiss, he provocated his pronunciation with. 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack”, the bitter edge to mock his irony, over exaggeration fueling this conversation. I could practically hear the contentment in his bass, baritone chuckle. 

“Let’s skip the small talk, fun size, I’ve got staff in ten” he informed with an all-consuming technicality, the respect procured for the purpose of the joke, crippling. 

The flutter of rustling pages inches from the foreground, demolishing the silence. 

“You called me!”, pitch escalating with impatience. 

“Only because you were despaired enough to frantically notify the registry that you wanted to be put through to me.”

Huh. I had almost forgotten the nuisance he was. Guess time can’t exasperate everything. 

“Aren’t people allowed to want time with their friends?”

I could feel the smirk that crooked his smile, and the only possible answer to respond to that question, withheld by his mouth clumsily, as its broken bits slipped past the dispute. 

“People, certainly. You, no”

“Shut up. This is serious, Alistair.” 

The rumble of a giggle, synchronized with my proclamation. Interrupting the sizzling somberness, with a booming cadence. 

“Case 527, missing woman. You may… know her.”

An interjection that permeated the bliss, inverting it to something… disturbing. Demonic even, with its fiendish macabre. 

An uncomfortable hush.

A still muteness, transacted for a return of comic relief. 

The years of legal interactions, search parties and un-evidentiated assumptions, deluging the dignified air. 

He stammered, reaching to find his footing. 

He never stammered. 

“Why are you bringing that up now? I’m sorry, but it’s been 5 years since…”

Explicitly baffled.

Perplexed trying to orient my words with the muddled phrases ingrained with tense expressionism. 

“I found…the “anomaly "".

“Maddy.”. Supple. Restricted. Pitying.

An undulating chant of voices all at once, coordinated an interlude, across the call.

“What have you gotten yourself into?”. Alternating to disappointment.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rekindling the Renaissance. 

Back at highgate, a serene, upscale neighborhood with its historic homes welled in calmness making for a cozy retreat; a sophisticated community feel to contribute to its charm.  

Ruffled into London’s fabric, boasting affluency, while in a seculatory vertice of the spread, the perfect escape from the city’s energized craze, even with an inferior proximity.

A prestigious gem offering spacious grand houses with an inevitable level of attention to detail, and care to foster a decent wealthy intimidation. A chilling backdrop for a murder mystery, utilized adequately, immune to the harsh attacks of warm temper, steeped in an eerie repertoire. The Highgate Cemetery lousily hiding its pallidity, proposed an air of gothic conundrum.

The hidden backstreets tracking the pasty soil, repurposed as passages, where an unfortunate victim could vanish in the mist. 

I waved of a raven, lurking a little too close to a crumbling package-dumped onto a flimsy plate dangling hazardously along the cushion of the backpack stripped of its fastened zippers. A strange block smothered in layers of “melt in mouth” cheese, cherry tomatoes, crunchy lettuce, and a cluster of other ingredients formulating the secret to a hearty stakeout snack lineup, opted to pile in between slices of crispened bread, shreds of barbequed burgers, clinging to the revival of the refrigerated sandwich, the golden brown crust, charred with the spice of cayenne, just a dash enough to overpower the tart lemon in the drizzled sauce. Flaring its objective depth, and my nostrils with its noticeable heat. 

And yet enhancing the taste. 

Thank you grill. 

You may be just an unwanted guest acting a replacement to the panini press as part of the communal kitchen facilities. So brutally murdered, with the weapon of sticky espresso, further mulled by the perpetrator of the marshmallow clouded hands of a distracted toddler. 

But you did the job, and exceeded expectations with the results.

The lens of the binoculars I boosted up to my eyes, warped the view. Magnifying into the clefts of each fact’s facets, intended to announce the confidences that gouged themselves into the patterns grained across their surfaces. 

My fingers worked unwittingly, as if with an attained conscience that habitually marked the tasks assigned. My left yanked up the sandwich to face my mouth, teeth scraping a chunk out, to entertain the involuntary discern of hunger, masked temporarily by the chewing that hounded, to fuel the need to eradicate the conspiracies. 

My right jutted briskly about the tame flaxen films of paper stacked into the form of a notepad. I recorded the layout that expanded the area before me, in graphic inks that spirited feistily with the sun overhead, playing a game of charades all by itself. Take that Oscar Wilde. 

A capture of the devil’s playground. Hosting its favourite pastime, catch the crook. 

Perhaps, this time, it would turn…

Turn to the inaugural of diversions, for a frolic far more frightening.

I was sprawled atop a hilly mound, thatched with eloquent stretches of grass, sprinkled with splotches of pastel dyes residing within the petals sprouting from the flowers aplenty. 

Bluebells. 

From my unperturbed nest at the far northeast of civilization, bordering the woods, my outlook distended overhead, the spilling squiggles of the fountain pen, bleeding black into the paper, mimicking the arching embellishments, and antiquated enchantments. 

The onyx that consumed the canopy behind me, the reverie belonging to Highgate Wood, trilled under the brush of the passing breeze. Calm. Sturdy. 

The rigid smoulder of the sun. Keeping its wild right to the timeline. 

My phone buzzed in its home, torn into the pocket decked beneath the fleece of my parka that shielded the autumn chills, insulating warmth to thaw my heart. 

I plucked it out, swiping it unlocked absentmindedly. Obeying the guidance, sacrilegious to the memorized interface, from years of strain, rewarded in vain. 

A blue pop-up, overcast the screen, graciousness of the text enclosed. 

I’m here. 

Two words. Blunt and straightforward. Bang for the buck. 

Not out of the ordinary, Alistair was never one for pleasantries. Warm introductions and social niceties aren't his strong suits. In a way, it confirmed his authenticity, and enhanced his ability to excel in his select profession.

I skirted the dialogue, and the subjects in my mind, a constant mutter or mumble of my mouth, wading through the problem at hand with my words, lost in the weeds and failing to distinguish the relevant details. 

On my way. Meet me at Waterlow. 

A quick roundabout of the keypad.

I moved fleetingly. Wasn’t intentional. Just intuit. 

Gathering the dumped possessions rotating about each other, with outstretched arms; grasping at every one while mentally checking off each item on the list, only to ditch them into the plethora of zippered compartments and mesh pouches of the messenger bag, the sound of metal snapping metal, comparable to tap shoes ceaselessly slapping against sanded, sealed wood, as I buttoned the latches. 

I swung it over my shoulder, curtaining my neck as I did so. 

The straps finalized position with movement. Firming to steady and flexible at chosen places, content with its fixes. 

I tossed the fossil of my sandwich, to an awaiting fox, paws luxuriously padding about the dirt, tracing the invisible barrier constructed of the forest line, racing to reach and bite down on its fare, before, retreating to the shade its draft growing fainter against the thrill of the tree’s brown, masquerading black.”Survival of the fittest”, oh so poetically suggests the demand for that primeval skill I suppose. 

One’s competence to be able to undertake one’s own concerns. To set a figurative quota as to how much of your expense can be forwarded to another’s potential. Simply, to be able to put you first. Always. Keeps you alive. Undeniably the proven way forth. But unacceptable until experience backs it up. 

The motif that sheened the outsole of my boots, wedged itself into the pliable soil. Leaving behind a trail of footsteps, down the path envisioned to the road, carving its way through the forest. Mappable, an invitation to follow, attached with a navigator.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Trenches of trench coats. 

Down the link, between Muswell Hill and home. An unearthly note the word hits. 

Squatted atop the bike previously stashed between the dead leaves castaway in masses, courtesy of autumn’s exceptional presence. The wheels churning, the wind drifting through strands of bleached and dyed hair, gliding carefreely over the shuddering screams of the crunch of gravel. An uncanny comparison to sawing of bones. Not unlikely. 

It felt like I was flying. 

Now, wouldn’t that be nice, to soar above your worries. 

Too bad the movies you direct in your imagination, never find the right producer to bring it out to reality.

The irregularities in the smoothness of the road took up the jobs of ramps, shooting me up to permit a brief hover. 

Floating into the district, littered with specks and splatters ranging the spectrum, from blunt grays to dilute greens and incriminating reds, not quite the shade of red, swelling to it. 

Soon, enlarging from the size of pearls to boulders.

If the disintegrating roadway, had eyes; it watched myself and the snowy rims of the cycle, growing distant, becoming one of those specks in the faraway flock. 

*****************************************************************************

The world swallowed me, climbing to lifesize.

A1, stabbing through the town, and out through the end,  serpentine as it winds through baroque palaces of homes and culturally customized versions of versatile brands and stores, meant only for the English customers, whirling about the edges, like a brewing storm darkening the sky. Clouds denser, the air somehow more flavourful.

But the target, alabaster, with the lurid bullseye, a reference to the descent ongoing to my goal. The only person who would have the will to help, to drive my rabid compulsions.

10 minutes. A timer that rhetorically clicked on. 

The entrance to Archway station strolled past, on my left hand side, the glass panels refracting odd, illuminated figures that took shape on my frame, warred by the steel plating of the bike and pins studding my backpack. Pointy. 

North. Further up. 

Left. Sharp cut.  2 minutes ticked away. 

Wheels skidding. Storm chasing. 

Sensing a change in the terrain. Pedalling up an incline, below me. Feeling its steepness, before seeing Highgate Hill, extend above me. 

Muscle straining, pulling. Bone hurting, twisting. 

An unyielding fire, scorching the pit of my stomach. Spreading throughout. Uneven. Flickering.

7 minutes in.  

A stop. At the top. To have a whiff of the air. A springing scent of vanilla, in the emanating winds. Fighting the flames with fantasies. Of normality resumed. 

27 seconds. Time to motor. 

There. At the verges of my vision, the horizon, a cliff distending into a colossal field striped with blazing trails, and bejeweled with picturesque conifers of lasting scopes. The lake, a burnished mirror, awkward ripples bellowing through the nonchalant reservoir. 

I slid down the hill, to reach the other side. Gaining speed. My feet now stretched outward, hovering the pedals, as the velocity carried me. Relishing the tailor-made treatment, as I smiled against the fogging sun, chin upturned to immerse myself in the experience, its blurring light still enough to sting my eyes, now, squinting.

I focussed, now at the base of it, the ingress materialized in the forefront, located just off my landing.

I abandoned my bike carelessly, shoved into one of the bike racks, rushing practiced palms, to lock it to the iron pillars. Eyeline wavering about its coverage, alert and inspecting for signs. 

I stepped into the space, attaining a herbal flair, the laces of my boots tangling with the grains of sand tracing the track, refusing to gather the imprints of my footsteps; virtually non-existent, once I decode my way away. A less than comforting fact. Depending on how you thought about it. 

A flash of orange. Fast moving fogged it. But it stood out principally, withstanding a backdrop devised of the plain sweaters, washed out sleeves, and sappy trench coats; the roaming crowd’s attire mainly inspired from soot, and replicating the aura of wax. 

I spied the wearer of that glaring overcoat, stalking the treeline beside a water feature, face buried beneath the shadows of Japanese Maple, celebrating its striking red ecstasy with compatible colours. 

Hurrying, my feet quickening, a differential rhythm padding the ground. Eyes locked. 

I reached the rim of the plantation, walking parallel to the cloaked figure. My eyes settled on his hands, stubby but gloved heavily to pitch-black, gleaming. Like leather. 

Enfolding about a solid rectangular, back-lit box. A phone, no trinkets. A web page open on it. An article, in another language, reducing to squiggles from the distance. 

I broke into a run. Footsteps timid as whispers. 

Through the bark drawn dashes that intruded, I screwed in on him.

A pin. Layered with mercure. 

He had a hat lowered to sink his eyes, and hair. Top hat. Daubed with a spiced bow, hanging off the end. Tugged to fit right, suit the size. Oversized. 

I found him. The pearled silver beading of his ID, one that would label him Alistair Vexley, twirling about his neck, trimmed a formal outfit. Dead giveaway. I tried to keep my steps in sync with his.

Too fast, too preoccupied, too much. I stumbled, one leg intercepting the other. Arms splayed in front of me, planting into the ground firmly, to block my fall. 

I was about to speak. Lips parted, words donated to the atmosphere with an exhale that stunned it, with a clouded over puff of ivory.

But they were snatched right out of my waiting mouth by a voice in the far. The figure I was tracking now rounded up behind me. The warmth of a hand on my shoulder accompanied it. A docile jerk, humble but ample action that very literally pulled me to reality, to overlook a fresh face. One I know. 

“Hey. Where were you?”, a slap to the face and my forejudgement. As the voice developed into an appearance, proceeding to prop my appendage up, onto my feet.

“You…I just…What?I don’t understand?”, I spiralled out, ejecting broken, overlapping thoughts. None grammatically finished. 

“You do know I don’t get anything, you’re saying, right? I need proper sentences to do that.”

I spun round on my heel, confronting the walkway, where I saw him. 

He was gone. Melted away, undertaking the task of receding from view, and masterfully accomplishing it. 

A snap in front of me, fingers clicking together to string a chord. 

“Oi. What’re you doing?”

“You were just over there. How’d you get here?”, rushed and frantic. 

“Mate, I think you’re going crazy. Best visit a doctor.”, a contrast to my inflection, more even-tempered. A pat on my back emphasizing the point with a gummy smile. Missing mine. 

“I’m serious. I just saw “someone” walk by here, matching the exact description you sent me of yourself, and now there’s no one anywhere even close to here. Except you and me.”

“Well, genius. That’s because you saw me. I crossed over, just in time to see you fall. You’re reading too much into this.’’, brushing it off, coolly. 

“No! I’m not. I could swear there-”

“Relax. It’s your brain playing tricks on you. You need a break.”, he advised. Thrusting the cup of not so steaming coffee, rested between his hands crusted with the same leather voids, into my frostbitten hands, thawing at the heat. He knit the arm, about my neck and leant it upon my shoulder, veering me back onto the proper path through the shedding maple, side by side, back to the wholesome perfume born of the lake. The same rigorous orange sleeves now, draping my back. 

I set the to-go cup to my mouth, tilting my head back to let the sultry liquid drip down my throat, as my fingers shook, fluttering. 

The person had a concrete comprehension of Alistair’s garments, down to every last element.The hat sat hunched on the walker’s head, now eased into the pleats of his coat, flamboyant knot surfacing.

A perfect replica, he was right. It was him.

Prancing over to my other side, while my eyes and guard were in lock with the ground. Enlightened by the uproar of clamor, when I met the floor. Right?

Something was off, though one would end up insane trying to unfurl what, in this faultless excuse. 

The nominations are between, being level-headed and sticking to the grounded logic, or choosing extravagance and neurotically digging for the flaws. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”, 

I pressed the cup back to my mouth, a rise-and-fall beat. Decision unclear. A raging battle, between heart, with its agitation, and mind, with its reasoning. 

“Nevermind that, I want to show you something.”, I went with the highway. I have more important things to expel my energy on. Whatever unforeseen phenomenon that was, it may be nightmare fuel, but not appropriate here, anyway you look at it. Giving up, justified, by a superior quest. 

I removed his hand, owing to his wrist. Instigating a remoteness between myself and the segments of my dismissal. Letting his arm flap back against his side, before he becomes self-aware, easing it into his pocket.  

I allowed my bag to skim down to the crook of my elbow, snapping off the locks, and retrieving a folder from it. The obvious best of the colour choices, red. Flagging the toxicity of the plight, a signal from the universe to run the other way. Mistake but never mistook. 

A sign his all-seeing hazel eyes seemed to notice, with the way they probed the papers. 

The storm…not chasing…as it never had to. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Hunting. 

While the light bounded off its intense gold flecks. 

 Widening and shrinking with each passing hitch on a chit. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A shutter and a flash. 

At the very precipice of the park, it boasts a remarkable Pedunculate Oak. Under which spans an artistically effervescent specimen of talent instanced wood work, a bench hacked out of a measured sample from a tree’s trunk. Likely that which mounted over us. 

But right now, the decadent swoops that the material was loomed into, has the privilege of being written over, by hundreds of millions of leaflets, notebooks, and sheets of documents pinned into binders according to pre-expounded organizational laws. 

Two people, slumped over the convoluted paper succession, that ushers you to an indigenous verdict, previously undisclosed, now emerging to the light, and it won’t tolerate ignorance. 

“So, you’re telling me, that you want to challenge the opinion of let’s say 2 lead detectives, probaby 5 CSIs, around 10 forensic scientists, in this case 20 national agents FBI and CIA, more than 100 participants in the search and rescue, 6 entire K9 units, 4-5 cyber analysts, 50+ witnesses, one “lonely” family liaison officer, 2 defense attorneys, a jury of 12 jurors and 2 alternates, an almighty judge, 3472 local informants, and 8.28 billion people across the world, negative of you, upon the core of some rotten bits of hitherto photographs as your attestation?”, seemingly harmless, but wandering into a part of the gloom, broken and irreplaceable, a pain it nurtures, combustible in nature. 

“You’ll never see how it could be right, if you decide you’re blind.”

And there she blows. 

 A temper in binds but compounding, seeking opportunity, found in the safety of the niche of this park. 

5 years under wraps, does that to one. 

“Woah. Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that you're outnumbered. And have a lot less research down than all the effort put in by those before you. Not only by quantity, it’s weak in its standards, seeing as it is in shreds, and it’s strength to uphold in a court.”

A flustered attempt in softening his statement, making it more persuasive, beating around the bush, taking a crack at leniency, to escape my wrath. The short version is a tasteful but wasted deed. Seeing as it doesn’t suit him, it makes the rarity comprehensible, should keep it that way. Rare. 

“That’s the damn reason I called you!”, irritation leaking into my tone, “Why would I need a detective, if I had everything for court ? Wouldn’t I rather be chasing down a lawyer?”.

Seriously, this guy…

A waterfall of textbook smarts, but streetwise stunted. 

He glazed with a vacant stare, eyes darting bewilderedly, trying everything but meeting mine, an indescribable expression a murmur of puzzled and aimless in the first place. 

For a second, it forced me to doubt my diction. Huh, maybe, his tendency for exploring things that weren’t a natural talent today, was rubbing off on me? Because, I had never withheld regrets on anything I had done before, a fuller confidence; since, you’re doing it anyway, might as well take it to the top-notch; and here, his blank face submits evidence that everything has to have a first time. 

Rappelling backward to recollect them I combed through for the provocative verbs, ready to replace them with a more timid phrasing. 

My turn to mask myself with a cloud of confusion, as he fiddled with the tips of his tautly pulled gloves, just as glistening as they were before, now in the waning sunlight, peeling them clean aside, to show off the corpse-like hands beneath them. Veins doodling about in a sea of ivory. 

He reached them downward, angling to the army of polaroids crammed under the folds of a crocheted scarf, to mar sun damage. Retrieving one, rested habitually between his index and middle, a fresh replacement for the eye-sore of a cigar accessorized with smoke which I am assured is furrowed in a crook within his horde of pockets. 

Dragging off by staring at the moduled fractures claused by dilute pearly paints planted purposively. His nails grazing the veneers as if he could scratch secret messages out from the inks. Fuming to join the air, exclusive amongst the paradoxes and palindromes mingled unbeknownst to us, ones that watch over us, a silent pulsating prowess. 

Mumbling softly into his ear their studies, a comment framed for his cognizance, and to me a drone that drilled out an animalistic urge for completion, a sixth sense that drove out my resolves, never bound to a step-wised fashion.

I saw the rough reflective outline of a colourless woman in his silvery eyes. Forever caged in the square of the photograph, and as he knew more than any other, never to be found anywhere else. The flowery border, spinning in and out of the cornice, was embellished on using a set of hyper pigmented markers, a garland of hearts and diamonds drawn by a pair of ecstatic hands, annotated derangedly with a demented structure of color coordination. 

Neon pink, orange, greens in no eligible order. Scribbled on like a psychedelic prisoner striving to make the most out of their only escape.

He spoke. A hoarse blurt. More like he was thinking aloud, an extension of his mind, rather than an explanation. It felt like one though.

“So, Isabel’s death wasn’t just a tragedy. It was planned. A hit on a mark.”

“An assasination?”

I finished for him. Grasping at the cue. Jumping at the chance, taking it, pushing the blockade fortified by…not the years… I wouldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t bring myself to. No.

By her. 

What happened to her.

 A catastrophe. 

That we coped with in our own self-innovated mechanisms. 

A fire complexed to the problem at hand, the remedy a clash between the contestants water and an antagonistic flame. 

Never will be the same, two disparate tricks pulling out two detached rabbits out of the hat.

Rabbits trying to be friends. Now. Maybe a tad bit too late for that. Couldn’t hurt to try. 

“Yes. One that I can help you solve.”

Accepting the olive branch, the proud smirk that elasticized the defining lines of his face, lop-sided like his attitude, brandishing toward his satisfaction with himself, probably because my reliance on him, finally, after I have, since my birth, ranted about being independent and not needing anyone else’s help, especially his. Choosing to criticize his abilities, even though they have been authenticated by a dozen policing squads.  

“Well, let’s get started then.”

A challenge tossed at him, equipped to hustle him out of resources that I couldn’t dream of having, committing the tag of detective chief inspector, he flaunts with such “swag”. Using them to avenge the suffering of my blood-born sister. Upon commision of the grounds behind it, thieving them from him is supposedly an elementary task. 

“If you’ll follow me…”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jaws of the monster. 

I blinked away the tire that threatened to droop my eyes down, dinging the world with its darkness as it drowns the abode out of view, a sentient black fluid. 

I opened my eyes, returning my attention to the domain, dipping in and out, in cumbersome curves.

The air stiff with menace, chilled with the bursts of iciness from an infinitesimal source. Making it more intimidating. 

The sleek boarding that adhesed to the walls, a cohesive scene for the overlapping royalties of black crowned with gold accents. A timeless palette. Huddled together, giving the room an expensiveness evoking elegance. 

The sheer in the curtains crispened with the hues mimicking those of champagne. Matching with the archways enveloping their windows, a fluent nod to the romanesque period with its prominence in their ornateness with symmetricality and a stylized comeback. The minimalism, still potent with magnificence, the architecture and interior design of it all of premium value. 

From the grade of the mahogany and make of the worktop sidled into the corner, to the behemoth of a chandelier which defied gravity in its means of being cradled by the lush false ceiling, lacerated to voltaic shapes and scored with refracting light aglow; it was all moulded to expound fashion, and exhaust money. Can’t say it wasn’t worth it though.

The chandelier’s down-turned tiara flared protruding shadows slinking about the jetted walls, supported by the fringe of the LED strips that rim the bar pressed into the other end of the large-statured living room, crammed with hundreds of bottles of alcohols and wines infiltrated with galvanic colours, refrigerated and set aside, separated by dramatic glasses for each, uniquely sculpted and slit. 

The upholstery of the couch beneath my legs squeaked as I shifted, with the sewn together velvet slices conforming to a matching set with the curtains, a less than ideal example of toil, resembling more to the home of a negligent individual setting out on an endeavor to purchase the first thing they set their eyes on rather than exhibiting a beautified composition, spotlighting functionality. Lethargic on the leisure, but sweating on the specifics. 

Regardless, it works. 

Serves the purpose it was built for, a sick joke that mocks its owner’s aura dedicated to his nonchalance. 

The evening light ebbed, as the city skyline drew an equator about the glass door slackening in its job however, either receded to half closed or swelled to half closed, likely letting in the draft, though, more unpretentious than the sharpness of a dagger’s stabs through one’s flesh, left behind by the whirlwind of frost, almost wisping flakes, that engulfed the living room. It gushed the kinetic, feathery smell of cologne, dragging it in laps by the neck, as it swamped behind the footsteps thumping down the dwindling staircase buried out of sight, worry of the risk in dampening the utilitarian aesthetic. 

He trotted in front of me, a sizable titan of a box, upheld by both arms; orange coat now suspended about his forearm, as his formals powdered with the mangled cardboard sheaths’ dust. He dropped it down on the coffee table, wiped clean of its contents and the glass top, neat with no signs of disarray, as of its tidy composure, trim and immaculate, somehow a surprisingly exact replica to what one would envisage his house to look like, if they had known him. The true him. Not just the facts he chose to educate them with. Lies… 

The disintegrating case fell apart with the clunk, the jangling items now rippling about the surface. 

Papers, documents, folders, flash drives, films, ziplock bags with petite products. 

Stamped with the brand of several different police departments. 

Inking seared into each of the plastic keisters and sheets, sheltered by voluminous, transparent wrinkles, in the forms print, xerox, and handmarked editing.

My jaw unhinged at the very sight of the mass accumulation of evidence currently dumped in front of me. 

When I reached out to him, I didn’t ever expect in the cracks of his mask that he would assign such an invigorating denotion to “help”.

Lifting away much of the burden of filling in the loopholes those couple hundred “geniuses” in the black uniforms tailed by lustre of red and blue lights attempting to deluge the taunting sirens, its babel perhaps knocking lunacy into their minds as they made the oh-so-utter decision to keep me in the dark. To let my mind tip precariously into the darkside, grazing the edge of shadowland, the home of the monsters. 

Well…guess what?

To refuse the darling of the dynasty, built under my name, is a dangerous risk to take; an unrewarding act of substantial bravery to end in a serendipitous scene proving no struggle capturing the daring on the ground and I the one strutting away. Valentino heels snapping along to a smooth melody beneath me. 

A smirk delighted my face, undecipherable to those who weren’t looking for it, the slanted smile; like the game at hand. 

Now, on my turf, and the rules willing to bow to my thrill. Threatened to do so and follow through. 

Dozens of layers of adept stylism, consummated artists and veteran liars, battle-scarred in plentiful, would fail to disguise enough the truth. 

The fact. 

The one that exposes itself in every rush of blood trampling through my veins.

With every deafening pump of my heart, leadened by its chains. 

And what is it that echoes in my ear with its shrill, taking the reins?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To the surface. 

The MorganThalls, a family stashing their sins.

Battering away within their weathering ties, smelted together to serve dutiful purposes. 

Dark purposes. Wicked intents. Unspeakable plots. Relishing the elation, completing their passionately heinous recreation. 

They sure knew their way around a gun. 

From the antique colt revolvers, inscribed with arduous arrays of sketches. To tasers and stun guns extorted from police connections. Not stopping at, “straight out a sci-fi”, or the wistful realms belonging to the beyond. Props shelled out on. Fake, but no proof not lethal. 

Still, murder felt mortal child’s play, when their eyes became the looking glass. 

Is that crimson papering the walls? Over there, the ruby dyeing the glass? You see, the cherry in my goblet. Are you sure? 

Regulars. Boring. Not their style. 

Never had questions arisen. Never had the outside world intruded their sequestered, cynical puzzle that overflowed the veins beneath the walls of their collector’s edition estates. Never had anyone dared to step inside their kingdom, or oppose their words. Falling head over heels, to get on their good side, if there was ever really one locked under the shackles of strength. 

Every spot that sun shone upon at dawn was theirs. Every crook the shadows hid in at dusk still their possession. 

Every request was an order. Every decision was final. Every rebuttal, fatal. 

They were adrenaline junkies, who seeked to stimulate themselves incessantly, in any way possible. Most commonly mainstreamed by jumping out of planes, climbing mountains, diving into caves, and a variety of other options

However, the residents of this lineage, preferred not the rush of hormones, but find their poison in pleasantries of pain coursing their companions. 

Their guilty pleasure was disabling their inferiors not in physiology, though with the weight they pull it’s not far behind in priority, but in prospects. 

They crave the sweet sustenance of supremacy…

Willing to flick the switch on wars for it. 

Wanted to rule. To rave in the dominion. To carouse their leverage. 

They wished to call the shots, and never be called on. 

Ready to rearrange right and wrong for it. 

Weapons deemed worthless. 

A mercy you beg for at their feet. 

Death, a despicable prize. 

The infinite potential that a blade could offer, outshined by their starry nights. 

They had their ways. They had their accomplices. They had their knowledge. 

Killing is easy. One and done. Where’s the fun in that?

But amusement was gratification due in lengths. Undertaking the turmoil for it, made the triumph that much more invaluable. 

Conviction was mandatory despite the pastime. 

Contemplation is the key. 

Impression builds perception. And that’s how you stockpile on fear. No dry spell of that in your perception of this pedigree. 

Fear… of what? Oh, step in, strapped tight, you’ll see. 

It’s not what you’d expect. 

Their system is unique. Their status is chic. Their sympathy, bleak. 

Sirens in your head, as you feel them speak. 

How would I know? Well, I see…

For the same blood runs in me… 

For which my heart beats… 

For which I deceive… For I use to deceive. Used to deceive.

Signed, 

Isabella MorganThall

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A fading whisper, playing on my lips, as I read the name out loud, boring it into my breath; a thumb running tender strokes across the cursive font that cursed the end of the page, with its treachery, in betrayal, in… leaving. Leaving me behind, to clean her mess. 

One to be eluded with a scream. A plea. Taking a knee. Just something. As I heard her scrounging for anything. 

I winced, hearing her voice in my ear. The ghost of a cry from her heart, reanimating within mine. I glanced behind me, in a dwarfed burst over my shoulder. 

I hitched on the downed glass, beside his foot, the tip of his loafers beveling the rim as he slung it side to side, travelling upward to stop at his somehow still soberly inert eyes locked on clustered plastics, and deeds in his palms, as he tossed them into rushedy chaotic piles under the filter of organization. Absorbed completely, distractions unlikely. 

Quick check to ensure my discretion, with a side-long eye, before I circled back to the diary between my palms, held out beneath the decorative overhead lamp, swaying from the wind on a shaggy crawl brushing off the crack that parted, glass skidded agape. 

Yellowing parchment, pages flooded with their match made in light. 

The black ink seemed to have tiny blotches of glitter, spider eyes monitoring my calculated reactions. 

I closed my eyes, relaxing into the fluent memories of her handwriting, ringing the alarm bells. 

Eerily exemplified to the signature spindles of her signing on every one of my permission slips, my parents didn’t have the time for, out of pity to ground the end to my suffering. 

The swoops that beautified the letters she wrote out, for every birthday, Christmas, and New years, to tell me how much she loved me in poetry, even if she was right next to me. 

To the stories she would illustrate, fountain pen in fluid motion; the dozens of volumes and scriptures, she would innovate, for me… Just me. 

Hopping upon a flaccid mutation, into the sound of her dulcet voice, clawing its way in, overtaking with its honeyed grace, speaking, for once, her bona-fide. 

The gospels she chose to gossip, hiding it between the lines of her poems. 

Between the pages of this leather latched book. 

Patrolling the lines of her clauses, skipping about her paragraphs. 

My elbow rested on the mantle, disparately agitated, shaking to thrash against the ornate marble at every odd sound. Soft sultriness seeping past the shelter, to splash against my skin as the fire crackled away, in its breathtaking beauty, protruding gargantuan shadows dancing about the timeless carpet, and the glossy wooden flooring up forth. 

I pulled the blanket drooping off my shoulder, to cover the journal nevertheless, shielding it from foreign eyes, as I listened to the weight on her shoulders in her own voice, a game of make-believe to convince her of telling me herself. Well, unless her grave hadn’t been sealed tight enough, that would have to stay in my imagination. 

And if that was the case, we would need an exorcist and an exorbitant amount of an act of god, not the free time awarded to a high-ranking detective, and what seems to most, a box of ancient trash including a couple relics to the few with ideas. 

She did something. 

She knew damn well what it was. 

She couldn’t have covered up all her tracks. 

But she did good enough to do her family proud. 

Guess who else is part of that family?

There has to be something left behind…

And the villain inside me, has been trained to find just what that something is.

*****************************************************************************

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

To mend a broken heart. 

“I requested copies of all reports, files and notes on deck for 527, just after the jury’s conviction was announced. Figured there was no harm, concurring to them, no further heed to honour attestation in a case closed”. 

He professed in explanation, “closed”, closing my attention span.

Taming the burn that likely coursed his throat, racing to inebriation, as he tolerated the sear to guzzle, at eye level, half of the scotch that convulged the sanded glass, thawing cubes of ice clinking against each other, dissolving into the tan liquid and scrambling the concentration. 

Dull and drawn, was his timbre. 

A whine. Not childlike. Far too mature if one existed. Devising a jumble of random vocabulary into strings. The surviving strands of my ego, tricking me into thinking he probably didn’t know what they meant either, just adopting words in a dictionary as his own, musked in a cliche. 

Ugh. Only Vexley could get drunk to his bones and still be a stick in the mud. 

Utter intoxication and a remarkable drag. 

A drag, that was keeping up with the trends. 

“So. The council announced, on the basis of your statement, to note : eliminating certain dignified parts of the story, in calculated risks, weighing relevance to results against your “advanced” imagination, that-”

“Not”, a pause to honour meaning, “Nice”, I pronounced with a drop of my wrist against the glass surface, acrylic nails, weaponized as my claws spanned in warning, in bat-like bends at the joints. Metal pearls of a solitary bracelet layered with attached chains, clanged in ultimatum, metal like the steel in my eyes as I scorned him down.

“Read the paper”, he said unfazed, endangering himself of the peril that are my nails, which I was vividly imagining combing along that pretty little face of his, leaving behind trawling red trails, maybe even swollen with the little hills and valleys that flared the irregularities; meanwhile, he trailed his eyes in zigzags along the text, fingers trailing circles blending the condensation droplets on the glass. 

Not a care in the world, of the storm brewing across from him.

“Darling, I would dearly prefer if you didn’t hex me my demise, I would definitely rather cooperate with the idea of deciding that on my own time. And I believe, you would press to go down that road as well”, a piece of lore casually dropped into the pit of tension, pooling.

True. No matter how much my mind was immune against it. I needed him. Needed him to get where I was going.

So. I spoke. 

What is blunt in words can leave a deeper scar than the sharpest blades.

And right now, that is exactly what I wanted. 

“If they hadn’t limited it to my “imagination”, there’s a good chance she would be alive right now. If they had not stuck it with the label, “trauma” and called it “crazy”, she could still be here. And if you, of all people had trusted me, put faith in my memory, you could have saved her”, I interrupted my flow with a shaky breath. 

“You could’ve been her hero. Like you always wanted.”

A final jolt to the wound. To rub it in.

“No. That… wouldn’t have happened. Wasn’t meant to be, as Isabella would say herself. She wouldn’t have let it, would’ve shunted me, shut me out. Just like she did with anything else that interfered with her fate”, he said it playfully, almost cheerily, with the ghost of a concerto playing out in the background, but when you spend as much time around people, you learn to decode language, study speech and how to pick it apart. 

Like you would to comprehend, what state of mind an artist was in, when he deliberated to splashing paint around to masterfully devote a classic. 

And when you looked, in this case, listened; you could hear the undertones, the emotions stratified into mounds and packed into one another. Leading with the sadness that pulverized each syllable. 

Somehow, punctuating it with the way he avoided eye contact, the way he blinked haphazardly, like it was a pain to keep them open, to see where it had all come to, the way he distracted himself, diving his hands into the pile and returned a conformed selection of reports, he glanced over. 

When my response was delayed, a frozen frame in the motion picture in an agreement of silence of 5 seconds, where his eyes never left the stack in his palms; he felt for the hand I had slammed on the table, tugging at my only defence like a toy, as he tilted the outstretched to curl inward, swindling the sharps into their respective sleeves, balling up my fist and vacating with a fondled pat.

He smiled, a sorrowful resent sewn into the corner of his lips, twisting them up. 

Heat rose up from where his skin met mine. Infiltrating from muscle to muscle.

“You never call her Isabella.”

“Everything changed for everybody that night.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A house, but not a home. 

There I was- 

Steps coordinated, careful to avoid the creaky steps up to the archway in its towering convex above the heavy-set door. 

A habit ingrained into my brain. 

Even though there was nothing watching anymore. Nothing to watch for anymore. 

I was sure of that.

A fact in the sea of fiction, that slowed the pace of this coaster. 

Thanking the years of practice in padded footing, trained by sneaking about the estate; late nights and early mornings mustered creeping the edges of my cage, like a fragile flower in a glass exhibit, look don’t touch going both ways. 

An escape dejected by things that matter just that bit more. 

There I was… enrolled in the return of the captive to the enclosure, rid of its keeper. 

I glanced to my side. 

An exploit of stockpiling on approval, which I disapprove of myself.  

The man striding beside me, had no appreciation for the regality that shrouded the mansion, turrets apexing at the pinnacles mnemonic of a palace, with its brick textured walls washed in dyes of marble, rosy underneath the hush glow of the ruddy lamps that remained ardent regarding not, that “not so well-known” ball of fire that bathed the crisply maintained lawn. 

The arrogance of a prolific bank balance, to “handle” the surplus in the electricity and yard care bill. Especially with the rare shrubbery shipped and sprouted every couple inches. 

The view oozed luxury. 

Occasionally carved out with fractions termed to frosted glass, its crystal flaking defiled with cryptic colours to stain the glass in unintelligible symbols, a wrought iron gating that hugged it in its archaic beauty, charred to an attractive colour. Copper beneath a peppery bronze, sweet-talking the brambles that snaked above. 

Fluffy locks of brown hair fell in waves into his face. 

He’d let it grow out. 

A rich chocolatey brown melting into a sun-kissed taupe at the ends, swaying to the breeze that convenienced him with its gentle laps, clouds admonishing their power only to act as the control panel for the shadows that thickened the outlines of his features, and the thrum of electricity that tossed light onto his anatomy, rounded up the job, a backlit billboard enunciating the statue’s hallmarks. 

His footsteps were loose. 

Self-assured but not arrogant, a level-headedness in the power he possessed in never batting an eyelash in the presence of what was practically the Disney castle, restored in all its pride and glory. 

The gold rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hid his authority effortlessly. And yet, you couldn’t ignore, the rank his geometrical suit reeked of, the prestige he pulled with his posture, and the sacrifices that would drop for one subpar stare.

A monstrous anger. 

A devilish calm.

Just as deadly. 

You couldn’t discern his character from what he appointed to pop up in the description. 

A mask so fitting, that reality seems a lie. 

So many faces, so many personalities, so many styles. 

The doctrines and deceptions overlap, sinking into dangerous depths of strangling intimidation. But never faltering any of the tales. 

Innocence bubbles on the surface. Pure. As his intentions are skilled. 

Whatever infectious effect his existence has on his environment, he lacks the potential to derive the implications of it. 

When his aureate eyes flicked up to mine from the base of the cobblestone steps to the door, that scored the greenery, I caught myself staring, annoyed and fairly disappointed with myself for letting those wolfish orbs pierce through my defences. 

I immediately flipped around. Face in submission to the one in the mirror.

I rapped my knuckles against the olive green glass plate that sashayed off a minor section in the corner, flanking the frame.

The same spot visitors fists connected, when the jailbird was whisked off for socialization through the metaphorical floor to ceiling bars.                                                              

The double doors swung open inward, while Alistair leaned by a potted dahlia plant blossoming salutations at the entrance, hiding in the shade, light bouncing off his rounded glasses, a part of his costumed endeavor at playing the good cop. Huh, nice try. 

I just saw him flawlessly lift one of the white florets off its place with nimble untraceable fingers attached to the stems, snaffling it under his cufflink. A snug but sufficient fit. 

Nimble untraceable fingers relaxing, in the reflection on the mirror, hiding. 

Not from me. 

But from the high seas stowed away in the briny deep, of the blue eyes that gazed with a desolate elegance. 

Clear-cuts moulded her profile, the labour put into the symmetry of her face, a statement betrayed by a discoidal diamond that punctured the side of her nose. 

Her expressions were suave. A limited range of motion reserved for explicit informants, therefore more valuable, a precious thing to be earned. She was the living embodiment of a superiority complex, and the best example of someone who’s laughter would be equivalent to the market price of most developing nations. 

The way she carried herself was sumptuous, with tasteful movements that accentuated her most rare form of queen-like beauty.  

“Madeline, I assume?”

“You would be right.”

She offered a constricted flip of her silvery hair, shimmering under a ray of sunshine, maneuvered as her own personal spotlight, meant to be read as naturally.

She stepped aside in a smooth turn, a wordless signal to enter, like I was too lowly to serve an expenditure of her sickly sweet voice. A waste of her talent. 

I treaded through the door frame, never suspecting to be back here as soon as I did. 

At my back, Alistair followed suit, and slipped past the slamming door, abandoning the throne he claimed, sweeping shut on its hinges in the nick of time, a moment after him. 

The house had always been maximalist, with lavish entities and gadgets accessorizing every four inches, with an intention of empirical purpose that is just that…Damage. 

Even though hardly any of it was oriented toward actual making of use, too extraordinary to belong in the hands of “trivial” tenants. 

I guess that’s why the living room further on my left, with a baffling, almost “paltry” 200+ inch, wide screen, OLED tv, in addition to a full size projector, both with a withstanding demand to the full-size, everything fitted home theatre, felt nearly empty. 

It looked like a million dollars. Such off-putting fortunes bestowed upon an edifice worthy of a minimum 10 times more, in its days of splendor. 

The lady pushed past me, a gentle brush at my shoulder to disclose the alpha here, swarmed by unnecessary emphasis.  

Oblivious that the belle of this ball is gaping at her, surprised by the nerve of daddy’s little princess, no older than 19, but dripping in Chanel and garnished with Versace. The confidentiality to this astute pining of an inference, risen to occasion by judiciary constrictions, preaching against breaking and entering, even when juxtaposed with a free walkway to one’s ex-home, in the absence of permission from the current owner. 

In this case, the owner, for a couple weeks’, mature to the lengths of “too much for her own good teen”, who made the educated decision of a week-long, in her parent’s summer condo, for what most in the newfangled generation would call, a “mental health break”. I would pay homage, to the wonder that she would be at perjury, if she could persuade her parents that a room full of people pretending they can dance is relaxing. That in any way, shape, or form, is a statement that showcases very literally that Barbie wasn’t lying when she paraphrased “anything is possible”; and that a dolled up face doesn’t mean any less damage. It’s a home insurance claim waiting to happen, considering it's when good decisions take the night off. 

Memories flooding back, after decades spent constructing dams to keep them away. Different designs, different models, different stimuli, modified for the maximum efficiency in their role to block out all emotion. All sensation. All pain. 

Only for it all to come crashing down around me. Gates ripped apart by the seam.

I shuddered. Not cold. State of the art heating system, that I don’t remember owning, to thank for that. The autumn shivers forsaken outside. 

Intrinsically reaching into my coat’s pockets, knight black perfectly paired with gold buttons, I strode backward and around myself, pivoting on my heel, in small pirouettes, taking it all in, celebrating the glass box. 

My fingers bundled about something inside the right one, small, and soft to the touch. Like feathers. 

I redeemed it. 

Raising it to the light, pulsating from no specific direction. 

A flower. A dahlia. The dahlia. 

The dainty, milky white petals fell apart in my fingers. 

My eyes shot up, locking in with Alistair’s, a trample, one foot behind the other in a burnished choreography to his steps pattern, his easy smile slick with courtesy, reverting to a smarmy smirk, seemingly pleased with the look of skepticism twisting my features. He turned behind to face the very “sweet” kid’s back, tailing her escort, diving into the deep end. Leaving me to fiddle with the incredibly thoughtful gift cocooned in my fist. 

All this and we hadn’t left the foyer. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A BYOB experiment gone beautifully wrong.

“My name’s Sierra, as you probably already know”, she started off, leaning into a posh accent, pressing the notes like it could overthrow the queen.

She didn’t intend the standstill after, just obeying grammar, and she certainly didn’t intend the interruption that took charge of it. 

“I actually…didn't.”

To be honest, I didn’t intend it either…

Rather a reflexive reaction, a defensive jab you might say, to the tight-lipped, veneered smile, she offered, imparted with all its jeer, the throaty giggle fake, and forced as it dismissed command to escape her neck, and that sickening impulse of control she wielded in her hair. Bouncing on call. Framing her “fit the beauty standards” small face. Light and dark, in an exemplary return base.

“A fumble on your behalf. In more peasant-worthy terms, sounds like a you problem. How about you deal with it?”

Stuff it self. She’s younger than you, for god’s sake.

The condescending mockery that was her tone, and every other irritable feature affixing it, disappeared along with the package herself, about a corner, exiting into the living room, only to be appointed replacement, in seconds by another being of excruciating energy levels. 

“She’s nice”, dripping in sarcasm, as it spilled out of his mouth. 

“Growing up with everything at your fingertips, does that to you. The parents should be glad enough she knows how to use ‘peasant’ in a sentence.”

Guess I’m aiming my learnings from this kid, already. Snappy language, check. 

Left on the list, is a personality built around the word “snob”, a bratty attitude, an ego that often decays with a shrill voice to  “disrespect is a fun hobby”, and obedient hair.

Well, we know one of those things wouldn't be so bad. 

“Okay. We’re here. Help yourself, detective”, a declaration made in the confidence, of blurring the edges of myself out. Directed to my partner, in an absolute effort to eliminate me, ignorance, the easier retort. Detective in irony.

Reinforcing the idea that placing power in the snap of a half-wit teenager, very literal in a partly developed and a partly obstructed brain-like sense, is a bad idea, box-office blockbuster sequel presenting actors such as, picking the lethargic route and rooting for the tactic that stipulates the slightest pardon of exertion. 

She plodded over to the island counter at the centre of the kitchen, marble tabletop, several gyrates of black, white, and gold, slinking away behind it, and pulling the sleek, silver metal of the door hooked onto the refrigerator off, revealing a stockpile of sugary snacks and fizzy drinks, that showcase entirely the diet a child chooses, when given responsibility over oneselves. Exactly why parents are expected to feed their children, regardless, how many maids, or much money they have. 

She ran her index finger along the labels, turning over her palm to the underside, switching to impel her palm to the frozen over shelf holding the glass bottles, executing a unnoticeable motion, swift on her limbs; dropping down a previously concealed bracket, stacked to brim with wine bottles. The good kind. Incredulously, the expensive one. Okay, so not a child. Or more so than ever. 

Plucking one out, strawberry red, she began undoing the seals. Taking a swig out of it. Interrupted by Alistair’s hand interfering fluidly to remove the container from her custody, snatched out of her mouth as she grappled for every last droplet she could muster. 

“Just a second…Do you mind answering a couple questions?”, an order, given in  clause, of a question. Everything out of a police officer translates like that. 

“Sure, Chief. Whatever you need”, setting her elbows onto the table, inclining her weight onto the table. Not so fierce, now, I heard the quiver deep under her throat, even lacking the words she posed, tone she tried at. Single. No repeats. Masked as quickly as emerged.

“Thank you. We’ll start with… how old are you?”, pointed and incisive. 

The bottle he held up to the light, pretending to read, clinked against itself as he poured out the contents, down the drain in the minimalist sink hacked into the cover. Rolling the glass, into the trash can, as heartlessly and insensitively as he could. 

By Kayal S