There are places we talk about inside our minds, places of hope and dreams that we never let escape. We attach time and effort into their creation. More than we care to admit to ourselves. The dream exists that one day we will have in reality what we keep in other plains.
My place is the Attic of an old house, any house, but the attic is specific. There would have to be a creek, and a thin layer of dust on the floorboards, with every step I take, a noise, and a small dust cloud rising. There would be a window, that would allow you to watch the world outside but stains and dirt would prevent the souls outside from looking in. I would position hooks and chains from the interior roof frame, but leave a corridor free, just for the creeping. A chair would be placed at the window, which will tilt just enough to allow the chains to chime in line with the breeze. I do not move them, I don’t touch them. Not yet.
I sit, on the chair, a wooden table chair, which makes a noise more similar than distant to that of the floorboards. And I wait. Wait. Wait, watch, sit still, calm breathing. Perhaps that window will be positioned to catch the golden end of day, before night, before loss. I could sit there for days, not moving, stopping all functions of my body except for my lungs which ache, ache for hours.
This is my place, it’s upstairs in holding. Dream one fulfilled.
The next thing we do inside is envision our perfect mate. For games and joy, death and sorrow. They could be male or female, tall or short, thin or fat. But they have to believe in you, your belief to make them stay in honesty. With me though, they must fall into the den, the shadow clawing at the gate trying to break loose. Yet they will smile. Till the last moment they will smile. Until the attic speaks.
I live in the dreams that border my reality.
Sometimes I get tired of it’s voice, speaking or singing to hate, I move from the chair, and walk the corridor. In my pacing I turn to see the track in the dust, but it’s not there, you would think that I was after leaving for a few hours and returning. But I had just turned. There was no sense of movement to the room. Even the chains would not tinkle, a silent turn would have been enough. I am not pleased. I dreamt this place, created each centimetre, took pride in it. Too soon into my time here the Attic revolted. I was no dictator, I respected each spec, each splinter that worked itself into my skin. I pleased myself in the stiffness that I felt. The only thing that caused ill will inside me was the lungs. My own body. As for the space of my creation I should not be this way. I should have something of mine, those footprints were my rights, my privilege. Denial though, was mine now.
“Not for Long” The deep voice, surround sound from wood, the Attic. I could see the steel in the chains shiver with rooms vocals. My bones shook, bringing me to remember a time of reality. It was 1995, the RDS show-jumping arena, but today it was used for Bryan Adams, blame my youth, but I was up front and the speakers were about three feet away from me, the sound pounded. But the sensation of the speaker vibrating my skeleton has never been reproduced, until now.
Though I am confused to the meaning. “What do you mean ?” I hiss, this is my space.
“You, you won’t be here long, we could get rid of the chair.”
“There is no we, this place is mine, that chair is mine. Leave me be!”
I cannot bear it. Being told what to do has never sat well with me. Anger is growing inside me, my fortress is being invaded from within. The very essence of the space is forcing itself upon me.
“We can move the chair, downstairs, somewhere were you will find a use for it later.”
Leave me be. I knew now that I would not have to speak this. The room knew my fears, knew it better than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Okay, the chair can stay, but what about the chains?”
“Take the chair!” shouting, pleading, take the bloody chair. “But be warned, the structure of you will crumble should they be taken away.”
“What purpose do they hold ?”
It knew all to well.
I cannot say to it. The being knows what the chains are for, it just does not understand why it’s frame will fall, and the dust would not have any choice.
I created this place, the chains, each link a memory of mine, hanging down to the ground but just never touching, maybe a millimetre away, maybe less. As I pass a reflection of another time would be revealed, and I could remember, once I didn’t look. My first kiss at eight years old. The first time that I wanted to kill, at 15. The first time I spilt my own blood with the purpose of losing it all. And a moment just a moment ago. Claire. Perfection with a pulse.
She kept me going the last year, stopping the Bullshit coming from my mouth to her ears. Giving me hope. Sometimes she would pass by the fogged glass. I would stare at her, she would glance up, smile sometimes, blow a kiss another.
Then one day, she passed by the window and into the past. Calls remain unanswered, messages given to blank air.
The roof seemed to be lower today. A shorter distance between the dust and the steal, I could see more out of the window than usual, that would mean that I could be seen sitting on my chair. I knew the plan. If I would not relinquish the chair, I would lose all that sitting there means, the sensation of looking through the glass undermined by the lack of my presence no longer being hidden.
I had found a cunning adversary. I now believed, for the first time, that my solitude would no longer be secure. I can’t believe that my space is being taken over. I feel that now I would like to take a knife, and sever the muscles in my body, leave only the muscles in my good arm, but cut the rest. Then lets see the bastard move me, and for spite, I would leave myself immobile on the chair, and let the whole fucking world see this crippled man sitting at the window. I would die. Soon. One way or another. From the blood loss, the pain, starvation, or maybe the Attic would see my plan, and get to me first. Yes, I’m sure that would happen. What more pleasure would it get, than to kill me, before I can do the job myself. Cunning.
I move to the window, look out. Claire is not a sight that I see. I stand, looking between the chair and the window. Sunset is coming. The street children, screaming because, well just because they are alive, they start returning to their houses. Parents have installed the first glance of fear in them, like mine did to me, of the night. The darkness of the night, it’s gotten a bad rap, as children we are led to believe that there is this mythical creature that will stalk you, prey on you, if you stay out at night. But when the suns shift ends, and the moon can peek out, well, I’ve never felt safer. Movies depict night as the time that the crazed killer comes out, kills a few people and eventually gets dead by a plucky hero. But the murderer comes back, always.
I hold the chair. The grain of the backrest, coarse. With closed eyes, and strength that I did not want to posses, I pressed down. The chair cracked, splinters flew up my arms, cutting, blood mixing with the wood. I should have just jumped through a thousand glass windows. The pain would have been less pleasant. I am alive again. Attic may not be an adversary, it could be a friend. Oh, this pain, better than sex, and better than work.
Work, coming in the morning.
I lie down, the dust converges from all over the room, and blankets me. My eyes close. The blood is pouring over me. My eyes close. Some blood mixes with the dust. I can see a smile on the small flakes of dead skin that make the recipe for dust, the lost skin, glad to have the living liquid next to it again. It’s my night for making things happy. My eyes close. And I wake.
I dress, my uniform riding my ass, as usual, I take my sack and leave my room. I stop, and pull down the stairs to the attic, I take four steps up. My head enters enough to see the crowded space, boxes, old toys, photo albums of family member that I would like to kill. No chains. No living dust. No voice.
I push the stairs back up.
I know the solitude will come again, a couple of hundred houses need their mail. I will deliver to Claire’s house. Maybe I will stop, she won’t know that I’ve been there, unless I stay. I can stay, read her mail to her, then talk, then take her, to my attic. Keep her there with some chains. Some hooks. If the Attic turns on me again, I would someone to hold, blue eyes to gaze into.
I shall leave Claire’s house till the last. Then she will get her news and will return home with me. Reasoning with her first, then taking her. My friend Claire. I can’t wait for her to get to know me.
