Sometimes Lonely, Sometimes Dark Ch.1
I don't have a title for this, but it's a new story that I've started just today. For now, the working title is from the name of the first chapter.
One.
Sometimes Lonely, Sometimes Dark
I.
He waited until the last of the deep, booming chimes settled down into the dark depths of the house. They settled into the layers of dust, seeping through the floors, resounding into the foundations until the rooms were quiet again and all was still. They settled into his mind, into the mist dissipating slowly from his stirring consciousness.
The last, the sixth, seemed to take an eternity to fade, ringing in his ear even when he was certain there was none of it left in the air. When had the morning decided to come so quickly? Over decades he had trained himself to awaken at the sixth hour, when the grandfather clock struck the dulcet tones of the morning’s forlorn hour. It was nothing new. And yet, with each passing moment, the days kept shrinking into a blur of insignificant hours of mundane existence; until he wasn’t sure where the time had gone exactly.
But he continued his scheduled way, opening his eyes slowly to gaze into the darkly shadowed corners of his nest. Still alive, am I? he thought with a reluctant acceptance. Still alive, the room seemed whisper back to him.
With the sigh of one who has send too many mornings come and go, he braced himself off the mattress and shuffled quietly down the hall. The silence of the house post-chiming didn’t bother him. He was used to the stillness, much more bearable than the obnoxious din and busy aberrance of the outside world. People screaming bloody murder for the sake of it, infernal human denials of the natural way belching clouds of pollution, sound pollution, light pollution, air pollution. It was all just pollution. And what didn’t kill you gave you cancer.
No. He was better where he was, where it was quiet. Even if it was sometimes lonely, sometimes dark.
After a quick trip to the restroom, he made his way down the stairs with his strong arm gripping the railing as he descended each creaking step. The aged boards sank slightly beneath his weight, the sound of his slippered feet muffled by the dust. Dark oak. He had always prided the house for its somewhat unusual but brilliant architecture. And it’s beautiful caliginous artistry. The stairs were a prime example of the beauty of the old house. Even if they’d gone out of fashion in the new, modern, cookie-cutter houses, there was nothing like the soft, pliant boards beneath your feet and the hand-carved ornate banister. He’d once wondered who had been the ones that had crafted such remarkable pieces. How many hours had they spent intricately carving the spirals and petal-reminiscent designs that patterned the balustrade?
Crossing though the dining room, he wound his way among the furniture to the kitchen, and in the dim lines of light through the cracks in the drawn drapery he made himself a quick breakfast of hot cereal. The oats steamed in the thick gray broth. He sat himself in the tall armchair by the grandfather clock, dormant now save for the ticking, and ate.
II.
It was almost afternoon when the doorbell rang. The sound was almost an interruption to the empty air of the many rooms. He walked quickly to the door, gripping the cool brass knob in his palm, sliding the locks out of place and swinging the entrance wide.
At first he was greeted by a gust of autumn wind, seizing its chance at the open barrier and surging past him. He caught a glimpse of the trees in the yard, their green dying though they clung to their leaves yet. And then his eyes settled on his visitor.
There he was.
His hair was brown with a hint of red glinting in the sun overhead, still full and colored as it had been in his twenties. Clean shaven he was, and around his shoulders he wore the faded jean jacket, just as he always had. The same fading fibers filtering off a warm vibe of comfort. The man couldn’t tell, for a moment, if he was viewing his visitor through the lens of his erstwhile years or if he had really aged well, but he gazed upon this person of his past life with a sense of familiarity. It was as if a day had not gone since he’d last said goodbye. It took him a moment before he realized: it was the eyes. The visitor’s eyes were the same brilliant green. Unapologetically green as any fresh color in the trees, or the grass, or the bushes, or the mountains could muster.
“Elliot,” the visitor said in a soft, deep voice that wafted across the decades to his ears. It really had been a long while, but it was still the same voice.
At first, Elliot couldn’t find his own voice to reply, sure that it was hidden somewhere in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. “Ivan. What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?” He asked, ignoring the question. His gaze had not left Elliot’s face, as if he were somewhat afraid that he would not let him in. In truth, Elliot did consider turning him away, still wondering how this man from his past could be here now, different yet somehow so much the same. Not many people came to visit, and in the wide span between them he had all but lost his manners in hospitality. But when he regained his composure, he stood straight and stepped back a bit to let the man through.
“Of course, Ivan. Of course.”
And in the next moment, his visitor crossed the threshold into the body of the house. He paused for a moment, surveying foyer and letting his eyes adjust to the dimness.
“You know the way to the living room still, I trust?” Elliot asked, his throat suddenly becoming momentarily hoarse. Ivan flashed him a quick, crooked smile. Same smile.
“How could I not?” And he led the way around the bottom of the stairs and the dining room into the living room, flipping on the light switch as he went.
A lamp in the far corner lit immediately, casting long shadows over the cloth covered chairs and various other remnants. At once Elliot felt a surge of regret at suggesting they enter here. With minimal company, the living room did not get much use and had since become a sort of storage for memorabilia he had no other place for. Piles protruded from the floor around them, stacks of old records, books, photo albums. An old upright piano sat in the corner, the edges of its ivory keys chipped and worn with the faces yellowed. There weren’t many obvious spider webs, but a thickness or must clung to the air as if spread from the peeling paper on the walls.
“Sorry for the mess,” Elliot mumbled, “Not too many people come here.”
“Not at all.” Ivan replied vaguely.
Elliot tore the cover from the couch and the chair perpendicular to it, trying to beat the dust out of the cushions with his open palm but only succeeding in sending clouds into the air.
“I knew I’d be able to find you here.” The visitor continued. “You were never one for change, Elliot Frost. I could’ve searched for you in a hundred places, but I knew-just knew-you’d be here still.”
Elliot sank slowly into the armchair and smiled a bit, wondering then if his smile still looked the same as it had. He didn’t know how else to reply. To be honest, he was a still a bit in shock.
“I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.” Ivan sat gingerly on the sofa, continuing the courtesy talk. How long would it last? He still hadn’t revealed as to why he was here.
“Never. My normally busy schedule was very open today.” The comment garnered him a quick chuckle.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy man.” Ivan smiled again and then looked around, letting it dripping from his countenance slowly as a viscous liquid. “Actually, I was hoping.”
“I don’t do much these days. I just keep to this place, save to buy groceries and what not. There’s not much reason to go outside.”
Ivan nodded without looking at him, still surveying. It was as if he was a spectator at a zoo, gazing down at the memories of this room through a thick glass. Removed, but connected to them by some strange strand of life. How many times had they been together in this room? More times than could be counted, that was for sure. It’s amazing how much time could remove comfort from something that was once so comfortable.
“It’s all still here.” He said, though it was almost a question. Then, “Isn’t it?”
“I never threw anything away. If you wanted, you could find anything you want in this house.” He meant it. Elliot looked behind Ivan to a shadowed corner of the room. A sudden chill ran down his spine.
“And you never left.”
It was Elliot’s turn to nod his head. Ivan pursed his lips. The small talk was closing and Elliot knew it. He’d always enjoyed the pleasantries, much more than serious talk anyways. It was nice to have real conversations, but the world always seemed to take itself too seriously, he thought. Everything was always quick, always rushed. People were always in a hurry to get to the next moment, but by the time it came they were ready to move on. He could see why beauty died slowly among the living, for beauty was neither quick nor rushed. At least not in his mind. Beauty was in the placid lake, formed over thousands of years from a low trickle. Beauty was in the slowly setting sun, or the lasting touch of a loving hand. Romantic ideas, he knew, but what was wrong with that? Romanticism was lost on today’s realism, and the harsh thirst for gritty truth. The truth was coming though. He could see it in the way Ivan looked straight at him. Yet, as it always was with this man, he didn’t mind too much.
“It’s been a while since we saw each other.” He said in almost a whisper, lowness of his tone vibrating in the must-soaked air. “It’s been a while since things ended.”
“Yes, it has. Much too long.”
“I’ve been around a while, and I was wondering if we could talk about things. Come to terms with things.”
Elliot had to consider what he was asking for a moment, his eyes dropping to the brown rug beneath their feet. Natural light through the slits in the blinds were trying desperately to overcome the deep yellow of the lamp’s artificial glow. Trying, but failing. He could go over and open the shades, but what good would it do? The sun would fade faster the carpets and walls, it would be just another reminder of the harshness of the world. It would illuminate the cracks and the cobwebs that were thus far unseen. It would highlight the messes, the piles around them. Will was always reminding him about the piles around him, telling him to clean up. Things were clean, clean as they needed to be. As clean as he wanted…
“Elliot?”
“Yes. Sure, that would be great.” Elliot agreed, thinking for all the world that he was crazy letting himself go diving into the past like this.
“Thank you.” Ivan stood slowly, his eyes caught in a beam from the windows. Green. “Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Elliot said again. “Anytime you’d like, I’m not a terribly busy man.”
“I’ll be seeing you, then.” And like that he was gone, without waiting for a response, without waiting for acknowledgement or a blessing to leave. Just like he had from a life before, he left without a sound and the house was again silent.
One.
Sometimes Lonely, Sometimes Dark
I.
He waited until the last of the deep, booming chimes settled down into the dark depths of the house. They settled into the layers of dust, seeping through the floors, resounding into the foundations until the rooms were quiet again and all was still. They settled into his mind, into the mist dissipating slowly from his stirring consciousness.
The last, the sixth, seemed to take an eternity to fade, ringing in his ear even when he was certain there was none of it left in the air. When had the morning decided to come so quickly? Over decades he had trained himself to awaken at the sixth hour, when the grandfather clock struck the dulcet tones of the morning’s forlorn hour. It was nothing new. And yet, with each passing moment, the days kept shrinking into a blur of insignificant hours of mundane existence; until he wasn’t sure where the time had gone exactly.
But he continued his scheduled way, opening his eyes slowly to gaze into the darkly shadowed corners of his nest. Still alive, am I? he thought with a reluctant acceptance. Still alive, the room seemed whisper back to him.
With the sigh of one who has send too many mornings come and go, he braced himself off the mattress and shuffled quietly down the hall. The silence of the house post-chiming didn’t bother him. He was used to the stillness, much more bearable than the obnoxious din and busy aberrance of the outside world. People screaming bloody murder for the sake of it, infernal human denials of the natural way belching clouds of pollution, sound pollution, light pollution, air pollution. It was all just pollution. And what didn’t kill you gave you cancer.
No. He was better where he was, where it was quiet. Even if it was sometimes lonely, sometimes dark.
After a quick trip to the restroom, he made his way down the stairs with his strong arm gripping the railing as he descended each creaking step. The aged boards sank slightly beneath his weight, the sound of his slippered feet muffled by the dust. Dark oak. He had always prided the house for its somewhat unusual but brilliant architecture. And it’s beautiful caliginous artistry. The stairs were a prime example of the beauty of the old house. Even if they’d gone out of fashion in the new, modern, cookie-cutter houses, there was nothing like the soft, pliant boards beneath your feet and the hand-carved ornate banister. He’d once wondered who had been the ones that had crafted such remarkable pieces. How many hours had they spent intricately carving the spirals and petal-reminiscent designs that patterned the balustrade?
Crossing though the dining room, he wound his way among the furniture to the kitchen, and in the dim lines of light through the cracks in the drawn drapery he made himself a quick breakfast of hot cereal. The oats steamed in the thick gray broth. He sat himself in the tall armchair by the grandfather clock, dormant now save for the ticking, and ate.
II.
It was almost afternoon when the doorbell rang. The sound was almost an interruption to the empty air of the many rooms. He walked quickly to the door, gripping the cool brass knob in his palm, sliding the locks out of place and swinging the entrance wide.
At first he was greeted by a gust of autumn wind, seizing its chance at the open barrier and surging past him. He caught a glimpse of the trees in the yard, their green dying though they clung to their leaves yet. And then his eyes settled on his visitor.
There he was.
His hair was brown with a hint of red glinting in the sun overhead, still full and colored as it had been in his twenties. Clean shaven he was, and around his shoulders he wore the faded jean jacket, just as he always had. The same fading fibers filtering off a warm vibe of comfort. The man couldn’t tell, for a moment, if he was viewing his visitor through the lens of his erstwhile years or if he had really aged well, but he gazed upon this person of his past life with a sense of familiarity. It was as if a day had not gone since he’d last said goodbye. It took him a moment before he realized: it was the eyes. The visitor’s eyes were the same brilliant green. Unapologetically green as any fresh color in the trees, or the grass, or the bushes, or the mountains could muster.
“Elliot,” the visitor said in a soft, deep voice that wafted across the decades to his ears. It really had been a long while, but it was still the same voice.
At first, Elliot couldn’t find his own voice to reply, sure that it was hidden somewhere in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. “Ivan. What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?” He asked, ignoring the question. His gaze had not left Elliot’s face, as if he were somewhat afraid that he would not let him in. In truth, Elliot did consider turning him away, still wondering how this man from his past could be here now, different yet somehow so much the same. Not many people came to visit, and in the wide span between them he had all but lost his manners in hospitality. But when he regained his composure, he stood straight and stepped back a bit to let the man through.
“Of course, Ivan. Of course.”
And in the next moment, his visitor crossed the threshold into the body of the house. He paused for a moment, surveying foyer and letting his eyes adjust to the dimness.
“You know the way to the living room still, I trust?” Elliot asked, his throat suddenly becoming momentarily hoarse. Ivan flashed him a quick, crooked smile. Same smile.
“How could I not?” And he led the way around the bottom of the stairs and the dining room into the living room, flipping on the light switch as he went.
A lamp in the far corner lit immediately, casting long shadows over the cloth covered chairs and various other remnants. At once Elliot felt a surge of regret at suggesting they enter here. With minimal company, the living room did not get much use and had since become a sort of storage for memorabilia he had no other place for. Piles protruded from the floor around them, stacks of old records, books, photo albums. An old upright piano sat in the corner, the edges of its ivory keys chipped and worn with the faces yellowed. There weren’t many obvious spider webs, but a thickness or must clung to the air as if spread from the peeling paper on the walls.
“Sorry for the mess,” Elliot mumbled, “Not too many people come here.”
“Not at all.” Ivan replied vaguely.
Elliot tore the cover from the couch and the chair perpendicular to it, trying to beat the dust out of the cushions with his open palm but only succeeding in sending clouds into the air.
“I knew I’d be able to find you here.” The visitor continued. “You were never one for change, Elliot Frost. I could’ve searched for you in a hundred places, but I knew-just knew-you’d be here still.”
Elliot sank slowly into the armchair and smiled a bit, wondering then if his smile still looked the same as it had. He didn’t know how else to reply. To be honest, he was a still a bit in shock.
“I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.” Ivan sat gingerly on the sofa, continuing the courtesy talk. How long would it last? He still hadn’t revealed as to why he was here.
“Never. My normally busy schedule was very open today.” The comment garnered him a quick chuckle.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy man.” Ivan smiled again and then looked around, letting it dripping from his countenance slowly as a viscous liquid. “Actually, I was hoping.”
“I don’t do much these days. I just keep to this place, save to buy groceries and what not. There’s not much reason to go outside.”
Ivan nodded without looking at him, still surveying. It was as if he was a spectator at a zoo, gazing down at the memories of this room through a thick glass. Removed, but connected to them by some strange strand of life. How many times had they been together in this room? More times than could be counted, that was for sure. It’s amazing how much time could remove comfort from something that was once so comfortable.
“It’s all still here.” He said, though it was almost a question. Then, “Isn’t it?”
“I never threw anything away. If you wanted, you could find anything you want in this house.” He meant it. Elliot looked behind Ivan to a shadowed corner of the room. A sudden chill ran down his spine.
“And you never left.”
It was Elliot’s turn to nod his head. Ivan pursed his lips. The small talk was closing and Elliot knew it. He’d always enjoyed the pleasantries, much more than serious talk anyways. It was nice to have real conversations, but the world always seemed to take itself too seriously, he thought. Everything was always quick, always rushed. People were always in a hurry to get to the next moment, but by the time it came they were ready to move on. He could see why beauty died slowly among the living, for beauty was neither quick nor rushed. At least not in his mind. Beauty was in the placid lake, formed over thousands of years from a low trickle. Beauty was in the slowly setting sun, or the lasting touch of a loving hand. Romantic ideas, he knew, but what was wrong with that? Romanticism was lost on today’s realism, and the harsh thirst for gritty truth. The truth was coming though. He could see it in the way Ivan looked straight at him. Yet, as it always was with this man, he didn’t mind too much.
“It’s been a while since we saw each other.” He said in almost a whisper, lowness of his tone vibrating in the must-soaked air. “It’s been a while since things ended.”
“Yes, it has. Much too long.”
“I’ve been around a while, and I was wondering if we could talk about things. Come to terms with things.”
Elliot had to consider what he was asking for a moment, his eyes dropping to the brown rug beneath their feet. Natural light through the slits in the blinds were trying desperately to overcome the deep yellow of the lamp’s artificial glow. Trying, but failing. He could go over and open the shades, but what good would it do? The sun would fade faster the carpets and walls, it would be just another reminder of the harshness of the world. It would illuminate the cracks and the cobwebs that were thus far unseen. It would highlight the messes, the piles around them. Will was always reminding him about the piles around him, telling him to clean up. Things were clean, clean as they needed to be. As clean as he wanted…
“Elliot?”
“Yes. Sure, that would be great.” Elliot agreed, thinking for all the world that he was crazy letting himself go diving into the past like this.
“Thank you.” Ivan stood slowly, his eyes caught in a beam from the windows. Green. “Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Elliot said again. “Anytime you’d like, I’m not a terribly busy man.”
“I’ll be seeing you, then.” And like that he was gone, without waiting for a response, without waiting for acknowledgement or a blessing to leave. Just like he had from a life before, he left without a sound and the house was again silent.