Exercises in style (1): Melodramatic

I am standing in the attic room, and she is wailing downstairs. I cannot go to her, she cannot come to me. What a terrible mess we made of things! My chest heaves, loaded with the pressure of our parting, as I stare out the velux at the moon beginning its ascent. It is white and full. Such a solitary, ghostly bloom in the black felt of the sky! It seems to hold all the depths of my sorrow in its round whiteness. Her screams are piercing my heart. She’s calling my name over and over, but I must not move, I must only stand and watch the moon, and the jungle wallpaper from my peripherals. The giant painted leaves look dewy and fresh. The flowers are pink, yellow, and swollen, they are larger than my head. Such colors mock the wellsprings of my pain. I’m longing to pick one out of the wall, to descend the staircase and present it to her, to walk backwards through time and start at the beginning, before any mistakes were made. But time knows only one direction, and that is forward. She and I, we cannot undo. Yet her cries! Now there is fear in them, and I’m beginning to tremble.

The moon has risen, it is inching towards the top of the velux, it is now waxing gibbous. Such is the time that has passed, and still I hear her moans from below. They’re plucking on my heartstrings like fallen angel fingers. Foliage has started to part from the flat of the wallpaper. I knew it would happen sooner or later. Of course I’m familiar with the idiosyncrasies of this room; it is why I am here. Fronds of fern are dipping into the attic. Waxy, almond-shaped leaves, some as bulky as dresser drawers, have peeled half-way off into my three-dimensions. And suddenly I’m inhaling the heady fragrance of brilliant orange birds-of-paradise – they smell the way her hair would all those mornings I awoke beside her – the intermingling of honey and carnivorous musk. Her tortured chanting is coming to me softer, and I am unable to tell whether because she is growing tired or the room is taking me further away from her.

I sigh and shiver in the caverns of my loss. I’ve been standing here a long while now. The moon is gaining the upper quadrant of the velux. It has passed through first quarter, onto waxing crescent. The thin sliver spears my eyeballs, it seems a spiteful shape, but that may just be the internality of my grief leaching outward. Jungle vegetation is solidly in the room now, spiraling into tangles, latticing the door and creating thus an extra layer to cloak all sounds external. It is the first salve of relief since our terrible ending! I feel drugged by the rich perfume of the blossoms; my mind and the beating sore in my chest are finally numbing some. As I watch, the moon reaches the velux’s zenith, and is new. Barely can I make out the light-black circle of it stamped onto the dark-black felt of the sky. I am now entirely in the jungle – my bed, dresser, and desk have disappeared, the floor is spongy moss underfoot. I’m listening to the hoots and shrieks of otherworldly birds. Her cries, though, have ceased altogether.

~ by kingzoko on January 21, 2013.

One Response to “Exercises in style (1): Melodramatic”

  1. Quite creepy 😮
    By the way, if you can please read / review my short story Final destination,thanks

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