Partners

I watched you grow up, you know that right? Even as you were starting to crawl, I was there on the floor with you. We’ve shared a bed, shared drinks, shared our lives. For me to feel this right now is incredible. And all the pride that this moment is giving me is barely being overshadowed by the abject terror my future without you evokes. Because when I look back, you are all I know.

Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.

And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?

I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.

I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.

I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.

I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.

I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.

[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]

Waiting

I remember, not so long ago, your presence between these walls. Smiling as you prepared breakfast, handing me some food from your plate to change from my routine. We lived together but we were not the same. You were always sitting, reading, thinking, while all I wanted to do was go outside and burn up my energy. But you’re not here anymore, and now I sit on the couch, half asleep, replacing your warmth by the rays of the sun that poke through the window. The television is turned off, but even if it was on, it would hold no meaning for me. The only reason I ever watched it was because you were there, with me, watching and reacting to these fast moving images and words that always sounded empty.

You left without warning really. I should have been used to watching you walk through that door, but I could never be used to not being with you. Your smile, your laugh, your friendly words, all of these things were starting to slip away from the grasp of my memory. And I am here, on the couch, half asleep, picturing you coming back, walking up the stairs to the door. In my sleepy stupor I walk to the door, looking, hoping, wishing that it would open up and that I would be greeted by your smile, your voice, your smell.

This house is empty without you. I cannot deal with the silence. I make noise of my own. A primitive calling, something that I wish you could hear. Where are you? Too long as passed since I last saw you. I eat without any enthusiasm. I’m about to run out of food, when you were there that never happened. I go down to the basement, hoping that somehow these empty rooms could fill the void you left when you walked out that door. I find more of the same loneliness downstairs. I decide to nap a little more in the downstairs living room. The sun is not quite as present here, and so I will not feel like I am slowly burning as on the upstairs’ couch.

Time passes. I wake up. I hear a noise. Is that your? I run upstairs as fast as I can, to go to the door. No one. I see out of the window that it was just the mailman. To my shock, and possibly to his, I let out a sound of protest. How dare he come here, make this noise, and not be you? Why couldn’t it have been you? I am stuck here waiting for your presence, but I now fear that I will never see you again. And so I replace the protest by a complaint. Where are you? Why are you no longer here, with me? So little time as elapsed since you left, but it could very well have been an eternity. Where are you? I need you, I want you. I am starting to forget things about you. Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong?

I go to the bedroom we so often shared, and I see some of your clothes that have been left behind. I cannot resist the temptation of burying my nose in them to fill my lungs with you sweet scent. It’s invigorating. I go back to the living room, I won’t turn on the television, but I will sit, looking outside, my hopes returned by the articles of clothing still baring parts of your essence. Cars go by, none are yours. Do you even remember me? I don’t know where you are, you never told me where you were going. You probably did, but I was too entranced by the sound of your voice to try to give meaning to these words. And so you left, without a word of warning. How long as it been? Can I even define the time that has elapsed? I can only count the things I did in your absence, and not the time I used to do these. Time without you does not matter.

So I doze off again on the couch. Sleep makes time go by faster, maybe you will return. Maybe it will be you who wakes me up from that sleep. A noise again. I pay closer attention. Someone is coming. I hear the door being unlocked. I run to the door, I want to be sure it is you; I can’t believe you’ve returned. The door opens, and you stand there, with a beautiful smile. I can see you, hear you and smell you. You are back. You smile when you see me, and then you speak: “I hope you haven’t missed me too much boy.” I bark my excitement. “Wow, have you been waiting for me here all day long? Why don’t you go outside for a while…”

The door closes. I take care of natural needs. I then look at the door. How long has it been closed? Why have you locked me out of your life...

[Something simple, I seem to do those a lot right now... Oh well, I cant write revolutionary stuff every time. Hope you enjoyed it.]

Heartbeat

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Windows everywhere let out beams of light, colouring the white snow with the yellow embrace of technology. It contrasted with the blue colour that filled the sky under the full moon. All was quiet except for the sounds of passing buses. Downtown, they motion was constant, and the noise was the heartbeat of the city. They started from this central point, and distributed people along arteries to the extremities of the isolated community. In this valley, there were fields, and the city. All was quiet, with the exception of the buses, and of the trendy bars that grew along the main streets. With their rhythmic thumping, and tribal sounds, to a casual observer, some primitive ritual might have been going on between the walls. In a sense, the mating habits of mankind were both ritualistic and primitive.

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Above this quiet noise, there was a window revealing a silhouette in the light. Looking down upon all the people celebrating life, the girl was looking down. Tonight, they all were happy in that bar downstairs. But the noise only stirred a sad melancholy from the moment it started. All was quiet in the city, but a storm had risen in her heart. He was somewhere down there, she could feel it. Ever since that moment when she felt his soul enter her, she could always tell where he was. They had met about this time last year. A chance encounter, they were both waiting for the same bus. He had missed the previous one, she felt like being early. And as they waited, they started talking. A few days later, they realized that their lives orbited around one another, but that they had never crossed paths. Like the moon and the earth, they were part of the same system, but until that one morning, they had not collided.

Snow was falling on a city that only deceptively looked like it was sleeping. The buses were carting people around town, running like a clock, never stopping to ponder about each motion. And in the bars along the main streets there was a man. His mind was focussed, he was thinking about his own heart beating along side another person. He did not care who, so this club was the perfect place. Days ago, he would have thought this was a mistake, but now he no longer had any responsibility. What happened wasn’t his fault. He was sure of that. And so tonight, he was looking at the girls around. Some of them were not worth the attention, but some were well worth him buying them drinks. He was free. If she had not decided to visit him out of the blue, things would have been different. She could have missed that bus, but the driver apparently waited for her. An hour, what a difference it would have made. When she walked into his bedroom, an hour would have changed the world. She could believe he was taking a nap up until she saw he was not alone in bed. If she would have missed her bus, he would not be free, and she would not be betrayed. But that didn’t matter. With the purchase of a drink, one or two niceties exchanged over the loud music, and the promise of a good time, he would not sleep alone tonight. Why was he still thinking about her, everything was her fault anyway? She should have called, she should have missed her bus, the driver should not have waited. He was still talking about her when he was making empty promises to that girl with no name that would have to walk out of his life as soon as she had served her purpose.

Snow was no longer falling on the city that was falling asleep. All was quiet. Light filtered out of some windows. Like a starry sky filled with bricks. He was coming out of the club, with this fake blond girl hanging on to his arm, because the world was spinning too fast, because she spun too slowly. He was walking with her along known streets. In the last year he had walked these streets with someone else on his arm. Now everything seemed different. But he forced himself to think everything stayed the same. So he walked these street he had learned on different times. Why did he have to park his car where he used to. If that car had not been broken, a year ago, everything would be much simpler. He would not have this oppressing feeling in his stomach, he would not feel like throwing up just remembering that moment when she walked in his room where her heart was shattered. It was her fault. The nuisance hanging on his arm made a noise, and then a motion. She was pointing to a window that lacked any significance for her, but had one time meant the world for him. Why did he have to park within sight of her window? The fake blond insisted. He raised his eyes to the window he had shut out of his heart, only to see the silhouette of his former angel flying, her feet no longer touching the ground. Suspended in midair not by the wings she deserved, but by a noose around her neck.

[Valentine's Day special... or not. I was lacking ideas tonight, so I went for a "comfort zone." While I am happy with the result, it almost feels like a step back. But then again, who am I to judge the stories I write? Oh, and please don't try to find deeper meaning, this is just a story.]

The Moment

“There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls,” he thought, “that’s what my father always said. Come to think of it, if I just talked to him right now, he would probably say the same thing.” He was looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach was tied in a knot, his ears were ringing, and he felt sweaty. He seemingly could not find the courage to leave the washroom and change his life forever. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the wedding bells ringing. Destiny is funny like that. He felt he was a few steps away from the altar. He could see it. The priest clearing his throat, getting ready for a ceremony he had done hundreds of time. His family smiling at the fact that he would finally settle down; his mother already mentally naming the grandchildren. And on the other side of the church, the father-in-law who accepted him reluctantly at first, but got over it after he helped with the renovations in the living room. The brother-in-law who looked at him as a big brother, poor kid, he was a lot younger than his sister, and he had been surrounded by girls all his life.

A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.

Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.

Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.

In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”

[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]

Cotton Candy

I see you, at first from the corner of my eye. You are walking, focussed on your thoughts. The people around you don’t seem to exist, you simply walk. You come fully in my field of vision simply because by virtue of public transportation, you end up sitting in front of me. And while moving my leg is the only outward sign of my acknowledging your existence, from the moment you sat down, you captivated me. It is a very silly thing to say about a stranger, but it is not unique to you, strangers fascinate me. It might be that young couple who can’t help but show the world their affection, or that person over there reading a book that has seen better days. Strangers are the most fascinating people there is, because strangers are the only people whom you cannot know anything about.

And so you sat down, and from that point on, you were real. You no longer were a possibility, you became a real person. The world is filled with these possible people. About seven billion of them. They exist but you can’t know anything about them. You know they are there because you are told they exist. The city is filled with people like that. You see them driving, you see them live, but they are not real. That is the line you crossed by sitting in front of me that day. I had no choice but to see you as a real person, and a piece of me hopes that you saw me as real. I have so many questions for you. However, I cannot ask them. It would be rude, it would be impolite, it would seem odd. Even these words are strange, because this is what I was thinking, when I saw you, when you sat down. You started existing and then you stopped. I know you are out there, and I don’t want to seem creepy or strange by writing this, I just want to ask you one question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

It is the food of carnivals, of celebrations. It is the treat that puts a smile on any children’s face. Grown men and women smile at the idea of eating cotton candy. When I was a kid, I remember begging for it, and I remember the sweet taste of victory as my parents decided to buy it. Cotton candy would only come once a year. Its taste would have to survive in my memory for twelve long months until I could eat some again. The first time I had cotton candy was during the day, a sign of how old I was. We had been petting farm animals that seemed so strange and alien to me, when we walked in front of one of these cotton candy booths. It was so strange, blue and red, and so impossibly cloudlike. I had to taste it. Again the following year, the taste, the texture, all of that had gained a hazy dream-like quality, and so I had to taste it again. The years passed, and one day I stopped begging. I had my own money, it was later in the day, and I decided to buy some. It was that day I learned that some rides don’t mix with food. But cotton candy never lost its charm. And one year I was not with my parents, and I still bought cotton candy. Still as sweet as the first time.

One day, I stopped going to the fair. But that year, I simply bought cotton candy. To skip a year would have seemed impossible. But as I explore my memories, I realize that it happened more than once. Cotton candy seems irreversibly locked in my childhood. It is made of sugar and memories. This leads me back to my question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

I was fascinated by your eyes, after you sat down, after you became real. The blue color seemed so odd that I was wondering if I was not seeing them as blue because you were blue. To see your lips part to accept the cotton candy and to not have them turn into a smile seemed unnatural. Just seeing cotton candy almost made me smile. But to smile at something that you seemed to eat in pure sadness would have been wrong. And when I realised that I was paying you this much attention, I was worried. Worried that you would notice, worried that I would seem creepy. Behind your sad eyes, I hoped to see the hint of a smile, as you tasted that soft and sweet treat, but that won’t happen. And now I am left to wonder what happened to make you sad as you eat cotton candy.

[This story almost made me add a "stalker" label. It seemed so odd to write about a stranger, but when I started thinking about it, I knew I had to write it. This happened on the bus on the way home. I will not share the details, but this is the questioning that I had, when I saw this complete stranger eat cotton candy without smiling. I think I am also trying to write about anything, and this experience allowed me to try some new tone that I don't think I have used at this point in my career. What also helps with the writing of this "story" is the fact that I know the person it is about will never read it.]

Introduction Part 1

[So I decided to try my hand at something longer, but I can't help but see the influence my readings have had on it. This is what I have so far, it's the first part of an introduction / chapter 1 for a fantasy type book. Hope you'll enjoy it.]

The old man knew it was time to pen that letter. He had wished he could avoid having to do so, but as he looked out the window to the snow covered forest surrounding the village, he had no choice. Time had come for Jarrick to leave this village, the resting place of his dear wife, and his grandchildren. It had been his destined duty back from the day he received a letter similar to the one he was writing. It came from his father, as he was nearing that age. But unlike his father, he could not write to his son. The traditions of ancient times had stayed the same, but the world had changed quite a lot. And because of that, his letter could not be identical to the one he received. He had changed, he knew his duty, but over the generations, it had become a curse. But it was his duty, and no matter all the questions it brought up in his heart, he would do it to honour his father. But first he would write the letter to make sure that the curse carried on to the next generation.

My dearest grandson:

Life for you will soon change. You might be more pre-occupied with starting a family, but it’s not the life fate has chosen for you. First, I must tell you of the history of the world, you must know what they did not dare to teach you in school. You have been lied to, but by the end of this letter, you will understand why, and you will forgive your teachers for the lies. With each revelation, I want you to think of your sisters and brothers, and how their life would be with this knowledge. It will all make sense I promise.

As you know, the world was created eons ago by the Heavenly Mother. Through her loving embrace, the ice that covered her infant Taera melted away, revealing a virgin world filled with potential. You must have learned how this angered the Dark Fear, and that he desired nothing more than to destroyed Taera. This was a lie. Just as you needed both a father and a mother to be your parents, Taera needed a father and a mother to be born. Taera’s father was what we now call the Dark Fear. You know that now, the Dark Fear is what comes to take away children in the night, and what causes pain and suffering in this world. It is said that the Dark Fear’s touch can turn any field into a battleground and destroy any life that it comes in contact with. All wars that have cursed this kingdom were the Dark Fear’s doing. It was him who took away your father, and your mother. You know by now that your father was a soldier, and a great one at that. He trained for the battles that were coming with great enthusiasm, and even as a little boy, he wanted to be the hero of this nation. And so when the war came, he volunteered to join the army. He did not abandon you however; he was trying to protect the kingdom from the evils from across the great river. Our kingdom has been both blessed and cursed by the creators. The curse of shadow is strong in our blood. Especially women. By now you must have wondered why there are no women over 40 in the village, let me assure you, there are none to be found around here. Even if their faith in the Heavenly Mother is strong, the shadow fills their veins. You see, the Dark Fear was jealous of the Heavenly Mother’s ability to create life and fill the world with animals, plants, and humans. And in this holy kingdom where it is said the touch of the Heavenly Mother was last felt, he decided to corrupt women and twist their life into his service. As you also must know by now, our kingdom is the only one without any wizardry. We have rejected the ways of evil and are devoted to the Heavenly Mother, angering the Dark Fear even more. This is why we are constantly attacked, because of the Dark Fear’s gaze upon this kingdom.

With me...

And there you were with that smile upon your face. Your beautiful green eyes, dark hair, and smiling lips. I remember the first time I met you, as if it was yesterday. It was in that school, wasn’t it? We were both kids, and when our eyes met, we could not understand the vast meaning this chance encounter would have for us. At least, it was like that for me. I remember meeting you; it was as if no one else was in the room with us. We did not exchange names; there was no reason for us to do so. I knew you without needing to know your name. I knew you from that day on as the one who would live within my heart. But life is often beyond the control of children, and we were separated. It would be a whole year before we would meet again. Same place, similar circumstances. But your smile was gone, something was amiss. What sort of danger loomed around the corner of the hallowed halls of your mind? What was the menace that caused you such grief? I was but a mere child, but I knew you were worried. I knew you well enough for that. But then games started changing what was happening between us. We would pretend I could protect you from whatever was tormenting you. I pretended to be your hero, you sincerely felt protected with me. But why, please tell me why, was this the last time we would be together as children? These two chance encounters touched me, changed me, but we were no longer together, and instead, I was left with a fleeting memory of your existence. Growing up means that what happened in the past if often swallowed by the rush of new experiences. But you were there, a distant memory, but very much close in my heart and soul. Was it love? Back then I could not tell.

And we grew up. I would be a teenager the next time we would meet. A chance encounter in a park, a chance encounter under the prying eyes of nature. We were together, and yet you felt more distant than ever before. But what really happened beyond the conversation? Do you remember? Something still worried you, but this time, I could not pretend to be your hero. The loss of our childish imagination meant that I could no longer pretend to my shining armour, and I could no longer pretend that your troubles were monsters to be vanquished. And so we talked. And my affection for you grew deeper. Did you feel that way? Did you feel that we were together, united, beyond friendship, beyond words? Can you love a complete stranger? Because beyond these three encounters, it was what you were. I never asked for your name, I never asked who you were. These things seemed superficial and useless at the time. And yet, they gained such a meaning now. You never wondered about me, have you? I was there, trying to help, but I didn’t know if I was doing anything. But we walked, and while I cannot remember what happened, I’m convinced you felt better. We would meet once again that year, chance was on our side. A schoolyard if I remember correctly. We sat and talked. What was it that worried you? Why do I remember having the conversation and yet I cannot remember the nature of what was talked about? But I loved you. Back then I was convinced, what I felt for you was love. Pure affection, pure friendship, pure love. Who were you? Why is it that for me to hold your name would be the same as trying to hold a snowflake in my bare hands?

Years would pass, and while I am sure I saw you, from the corner of my eye, we weren’t together again for a very long time. Was it you that I saw hitchhiking? Or maybe you really were outside my bedroom window that one day. Why didn’t I run out to see you? Was it the price I had to pay for not knowing your name? Or maybe it was my punishment for having known the loving embrace of someone else. Know that if that is the case, I am deeply sorry for what happened. I am a mere human, and beyond our chance encounters that seemed far removed from reality, did I ever really know you? Please forgive me, in a sense it was you I was looking for. The sparkle in your eyes, the brightness of your smile, the smell I can now only imagine you’ve had. Without a name, without anything real, all I could do is try to find you in others.

Where were you when I needed you? You never were real were you? All these chance encounters, they were products of my dreams. I know that, I’ve known that for a while. But then, why do you still haunt me? Why is it that I can brush off the darkest nightmares, however I cannot get you out of my mind? Are you real simply because I know you, I’ve seen you? Then why, if you are real, have all our meetings happened in the realm of dreams? I want to look for you, but where do I start? Maybe I should sleep… Maybe you’ll be there tonight.


[Ok, so here's the deal: when I was a kid, I had this dream, it was about this girl I did not know. And apparently, there are no strangers in dreams, so, well, I find this all confusing. And she would come back in other dreams, she grew up as I grew up. It might just be a dream, but it's odd to think about having a dream grow up with you. And while the inner child in me hopes this means more than just regular dreams, I'm pretty sure she only exists in my head. But the same could be said about memories. So, this is my first real attempt at letting her story out in the world. I'm quite certain nothing will come of this, but sometimes, it's fun to dream.]

November 22

November 22, the sun has just recently set on the little community. For the Patterson, sunset had come somewhat earlier, since their house was east of the church, and today was the only day of the year that the sun’s trajectory was hidden entirely by the steeple, a good two hours before the rest of the village found darkness’s embrace. Their house has been there since the times of the foundation of the village, 200 years ago. It was built in front of the church, so that only the priest has an easier time getting to mass. In the last 50 years, this did not really matter. However, the large backyard, beautiful neighbourhood and historical house were more than enough to make the house more valuable. They also were lucky enough to have a large parking lot when they had a lot of guests.

November 22 was not such a say. And Andy Patterson looked at the church dominating his house through height, size, and darkness. For while the church was surrounded by what could be seen as heavenly light, its shape was an inscrutable shadow lost in dark mists. From his second floor window, Andy was assailed by a rushing wave of memories. He was the first son of his generation, and as such, the house was rightfully his. He was born in January, in this very house, 56 years earlier. His mother was stricken by labour as his father had been working at the paper mill. Thankfully her sister, a nurse, and her brother in law, were both with her at that time. The roads were too slippery to go to the big city hospital, and back then, giving birth in your own home was a frequent happening. The brother in law ran outside to get the village’s doctor. Through no evil intent, he decided to let the doctor go to the Patterson house alone, and kept running to the paper mill. He had visited Andy’s father at the mill earlier that week, since he was force to take a vacation as the crops slept under their coat of revitalizing snow. As he yelled excitedly, running toward the work station, he failed to realize that most machinery here is unthinking, and rather unforgiving of inattention. Thus, as Andy’s father was not giving the saw his entire attention, it jealously dug into his left arm, under the elbow.

The doctor stayed a short five minutes at the Patterson house, and ran to the paper mill for an eternal two minutes. Bandages were made, a sleigh was found, and thanks to the valiant courage of a pair of work horses, Andy’s father passed away alone, away from his son that would bear his name, away from his wife, away from his home. Alone. The paper company made sure the Patterson family would not go hungry, and out of guilt, remorse, or pity, the brother in law made sure to provide as much money and food for the family he had involuntarily broken. But that was the past. Many November 22 passed. And many times, the shadow of the church had enveloped the house. Andy’s sister died in the middle of the summer. A tragic incident at the river, nothing more. Everybody learned how to swim at that spot in the village. The river went down a small hill at that spot, and had dug quite a nice pond for kids to swim in. Andy and his brothers had taken the habit, as older boys often did back then, to go up the hill and jump into the pond. If you knew what you were doing, you could aim straight for the deepest part of the pond, and go under the water safely. Little Leslie had been with her brothers quite often, and while they were not paying proper attention, she decided to join them in their dives. She knew where to aim, knew how far to jump. She knew how to swim as was often compared to a mermaid. She called to get her brothers’ attention; they looked, and yelled at her to come down. It was too dangerous they said. It was too hard for her to do. She did not listen, ran, and leaped into the river. She came out unharmed and cheered by her brothers. And so they jumped again. And again. And again. On their fifth time jumping, she did not come out of the water. She did not come up for air. And even in the following weeks, she did not come up as a corpse. She vanished, swallowed by the river. Swallowed by the dark waters that seemed to reach as deep as the core of the earth. Nothing should have prevented her from coming back up. And that nothing was powerful enough to keep her buried in moving water for countless years. For eternity. No one swam at that spot, in fact no one from that village dared to swim in the waters that swallowed their sweet princess.

Life went on. Andy was on the eve of his wedding. As it was tradition, and according to most people, it was a stupid tradition, the ownership of the house would be passed at the same time as the wedding. This meant that in addition to organizing a wedding, Andy’s mother had to move out of the house. Andy and his fiancée had agreed to let her live with them. She was quite healthy, and happy to be part of their household. And the Patterson house was huge, and had quite enough space for this arrangement. And so Andy’s mother worked quite hard so that he august wedding would be amazing. And she worked quite hard to ensure that the master’s bedroom was free for the nuptial. She also arranged to spend the week at her sister’s place to let her son settle with his wife. She worked up a sweat, giving orders, getting her hands dirty, moving people, bossing furniture around. By the time the night fell, she was exhausted. After a light meal, she went straight to bed, to be ready for her son’s unforgettable day. She would never see daylight again. The doctor called that morning saw that she was over exhausted, and that she needed a day or two of bed rest. And her behest, the wedding took place. However, they could not wake her up again once the ceremony was over. She had a September funeral, and Andy’s wedding day would be in everyone’s memories for years to come.

On that November day, Andy was lost in his imagination, seeing everything this house had meant for him. His wife had left him years ago, after their youngest daughter went to college. He had fathered three beautiful, smart and angelic little princesses. And so there was no heir for the house. He contemplated that as he watched the church’s face brightly shining with a red that had a depth and a power commonly seen only in sunsets. His eyes filled with tears and he was choking. On memories, on emotion, on life. On death. He looked at the church and a symphony of lights, colours and sound assailed him. The bright red, the clear white, the alternating blue and red. All of this was obscured by the thick black mist filling his mind, his memories, and his house.

On November 22, he went upstairs for a nap before supper.

On November 22, he had turned on the oven so that it would be warm by the time he would wake up from his nap.

On November 22, the house decided to fight the enveloping shadows and fill the street with the burning memories of those that were no more.

On November 22, Andy Patterson died, away from his family, away from his love, but in is house, filled with despair.

Alone.