The flower vase was shattered. Water ran down the Persian rug and there were feathers everywhere in the flat. The source of the feathers remains a mystery till this date. Now reader, this story happened about a few decades ago but as a biased writer, I still feel it has relevance.
Imagine the setting to be a dark winter evening. Just the right amount of sunlight streaming into the room and the dust particles glittering in the light. The dead objects in that house were silently moving like the water from the broken vase.
A letter stood proudly on the wooden desk. You could see the pressure marks from where the hands had held too tight.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, your life is mine and I’m watching you.”
The above mentioned line was inked on the parchment. It smelled old and comforting like it had come from a rundown library in kajakistan.
The letter had come in via the morning post. She had known something was wrong when the delivery guy had not waited for her to sign on the register. He smelled of tobacco and vodka at 9 am in the morning. There was another smell she couldn’t quite place. A whiff of lavender and ethanol.
He looked haggard; a man tired of breathing. He never once looked at her. Just placed the envelope in her hand all the while looking at the floor and left before she could say any more.
(tring tring, tring tring)
“El, what is it? You know I’ve been busy. What is it with 10 missed calls?”
“I need you. It’s happening again. It’s back.”
“Who do you mean?”
“April 25, 1884.”
“Oh God! Not again. Snap out of it El. I know you can. Don’t let it affect you. The darkness is in your head.”
“But it already has. I shall see you in the after. Bye.”
The line disconnected and she stepped out of her window; out in the open; out in the light.