Saved from deletion

Recently I was browsing through my documents on the computer, looking for files to delete, and I stumbled upon something I had written a very long time ago. Now seeing that I haven’t posted anything on here in a while, I thought it’d be nice to publish at least the first few pages on here just to remind everyone that I’m still alive, and stuff.

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And if the astringent rain would ever give way, Elijah Sinclair could not tell; yet as he surveyed the maligned scene outside of his enclosure, he was reminded that what lay beneath the facade of sensibly ordered events, was merely the animus of indomitable folly. Indeed grand folly. Within and without the experiences colouring the spectrum of existence, there lay a certain irrationality which frustrated any modicum of reason.

Nevertheless, safe behind the clear bay window and the comfort of a well-heated kitchen, his view of the happenings was relatively unobstructed, aside from the procession of tears that quickly flowed down in pursuit of the windowsill.

Men ran into their cars in order to head home, left their cars to enter their homes, and subsequently emerged out of their homes to reembark their cars once again. This, all while those clear algid drops—ubiquitous in sphere—gravitated downwards towards the ever-yielding earth. Red, green, yellow, blue, black cars slid their way towards the assurance of engaging engagements, towards memorable moments, towards the warmth of hearth and home or, perhaps driven onwards on the part of sheer tiredness. Onwards by the guarantee of well-deserved relaxation and rest. Onwards, because maybe when it rained, driving onwards was the most natural thing to do. No matter. Onwards they drove; forward towards whatsoever invigorated them with the daring to brace such offensive weather.

Indeed standing by the window and viewing the slow erosion of all else by the vehemence of rain and the thick grey of sky, he was perhaps somewhat too thankful at the sound of the footsteps preceding her down the stairs. As she came into view, she spoke the whispers of an apology for having left and in reply, he told her that she needn’t worry about it. There was a prolonged moment of silence while the rain beat like a thousand frantic drums outside.

“Would you like something to drink?”
He lightly shook his head as he told her that he was fine.
“Really? It wouldn’t trouble me at all to prepare some tea, or perhaps some hot chocolate.” She conferred up a broken smile.  It was small, weak, and heavy with worry, but a smile nonetheless.

Her comment had taken him two, three, four years back in time. To what, perhaps, may have been the last of his halcyon days. He thanked her for the thought but again told her that he’d manage without. She nodded and neither one of them spoke while they waited for her pot of tea to brew. He pretended to be engrossed with the exquisitely ordinary pattern printed on the far wall, while she took exaggerated care in the brewing of her tea. To the both of them, the sombre mood was fairly distasteful.

“Is she?” Elijah began to ask. She paused from spooning her tea and set the cup to her side as she fought for the words with which to make the faintest echo of a reply.

“Yes she is.” She said quite tentatively. Both looked up at the ceiling as though it were transparent and they could see the figure in the darkened room, lying on her bed, the sheets tightly enveloping her form, crying.

“I’m sorry for asking you to come, it’s just I thought that maybe…perhaps if you’re here….”
He let her know that he would do whatever he could to help.

Throughout it all, the rain hadn’t relented one bit. Or perhaps it had softened and they simply couldn’t tell, or perhaps it had ceased altogether and heard was simply the resonance of a performance long since brought to an end. Drop, drip, drop, drop; the familiar rhythm carried itself with an allegretto grazioso tempo that by this time had taken on an almost calming air.

“Should I, go see her?”
“Please,” she answered.

The words had slipped by his lips before he could understand what he was actually saying.

“What was there to gain from having me meet with her? I couldn’t possibly trigger a suitable reaction in her—no, the very thought was completely foolish. Please don’t make me to be the bearer of your hope Ms. Perrineau,” this, he thought in a flurry of uncertainty and consternation.

Now the corridor had seemed to have grown in size, twice, thrice, maybe four times. Its path seemed to stretch farther, the grim walls appeared to reach higher and its tenebrific ambience happened to be the sum of collective doubts faltering his every step.

The traverse down the darkened hall culminated in climbing a sequence of stairs headed for the second floor. Steps which knew the size of his person and were accustomed to the measure of his weight, now creaked and groaned liberally from under his two feet. Or they had always groaned but he simply hadn’t been aware of this proclivity until now, and perhaps the creaking had likewise always been there, or, neither the creaking nor groaning were at all present outside the realm of his imagination.

He stood outside of her room, waiting. His knuckles grated against the skin of her door, he had called out her name, asked if she would let him in, if they could perhaps talk for a moment.
She never replied.

“It’s alright, I expected as much.” She answered him solemnly behind a dry façade of composure and strength.

He nodded in agreement yet took care to apologize once again.

“No, really, it’s not your fault.” She broke off to look at the flow of rainwater dripping down the window adjacent to him and he in turn looked down at his hands. This continued on for the space of a moment or two before she lifted the cup of tea to her lips and, with marvellous frailty, sipped of the contents thereof. The thought struck him that she had aged so much, so suddenly. Regrettably, it would seem that in the end a person could only elude time for so long. As is the manner of things, time may perhaps be slow, but time does not forget.

The forbearers of wrinkles lined her hands and the contours of her face, tracing acute worries onto the visage of her person. Her golden brown hair had lost much of its luster, and she seemed so very small, incredibly small in fact. As she sat across from Elijah, managing her tea, he was unable to expunge the thought that there remained little of that youthful vitality, which used to be so visible an imprint in all her dealings with them. This occurrence greatly perplexed him as it hadn’t seemed at all a waning quality that through the years experienced a gradual reduction in potency but rather, that it had abruptly ceased to give vibrancy to her being.

Noting that they had once more regained eye contact, he began, “Still, I came all this way; I wish that there was something I could do. Do you need my help with anything else?”

“I’m not,” she began rather brusquely, “I’m not a bad mother.” Deeply lost within her own fears, Mrs. Perrineau had failed to take note of Elijah’s question.

He remained silent.

“I did everything that I could.” Elijah could not tell whether he was being addressed. It had seemed to be more of a statement than a question and yet she looked at him as if she were expecting a response.
He assured her that she had.

“I’m not a bad mother.”

He assured her that she was not.

It took moments for her to recollect herself. Adjusting herself in her seat, smoothing the wrinkles of her pale grey cardigan, picking up, then setting back down her cup of tea, caressing its handle, tracing a finger around the rim, drying her eyes. Then, mere stillness.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He gave no answer. How could he speak when the silence had already said so much more than it should? Words simply failed to convey the weight of emotions felt that evening and the mass of unbridled trepidation which so gave pause to their tongues could in no way be measured—merely felt. There was an unspoken worry between them, a shared hurt. The pain thereof kindled a most repugnant understanding rooted in the obscene comforts of realizing that someone else was damned to identify with their grief. That another was condemned to partake in this fellowship of suffering and this, in its own surreptitious manner, was horridly consoling. In the face of this shared frailty, Elijah Sinclair came to discern that theirs, was a communion of misery and disgust.

“Still, I wonder.” They had sat in complete silence until then and thus her breaking of it found him fairly off-guard. All the same she continued, “I wish to know what exactly happened.”

And as Elijah dredged his way home, he would find himself contemplating the very same thought. The rain had ceased yet the day remained bleak. The streets had recovered from the hour of their inundation and what little remained of that ferocious shower consoled itself in the cool embrace of verdure. The flood had ceased and the earth—immaculate as she was—could in no way contain her excitement. Nevertheless, Elijah remained certain that it would rain to no end.

Arriving home, the house was iridescent, resplendent in warm auburn yet the pleasantries thereof had little bearing on Elijah Sinclair as he forced the door to a close behind him and quickly leapt the set of stairs to settle himself in his room. He scarcely took notice of his mother as he failed to greet her in the process of going about his course and she, in turn, him. As he lay in bed his mind couldn’t escape the questioning of Ms. Perrineau, he was a captive to her sentiments. With his thoughts undimmed by sleep for merely a span longer, he considered how best to answer his questioner as all sounds took their leave and he found himself untangled from circumstance and retiring passively to slumber.

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