Epicaricacy

Here He Goes Again

I climb three cobblestone staircases to reach my heavy oaken door. It fosters the cold from the long night that has crept into the morning. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on its cool exterior; there have been many nights where the floor before it served as my bed. Tonight feels like one of those nights, and I would usually welcome it. But if I fall to its chilly embrace, I won't be able to hear the shouts of the clock.

The handle greets my hand, and slowly opens.

"Your feet are light, brother." His voice inquires sinisterly.

"Get off; I need to sit my bag down." I reply. A shadow shoots to the kitchen table. "And don't sit on the table."

"Your tone is different as well, brother. What happened to you?"

My silence serves as an answer.

"Brother! So soon you welcome another to your heart!" All the hairs on my body stiffen. "Are you trying to hide something, huh, brother? You know you can't hide anything from us." The voice of a thousand voices speaking in unison but at the same time asynchronous. "Saria Pheles...have we heard that before? The name is so familiar, like a song we haven't heard in ages."

"I'm sure there is many a name in the foul recess of your mind."

"When do we meet her, brother?"

My bedroom door creaks open. "Tomorrow,"

Where I go, he follows. So I have learned to not reject things such as him. Why should I reject things that are so apparent, especially when I see him more than I see my own reflection?

"We can't wait to meet brother's lady!"

"Yeah," I have to watch myself much closer from here onward. "Neither can I." Or he'll get her... like he got everything else.

Morning came, rousing me with rays of sunshine that peeked between the cracks of the walls and the blinds beside it. The pendulum strikes six times.

The bitter but brisk cold slams against my black suit jacket. I haven't been to another person's house in a while, not since the incident at least. I don't trust myself with being alone with another female. It's my fault that it happened, yes, but why did she have to look so gorgeous? Why did everything about her entice me, making me crave for her touch on my skin?

The town's clock heralds that it is now seven. I could see the car cruise from afar; punctual lot, aren't they? Amazing how one car, meshed with one action can reveal so much character. The window rolls down, blasting the warm air on my eyelids, making them over-encumbered and heavy.

"Good morning Pent," No chorus or orchestra could compare to what I was hearing. "Are you coming in? It's quite chilly." She reached over the middle to unlock the alternate door.

"Thank you for having me." I told the driver.

"Whatever you do, don't make a mess. Damn car cost me a fortune to fix up, and I won't have those years wasted on just one boy." His calloused voice shouted to me.

"Allow me to introduce the most affectionate man you will ever have the pleasure of meeting: Plátno Portier." Saria announced.

"Pleasure's all yours," he makes the gest of tipping a hat. The jet-black hair matched his eyes, the beard, on the other hand, glistened brightly with the morning dew. "Don't smudge up my Ilene."

"I think 'affectionate' is too light of a word," I whisper to Saria. The fragrance of sweet alyssum hangs around the straps of her silk, lace sundress.

"What do you have in mind?" She whispers back to me.

"Courteous? Humane, maybe?"

"Ruggishly handsome?" He yells. "I may be older than this car, but my hearing hasn't strayed."

"Miss Sirena must not slip anything past you, right sir?"

"As sneaky as she may be, she can't get past good ol' Portier the Powerful!" His laughter resembles the croaking of frogs.

"Now you got him started," she sighs then drops her head into her palm. "Now he's going to ramble the whole way home."

"Before your time, boy, I could hear the shuffling of cards in the sleeves of young'uns during a game of poker. Thought they could sneak one in on me, oho! If only they knew I was as roguish as they were before they were a twinkle in their mother's eye!" He croaks again. "Now you see, that was before I met Sicily-"

"Sicily? You mean Sirena?" I ask.

"No, boy! It was her sister!" Ooh, he released a conniving croak this time. "I met Sicily a year before I met my old lady; and what an eventful year that was!"

For minutes on end, he spoke about how him and Miss Sicily would go bar to bar, swindling their way through the best poker players, and losing all of it in a night. Each night and every night they lived lives of young, reckless kids, without a care for what happened the day after, but put more planning in the night to come. One of their scandals got a bit...hairy to say the least, with Mr. Portier limping out of a bar and Miss Sicily locking barrels with a notorious gang of vagabonds. Sicily carried him to her mother's home, where he sister was studying medicine. Through the blood and instruments of the surgery, he held the sister's arm and inquired: "You got a cigarette?" He swore up and down that she slapped the nicotine out of system, warning him that if he ever picked up any type of tobacco again, she'll replace those knife and bullet wounds with fresh new ones. When he told this story, he looked at me through the rear-view mirror, saying: "She scared the demons out of me, keeping them in the same box as the scraps of lead and bone marrow. I knew that she would do just that, and keep me in line." He wasn't the most invigorating storyteller, though. I trailed off and may have missed a few details here and there, but the message was well received.