Essence of Purity [boyxboy]

Chapter V

 ~Tuesday 12th January 2010~

Sir expects you working by nine o'clock. Salem had never spited a morning so. He had never glowered at a clock beside him, watching the hands ticking along and the day fade away. Irritatingly, he didn't even need the alarm that had been set for him. He woke long before eight, staring up at the ceiling as the early dawn crept through the room, bleeding veins of amber and honey between the curtains. Typically, Salem was happiest at night, under the everlasting blanket of starlight, but that didn't mean he had a particular taste for the dawns along the way. Now, he thought to change that. No part of the day lured him, no part brought a smile to his lips. That day, Salem felt something deep inside, something heavy and solid and unwelcoming.

That day wasn't going to be a good one. Getting up seemed impossible. So much as tilting his head made Salem's brows furrow in displeasure. He had done this to himself, so really there was nothing to complain for. No one had forced him to break into Mourn's estate, no one had even suggested as such. He had dug his own grave, and now he was forced to lie in it. Moping offered little help, yet it did soothe the soul. Something about lying there in futile indignation left Salem satisfied, or as satisfied as he could be.

Unfortunately, that same futile indignation would get Salem in more trouble if he let it. So he caved. He rose from the bed, sitting up first, dragging a hand through the bird's nest that his hair had become overnight. He should have put it up really, should have done something with it after he showered, rather than falling into bed without even drying it. Fatigue had drawn him to that conclusion, coaxing him under the covers before he had the common sense to refuse. And now he was reaping the rewards of his weakness.

Salem wandered over to the window when he finally drew back the covers and plunged himself into the chilly air of the room. He never shut the curtains entirely, preferring the fissures of light that would filter through instead, even if it was the culprit for his early rising. When he did push back the heavy fabric, snagging it behind the hooks that held it open, the light made him squint. The view was beautiful from Salem's bedroom, a scene that almost made the reality of his imprisonment worth it.

There were rumours of the lake on Mourn's estate, the body of water that, for some unknown reason, he was awfully protective of. Some speculated that there was contraband and other illegal substances hidden away in the banks, or sunken into the bed beneath in airtight boxes for safekeeping. Others thought it was bodies, hundreds of skeletons drowned in the depths of the inky waters. Salem wasn't so sure. It made more sense to believe that Mourn merely wanted to preserve the beauty for himself, not have others comment and insult and try to improve. The lake was natural, untouched by man unlike so many other blessings of mother nature, and Mourn chose to keep it that way. Maybe that honestly was the extent of his behaviour.

Salem wondered if his own privileges might extend to the lake. He wasn't one to sail, nor swim, but merely rounding the lake, following the path that he could see through the sparse branches of tree cover at a safe distance from the murky waters, Salem would like that. For so many years, he had been frightened of the forest, unable to step foot within any of the sort for fear of the memories that would flash back before his eyes. It wasn't until the previous year that he began trying again, wanting to conquer his fear rather than allow it to define him. Naveen had been the one to help, again with the aromatherapy, bringing along soothing oils and incense to keep Salem calm. The memories still appeared, still flashed so violently that it left Salem dizzy, but they didn't linger so long anymore. That had to be progress to be spoken of.

Progress that wasn't important that day. So Salem moved on, stepped away from the window, turned his attention to the uniform laid out for him on the chair in the corner of the room. One of the maids had brought it the previous night, when Salem was lost between the throws of slumber and consciousness, unable to remember if the figure that had stopped at the end of his bed was real or nothing more than a phantom. At the time, Salem had felt his heart thunder in his chest, childish fears clinging to his veins, leaving him breathless as he stared up at the shadow looming over him. He wanted to cry out, to call for help, but he knew no one would come, so he laid there instead, paralysed in his own skin, until the nightmare disappeared in a bitter flash.