The Ace of Spades

Chapter 8

     The loneliest building begins where the sidewalk ends; leaves whirling little aspirations, upon its ashen floor. Inside this building with cobweb knotted windows, you'd expect to find leering men and city girls working a job enforced by the poverty line. It is by the staleness in the air that one can imagine the Sun heating this building until you feel like an egg in a pan bubbling to get out.

     However, loneliness hangs heavy here, dust settles again and again, and there is a sense of silenced laughter that leaves behind a thick blanket of inoccupancy. You see even the rats that poke and prod have the right to be fussy on such a morning, where even the mailman sweats like a cool can in a hot room. Trying to avoid the screech of the floor, steadying on just the tips of my toes, it betrays me and I am left with the echo of a screech! Nonetheless, the thinness of the walls is no kinder, and the sound of rustling garments rings out from the hall. Encompassed by an ever growing need to hide, I lay down and pray that my breathing holds steady. In this state of single minded paralysis the fragile light bulb that shines from above is but the Sun, and I am a bug cooked on the asphalt, left to simmer like a lone cigarette butt on the warmest of days.

     My acting wins no awards, as the scuffing of shoes comes ever closer; eyelashes hiding the creases of my eyes, I see boots so broken but polished with pride. Yet, it is his face so shadowed that gives him the appearance of one both young and old; as it is with baited breath that I wait for him to leave--only for his retreating footsteps to be replaced by much smaller ones.

     Scarcely breathing, I decide to wait for the evening's shadow to grow long. For an escape is only feasible when neither side knows the way--unaware, I am, that a tiny friend is sitting in the corner.

     Tonight, the moon is a full pie, no slices missing; moving leaves and stirring brush, the wind carries the choir of dusk. Resonating on my bones, the thought of escape is a delicious shiver. Stars shed their light like snakes do skin, yet I can't find beauty in sin, for why else would people die and find themselves alone in the starry night sky. Arresting, the open window captivates my gaze, and if I were to step outside I'd discover flying cars; for I stood here for an eternity. Childish, the belief of escape, the belief it was the door, walls, window, and me; for the person in the corner stood with quick limbs, and a personality that could play you like a stringed instrument.

     However large their presence was, it went unnoticed, as I peered through the window, missing cities I've never come upon. Stillness will never stay still, silence will never stay silent, and nothing remains hidden. I wished for nothing more in this moment, than to dive into the empty depths of Night's darkness; darkness that whispers promises and secrets like a Pastor asking for money.

     Secrets which emerge from the room's corner as fair hair and blue eyes. At knee height, she was bewitching, but not in the way we were taught; bewitching in her innocence, in the way she walked with her hands outstretched for balance, the way she smiled when approached-- it was her heart that was beautiful, a contradiction to the building in which we stood.

     " S'cuse me," she murmured. "You really shouldn't do that."

     "Ah, Mary, did you catch the jailbird?" The noise came from the doorway where the boy's jaw tightened. He spoke of fire and smoke, the bitter taste of frustration on his tongue; as the small girl twists around his leg like a balloon animal being made.

     I speak afraid, my pronunciation soft, "You can't be a jailbird with clipped wings."

     "No, but a bird with clipped wings finds itself out of its cage."

     It was at this moment that I decided to stay.