Reflected sorrows

Chapter 14

There was the park, its open gate gleaming with rust and decay. It looked like flames creeping up like vines, climbing toward nothing but a promise; she gazed at it with sorrow, her stare of grief so familiar even the open mouth let out a whimper. Perhaps childhood had been longer ago than even she expected; the flames of decay and wither had climbed with leaves that never wilted, their reach far and scorching, leaving the stench of memories long gone to fester; it was the smoke that climbed, reaching into her mind and holding in their hand the most precious joy and love that could only come from childhood – everything had once been a fantasy. Even Lucille had known, in her stability of ship among the endless sea on which she lived, that these were no longer mountains – and yet she was hopeful revisiting such a place as this would halt the gleaming malice of forgetfulness and hopeless rambling as the wood decayed. Celeste could hear the trees dancing a cruel, mocking dance and the leaves whispering truths to her unwilling ears. But, already chained to a table upon a sinking ship, she had no choice but to accept the subtle truths piece by piece, the knowledge consuming her from the inside out by dark crimson passageways. The passageways were winding and throbbed and hummed menacing tunes of dissonance. She knew that they called her name as she delicately stepped toward the gate, memories turning sour and clammy in her hands so clumsy, they were right. It wouldn't cure an ache to hit the legs harder. It wouldn't teach a child to walk to give it bruises and in condescending tones announce its guilt. It wouldn't claim all of her sorrows; it would claim and devour the surface; just like flames it would scorch the outside and reach the cowering children slowly and painfully, their flesh burnt softly to the lullaby of smoke and crackling fires. So as it appeared on the horizon, she saw not hope but a will-o-the-wisp lantern dragging her unwilling into an unrelenting forest of whirling memories that would only remind her that joy was an apparition.

She took meek steps, her footfalls echoing through the valley, surrounded by trees that fought each other endlessly in battles of gritted teeth and forgotten love. Their blood was blue flowers trickling in pathways over the grass, like a spreading disease. A disease of rampaging violence and slaughter. She found, still, around her, nothing but that. Still, but something felt different about the way time enveloped this place – there lay a house in the distance, with candles in the windows and walls that towered over even the highest branches. It loomed over the sea of amber leaves emerging among an ocean of viridian with a glare condescending and disdainful toward the weary, thin trunks. They catered to the house's needs and wants, while in their quiet moments fighting among themselves over the blood spilled over holy ground – they almost leapt over into the graveyard, but only got up to the wall before halting and sighing as they all gathered, mourning not for the dead who lay within but for the loss of blood and endless shedding of bark that howled to the wind in search of more than petty smiles and laughter. Cackling laughter. The hill still towered, her bones clattering within her as she stumbled toward the dreary gate. It was the ancient piles of memories that lay forgotten and neglected at the place they happened; a mansion; a place they could wander, but they were apparitions haunting a place with no host, no joy to show for it. They spoke with the joyful, bitter cackling of children, ghosts of smiles on faces; and yet they spoke their names with confusion. They bore the cloak of shattered neglect, and it showed on their ancient clothes. Patches bore the scars as if the memories were ragdolls. As if they no longer mattered... As if they were slowly dying. Without a mother calling them in or a father giving them help with their first friendship they stood stagnant and forlorn among a palace of joy.

Then, as she arrived at the top, weary and breathless, she held the gate in her hand, able to simply coax it open. It adhered to her demands, not writhing away or squirming as if she held a candle closer and closer to its face. It simply gave in, knowing the flames of rust too well to feel afraid of it. The screams of complaint were... Silent. They should have called out in anguish but they... They fed the monster of silence, as if the world had fallen into a slumber. Everything was too quiet. All apart from a swing slowly rocking, and a murmur of footfall like a rumour spread through a cackling group. She approached the swings, the quiet rumbling within the dark and intense shadows falling over the world around – night was falling rapidly with the setting sun. She awaited the presence of Lucille impatiently, sitting among the veil of silence that was engulfing the land like the mouth of a huge, insatiable beast consuming it, along with all the laughter of the memories as they faded to dust. The swing still swung back and forth as she sat beside it, the wind halted and the hiatus relentless. Just that dissonant melody. The ticking of clocks. The breathing of a beast. The dull complaints like rugged, dying breaths.