Saints and Sinners

IV | eyes don't lie

Pov: Vilhelm Andersen

I am quite taken with my dorm room.

It's fucking beautiful. 

The room exudes a spectral charm, the dim lighting casting long, eerie shadows. The space is just the right size—not too cramped to feel suffocating, yet intimate enough to stave off loneliness.

I lean my electric guitar case against the wall and step onto the oriental rug that stretches across the floorboards. I remove my Doc Martens, placing them neatly on the shoe rack outside, before re-entering the room.

To my left stands a solitary bed with a wooden headboard, draped in minimalist layers of silk, cotton, and velvet duvets. The warm tones of the bedding harmonize with the room's Romantic-era aesthetic.

The curtains barely shrouding the windows are layered. The bottom layer broods in its thickness, while the foreground is black and lacey, seemingly designed to absorb the faint light filtering through the tall, vintage-framed square windows.

A dark-accented wooden table occupies the centre of the room, its murky surface untouched by coffee rings from late nights or wax droppings from melting candles. I plan to mark it with these very stains as the nights progress, each blemish a marker for time spent in contemplation.

A line of intricately designed gothic candlesticks rests on the broad windowsill, casting dancing shadows that flicker across the room, emanating a sense of heat that makes me smile at the slightest.

Opposite my bed lies another, identical in size yet unused. Thanks to my dubious title of 'crown prince,' a nod to my royal lineage, I have the room all to myself. This bed will soon serve as a chaotic repository for my ever-growing collection of books.

At the foot of the unused bed stands a single old cupboard, its doors closed tightly as if guarding secrets dark enough to bend over hell. Beside it, a jacket rack stands sentinel, awaiting the weight of my many garments, some suitable for polite society, others decidedly not. I give it little thought, its presence a silent bystander to my idiosyncrasies.

There is no bathroom, only a simple sink adorned with a dull light that casts a barely golden glow upon the room. Above it, an open cupboard awaits my collection of pill boxes, medication, bandages, and other necessities to keep me from ceasing to breathe. Across from it stands a body-length mirror by the door, reflecting my figure—a solemn visage, the new and solitary occupant of this haunted sanctuary.

More than the decor, it is the view from the lined glass panes that captivates me. The lace curtains sway gently in the breeze, offering glimpses of the mysterious, haze-covered lake I spotted earlier today. The water's surface shimmers with a luminescence graced by the moon, eliciting an uneasy feeling that coils in my stomach and sinks my heart into my chest. Yet, I find immense comfort in it—the eerie thrill of the haunting view provides me solace.

A few steps away from my window, a weathered bench sits in lonely repose, meters away from the water's edge, bearing the scars of ample storms and the marks of a tumultuous past.

My eyes remain fixated on the scene, which is only disrupted when a blackbird streaks across the lake, its shrill cry piercing the silence and growing louder before gradually fading into the mist. The sudden interruption jolts me back to the present, reminding me of how I've spent today merely wandering the hallways like a ghost, trying to adapt to my new surroundings after informing the headmaster that I'll only start classes tomorrow.

Poor Evans. After all that, he discovered I do, indeed, understand and speak English. I bet he regrets making that comment about my all-black attire and eyebrow piercing, which shall not be removed. I'm waiting for it to heal, and I don't want to spark any curiosity from unwanted eyes gawking at the purplish bruise surrounding it.