Spirit Of The End

Stranger in my home #2

Yesterday a stranger forced itself into my house. It looks well like a human but I'll refer to that thing as It.

Yesterday, I'd say, was a pretty bad day.

The wind wakes me early in the morning, the clock ticks— it's 5:30 and I have a stomach ache. The stranger is lying on the floor. I know he isn't sleeping, but I can't bother shaking him off right now. I rustle for a couple of minutes and decide it is time for tea.

My pantry is cleaned. I now own a rustic Victorian metal box that is ornate of deep violet roses right in the middle. I can't quite read the writing since it's in a very stylized cursive font and it's written in french.

It's one of my favorite gifts among all the other jewels he got me yesterday night. I'm kind of happy. I never thought I'd get blinded to danger because of something frivolous like gifts, I got them so quickly, that might be why.

I am entangled by the design. Tibetan Lilac it is, the kettles whistle a melody for the fading day. All my frustrations disappear, the air is so still. It silences my soul. When I open my eyes he lounges, pressing his body against the door frame. Must be morning daze.

So long, silence.

I don't really know what to say, so I stare at the kettle hoping he understands. In my natural position his gaze is still heavy. I look at the floor.

The day I decipher his expression will fulfill my soul's last wish; he scares me to death. I don't know which is worse: not knowing what I might endure or hoping that everything will turn out fine.

::In the mind of the stranger:: : :

I am nursing the tea he made for me. I expected this. The man's too nice for his own good.

"You know, you hold back a lot..." I say.

"Why do you say that? The real problem is that you don't hold back enough," he retorts. He regrets this aggression immediately.

"Because if I held back, things would be like you want them to be."

"I guess... Probably better?" As he says this, his frown softens. Looks like he's shifted from discomfort to courage. There's almost a smile.

"Not very much so. You kind of pulled yourself in this situation." I say.

"I have my reasons." He says.

"I'm curious."

"It's complicated," he says.

"Talk. You're not special in this."

He clenches his arm tighter around his waist. I hope it's true anger that is brewing inside his mind. If I only push more he will confess.

"Tell me more about yourself. What's your story?"

"That's an odd question." The room is dead silent, in an hour or so rain will start. For now the air stays still. We both wait. He'll spill; it's just principle. He gives up. It's in his DNA; he'll blabber to anyone who gives him the time of day.

"Looking back, I realize stress is something everyone deals with, especially when trying to relax. Mornings often hit me with worries about mistakes I've made or things I forgot to do, and it can be pretty overwhelming. I often feel misunderstood, mistreated, and controlled by people who seem to have more power than me. Instead of showing my frustration, I keep it to myself, which just builds up resentment in my head. Hiding these feelings might seem like I'm in control, but it actually just shows how vulnerable I am." He's done now. Blabber that he did, I might have fell back to sleep halfway through his manifesto.

"You're eloquent and boring but also, that's not a story." An author huh, maybe even a poet. I can feel his doubt growing, he doesn't want to talk. I tilt my head, that is enough to convince him.

This guy's, he's strange.

::Return to ignorance:: : :

As the morning sun rises, a soft light passes through the curtains, casting a warm, soft light that dances across the walls. The stranger is seated in an armchair now, his posture a mix of relaxation and focus. I hold my cup tighter. I think he's right; talking about this stuff seems like something others would do. It's humane. I'm toe tapping.

"You're beating around the bush," he says slowly and seeps that last of the tea in one big gulp. He pushes against the chair, head leaning back.

"I don't know why you want to do this. Is this some sick plot to torment me even more?" Talking might be a scheme to push my unfortunate end to another day. I am impatient, what for? The thought makes me sick.

I feel a hot liquid on top of my lips, nosebleed.

I squeeze my nose with my hands, I'm so embarrassed I could die. When out of exhaustion I raise my head from my crinkled form, I feel his hand behind a tissue. He tilts my head back. My hair is wet with sweat and my vision blurry. I can barely make him out like this. It's a bit less scary, weird but safe for the moment.

We stay in this position until the flow stops. I've really done it this time. My eyes itch from holding in tears. I'm full of snot and there's blood dried on my cupid bow. He leaves. I stay frozen of course.

What is there even to do anymore? When I hear him come back I close my eyes and clench my fist. A brand new tissue gently touches me. I feel a finger where the last traces of blood should be, it's wet. I clench tighter. He lets go; I hadn't even noticed his left arm holding my forehead back. I run to my bedroom.

Truly, I am so humiliated I could die. Getting nursed by my tormentor, I'm worse than Belle. I close the door so hard it feels like my whole floor echoes. After locking the door, I pick up a tool that will protect me.

Bzz Bzzz. Buzzing followed by a sweet tune.

Damn it.