Cloudy; you like the clouds, the dark things; they cover the sky. They cover it like blots of dark ink, and the sun makes the surrounding sky like parchment. You stare out the window, lost again. You were never lost in the monstrous house, but the window; you get lost in it every time. You lose time, and something cold brings you back. Something cold on your hand makes you realize, the clouds are not the only blotting ink. You spilled ink on your hand, and it stains the parchment. You say nothing, but on the inside, this troubles you. It isn’t that you don’t like the feeling of the cold ink spreading through your pores. But now the liquid which contains your thoughts is not curling and dancing like it should. It is supposed to dance across the page, trapped in time, so that one day, someone might dance with them and remember you.
You pull your hand out of the ink and push your chair out. The chair screeches against the old wooden floor. Everything in this house is old and wooden. The ink spreads across the old wooden desk, over that old wooden fountain pen you had been using and runs off the edge, falling in thick black globules. You watch it drop onto the floor, not thinking to stop it. Why should you? It still contains your thoughts; it will not run contrary to your nature.
The ink stops moving after a few moments; a few minutes? It settles into the cracks between the floor boards and looks like nothing. Where are your thoughts? They must have seeped into the house. The house absorbs a lot of things. Like the light from your lamp, and the tears that visit you every so often without reason or warning. It absorbs the noises; the ones that you hear coming from your mouth even though you are certain they aren’t coming from you. The house feeds on these things; it does not want you to leave it. It groans when you step outside; it cries. But you have no choice; you must eat.
You stand up, the window catching your eye again. You step in the puddle of ink, but it doesn’t matter. The ink is still on your hand, and you wipe it on a clean part of the parchment, getting the worst of it off. As you stand, your eyes are fixed not on the clouds, but the street below. She is walking down her driveway; she is going to the store to buy food. If you leave now, you might be able to see her face when you buy your own food. She has a beautiful face; a terrifying face. You are certain she fears you, or is bothered by your presence, and you resent it. But you cannot live without it. Is that wrong?
Stepping down the spiraling stairs, you can hear the house crying. It does not want you to leave. A crack and low grinding rumble echoes down each hallway as you pass the floors and step into the desaturated light of the old wooden atrium. You make a quick stop in the basement to grab a wad of money; you can’t remember exactly how it got here, the past cuts off so far back. But it never seems to run out. With your method of payment tucked in your coat, you grab the black umbrella by the door; you don’t know why. You always take it; it might rain later. The heavy door swings open with bitter hesitation. You stroke the antique grain with the back of your hand, whispering a promise to return, and step out into the overcast street. She is far ahead; ready to turn the corner towards the store.
You are certain she looked back, but alas, it must have been a look of concern. You would never hurt her, but she does not know that. You approach the same destination as she, the shudders of the huge house behind you clapping in protest. It hurts to hear the house, but you hear it every time you leave. You walk down the street, half limping on your umbrella, wrapping the long wool coat you never remove tighter around yourself as the wind stings your face and chills your skin. You look up; the ink-blot clouds go on for miles and miles. You take a deep breath, trying to breath in some enlightenment they might hold; some thoughts the writer of that ink might have.
A sudden pain brings you back into reality; there is a metal pole in front of you. When did that get there? And someone beside you is trying to stifle a laugh quite unsuccessfully. You had no idea he was there either until he responded to your apparently humorous lack of coordination. You look at him, listening to his utterance. He looks down, embarrassed, or ashamed. You feel bad, his laugh didn’t offend you, and so you laugh too, trying to imitate his laugh since you’re not quite sure how to make the sound. But he gives you an odd look, as if he doesn’t understand what you’re doing. So you stop, realizing he missed the gesture entirely, and turn to cross the street.
