Violations and Wounds

Chapter 4

Night was soon to come, and it was already such an exhausting day for Melanna. Stars had begun to dimly pepper the night sky; the sun had long disappeared. 

She slept for approximately four hours. Wrapped in a fleece blanket, she sat on the wooden rocking chair by the window, gazing at the night sky, engaged in a deep trance as the darkness spread like wildfire towards the horizon. The night sky appeared mysterious and eerie, but also cool and serene. She couldn't help but look at the dark sky above, and wonder if there is actually another life up there. 

The clock was on the stroke of seven. She expected the cuckoo-ing to be ringing in her ears soon. She was prepared for the loud noise that frequently scared her. Now, she was sure it wouldn't. She placed an elbow onto the armrest of the chair, her chin being supported by her palm. She looked groggy, or perhaps just lazy. The front part of the house was messy; the bags still in their positions by the door, her phone broken and its contents scattered beneath sofas and cupboards. 

. . . 

Outside the window, the road stretched before Mella like a pale highway. The moon hung just above the horizon, big and round like a disco ball. Its lustre was delightful, the color of milk in a deserted sky. The stars were still there, but not so many; most were hidden behind a layer of shredded gray clouds. 

There was something not right. Through the years that she had been living solitary, there were absolutely no changes in her home. She sensed something unusual, a presence that altered something in her home. 

An hour passed. Isn't there something peculiar?, she wondered to herself. Still seated in the chair, she glanced around her home, searching for that one unfamiliar object. 

Her eyes rested upon the cuckoo clock. It didn't seem changed or anything like that. It was the same functioning timekeeper that she had for almost two years now. Nothing was abnormal.

And then it struck her. 

The clock hadn't been cuckoo-ing as she expected. For the past two hours, there were no cuckoos. The house was as silent as the grave. She looked puzzled. She squinted at the door where the saffron bird would normally emerge, anticipating for the bird to pop out any moment soon. 

As time passed, her expectation wore away with it. She stood up and shuffled across the floor towards the clock in bewilderment. 

Standing about seven inches away from the clock, Mella could discern the unique tinge of the bird's feather wedged between the two panels, the quill only visible. Biting her lip, she raised her arm and gently pinched the tip of the quill, careful not to tear the vanes apart as she slid it out of the tiny opening. 

Her mouth was shaped a wide 'O' as the feather managed to slip through the narrow opening, the quill still between her fingertips. She wanted to gasp, but the sound could not escape her mouth. 

To her terror, the supposedly saffron vanes were now stained an inky shade of coal-black, the shaft a dark crimson. The colours were mattified, so she assumed it wasn't a fresh blemish. However, the quill remained a bright yellow. 

Only the quill was untouched. The doer made it seem that the feather was perfectly normal through the small space, but the other end of it was pure chaos. What lay beyond the door would be extreme stupefaction. 

Mella's curiosity was rising in her, pumping through her blood. She had the desire to open the two doors and uncover what more was hidden... 

. . .

The walls of the small space inside were seeped in dark crimson, giving it an illusion of a smaller room. The bird model was torn from its spring; its head and claws detached, the torso ripped open. There was nothing more than cotton stuffing drenched in burgundy liquid inside.

It was an absolutely strange day for Mella. Two animals, injured by abuse (even though the bird was just a model); this day couldn't get any worse, she thought to herself. 

She picked up the clock from it's hook and placed it into a garbage bag and tied the ends of it. She reconsidered going outside to take out the trash, but the silence and gloom had already engulfed her front porch. She set the bag aside, albeit rather slowly. 

Gathering the lose parts of her phone, she hummed to a nameless tune. One by one, she inserted the contents back into its slot at the back of the phone. Feeling productive enough, she picked up the shopping bags and shambled into her bedroom. 

. . .

The room was dim, lit only by the brilliance of the fluorescent lamp on the plaster ceiling. The walls were painted a mauve shade; the flooring was laminated wood. A queen-sized bed with a leather padded headboard occupied most of the space in the centre of the bedroom, leaving only enough space to fit in a wardrobe and a dresser.