Reverie

“Reverie is when ideas float in our mind without reflection or regard of the understanding”. John Locke

Cold, hard sweat adorned the balustrade. Gingerly he inched forward, clutching at the hem of his trouser pocket, tightly. Seemingly there was no relief. Nowadays he could barely scale the once grand staircase. He was old, decrepit, and constantly mocked by superstition. No stepping on the cracks; difficult when it came to rotting wood.
In his ascension, a prickling sensation burnt his cheek bright pink; a stigmatism born from a tainted conscience. On occasion, the impulses of childhood rampaged through him. A fire so fraught with repentant rage he felt doused by its intensity. Still, being akin to the persistence of aging, prudence would often prevail and those passions dulled to a plain whimper. He considered the persistence of aging. It wrought the last drop of existence and made time and tides seem like an endless bout of tepid pain for someone as old as he was.

He had once been a military man barking at recruits on a daily basis as the demands of his rank had commanded. The rigidity of his step had been a mark of pride; no one had been quite as taut as he. The uniform had been pristine with each lapel crisp and starched. Every single piece of equipment was polished and primed. The preparations he had undertaken for a war that never came were saluted by all who knew him. The morning maraud would ensue with the sounding of the siren. Aroused, five hundred men would swell from the bunkhouses to form row upon row of fight hungry soldiers. Constantly on edge, they served their superiors as eagerly as faithful curs, desperate to please in the hope of reward. And amongst the furore he had the power. He had been unyielding in exacting such authority. The men in his charge cowered, closeted, crushed under his absolute control. He had observed those same duties for three years. Three years on high alert. Three years ready for action. But those three years were long gone.
It had been much later when he’d met her; a man in the flush of his thirties. By that point in time he had inherited the house and his title from his father. The funeral had been brief and exact. What his father would have wanted. No unnecessary outpouring of grief or pitiful unfurling of torrential rain to dampen the sterility of the service. It was at the wake that she had first caught his eye. Amongst the mourners she had stood, pale skin contrasting with the dirty blackness of the dress. Eyes violet, mouth round, cheeks reddened with gin. She was inescapably striking. At first he only permitted himself to glance in her direction. A wisp of material or the flicker of her lashes permeating his view. But gradually the lapse between each gaze shortened. He could no longer contain the stare. It lay upon her. Fixed.
In the following days, weeks and months he had been embroiled in the pursuit. Every single moment, every waking second, he had been consumed by the endeavour to have her. The sensation grew like a creeper spreading its limbs across the jungle floor. It enclosed around the trunk of his body, closing his arms his chest his throat his face until no other thoughts had space to grow.
His thoughts of the past fell to the wayside as he vociferously drove himself onward. As one foot was placed strategically before the other with profound concentration, every movement exerted a raucous groan. Time had no consequence. It could take him a mere moment or an age; it was of little relevance to him. Fragments of memories trailed his thoughts. One time, one time, one time... nothing gained, nothing forgotten. A flicker crossed his eyelid; the passion. He had been quite handsome then, markedly aloof. He had been the perfect embodiment of arrogance and zeal. But it had bored her. He pursed his lips as if mouthing the memory of her name, her face, her beauty. He was, nor ever had been, enough for her. A realisation he had felt hard, and blunt.

He felt a sudden pang in his chest. The fingers that had been so securely held at his side now had a new purpose; to settle his beating heart. It stuttered madly against the tips. Momentarily, he allowed himself to lean sideways and rest his emaciated elbow on the hand rail. In his mind he counted. One, two, three...
He questioned when it would return to normality. At one time it would have been instantaneous but, as the pressing years had taken their toll, it was not to be. The dull thud resonated. One, two three...

It took a while, but he continued on his path. Tenacity a little weakened, he regained his balanced and permitted his left hand to assume its former position, grasping the stitching that embellished his trouser pocket. A careful step later, he sanctioned a steadying hand to hold onto the banister. He paused, acclimatising to the height he had now reached, and began to reminisce.

He pictured her at the top of the stairwell. The ostentation had long since vanished but a privileged few could still bear witness to the bygone splendour. And yet, she had remained unrivalled by the attractiveness of her surroundings. She had been astonishingly beautiful, an effervescence of an exquisite radiance he had neither seen before, nor since. Before his indulgent eyes, she had gracefully descended the staircase a thousand times or more. The memory now so rich it plagued him. It had plagued him then too. She had been the epitome of all his desires. The thought traversed back and forth through his stagnant mind. It’s too much, too much, too much...

He shook himself and let out a loud sigh knowing all too well that this kind of thinking would cost him far too much in itself. Concentrating on the forth coming step ahead, he recoiled. On his left hand was the semblance of pink blotches. Deep within his chest the strain took hold.

How intense it had been. How it had felt to watch her. The epic chase, the wanton craving that had addled him. It certainly hadn’t been easy and she had fought him. But at last his hopes had prevailed. On the day of the wedding, the church had been sparsely decorated with flower stands. He’d arrived well in advance and full of the typical trepidation expected. Friends, family, acquaintances, meandered in and out of pews, pattering and nattering to those they knew and those they didn’t. As the clock continued to tick, the hour ultimately approached. She had arrived. The congregation had taken their seats and he stood poised in his position at the front of the aisle, beneath the altar. She had glided effortlessly down that aisle. The stark whiteness of the dress complimented the delicacy of her skin. The fine, rosy, tinted cheeks blushed fluidly to penetrate the lace of the veil. She had come. Stood at her side, he had wildly anticipated the future, the adoring marriage and the children. He had turned his head towards hers slowly, as the marriage was performed, and caught a glimpse of her enticing mouth. The lips had been parted at the creases; a slight depression graced the soft under cushion of each crimsoned cheek. He realised she was smiling. All at once his wishes were being fulfilled. She was happy with him. As he continued with his wistful gazing he then caught sight of her eager eye. His eyes glazed. It was not him she was staring at. Yet, surely he had triumphed in the end? She had married him.

Though the triumph, he soon learnt, was not as intended. The flush of want transformed from that instant they’d returned from the church. An anxiety in its extremes presided over his every waking breath. His whole body haunted by the rotten spores of fixation. It grew, drew breath, and drew blood. Yet still his inner will would not subside. Belligerence exhumed him from presumed failure. Over time, he had measured the need for action against his choked morality. A military man, he executed the plan to the letter.

As if etched with perfect lead, his mind wondered backward towards the distant memory. Some recollections were ravished by the onset of time, yet this one remained intact. It had not been penetrated. She had chided him. Little finger twirling curls, her smile a clear as glass. The moment breathed. Gasps so tremulous they formed clouds. Clouds of penitent rage formed. It rained.
Without warning, her glass smile shattered and the shards scattered far and wide. Sharp little specks of debris daubed the hearth, the wall. By his side the chunked knuckles dragged and twitched, scored and winced; a bloodied instrument. Her pretty little face massacred. To him it was perfection. Her crimson blood ornamentally embellished the wall a foot below his picture rail. The day, the time, had long since died but, hung like a painting on a wall, morsels of her magnificence remained. He had her. An entity he owned. He smiled a silver lined smile.

She was his.

Who else would have her?

The clang of the key as it hit the bare wood tore through his trance. Within an instant a rare glint hit his eye. The key, the key as if a silver lined cloud of memory had brutalised his thought, struck a high pitched plank. The glint traversed back and forth through each scaled eye. Tentatively he leaned over. With an ache and a scrape of his fettled bones he clutched the key with the organisation of an armed man. The flat of the landing peaked above the last of the stairs. He edged closer, careful not to risk his delicate position by stepping on the crevices below his feet. A surge of mastery graced his lined facade. He had achieved the end goal.

Landing his feet on the stretch of surface which lay ahead, he reflected on his success. He had her. He still had her. Shuffling and edging forward he encroached upon the depth of the doorway and began to turn the key in the lock.