Happy Anniversary

Happy Anniversary.
Robert waited until he could hear no more sounds. The house was old,
more that five hundred years, but it was as solid as the day it had been
built. He knew that it echoed every movement, no matter how carefully its
occupants trod.
Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. A smile spread over his lips, as
he heard not a sound. Good, this was his chance to move about without
anyone catching him. He moved into the hallway and peered about him
cautiously; the chains that bound his hands and feet clanked noisily. It
wouldn't matter, those who had him prisoner wouldn't be around to catch
or punish him.
Oh, how wonderful to be able to get out of that stuffy, cramped room,
even if was just for a short time. For so long had he been held captive; He
tried to remember, but he had lost all sense of time. If only he could get
help but it was too late for that now. It had been so long that he doubted
whether anyone would remember him.
His family had been cruel to him. His two sons, the object of his
misery, had done this to him. He, who had given them life and they had
repaid him with scorn and treachery.
Sitting in a chair at the foot of the stairs, he gazed around the hallway
that had once greeted him. He pictured his loving wife as she approached
him each time he came home, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace him.
Oh, she was so beautiful. But their two sons had turned even against
her, terrifying and bullying her, until the spark and vitality that radiated
from her was snuffed out; like a flame from a candle and she was driven
into an early grave. Then they turned on him, making him prisoner in his
own home, keeping him alive for their own malevolent pleasure. Robert
shuddered. How could children be so cruel to their parents? He mustn't
delay; they would be back soon. These excursions were precious to him.
Although he couldn't relieve himself of his fetters, he could at least roam
free, even if it were only briefly.
Standing, he walked towards the stairs and mounted them, stepping
carefully onto each tread, not wanting to trip on the chains that still held,
and always would, hold him captive. The manacles bit into his hands and
ankles with each step. The old house was the same; little had changed.
That was something that he could be thankful for, at least.
Each step he took, each movement of his arms or hands and the familiar
jangle that had been with him for so many years clinked in his ears. Would
he ever be free of them? Once, not so long ago, he had tried to release
himself from his bondage. His sons had caught him and they had poured
molten metal into the locks; and now no key would ever work. Files and
saws had been hidden or locked away. His despair was complete. Only
when they were out, could he walk about the house that had once been his.
Tears welled in his eyes as stood in the doorway, to what was once his
bedroom. The furniture was different. Not surprising. They had changed
everything else - why not this too? Moving across the room to the bed he
reached out a hand and gently touched the covers. That smell, her perfume,
it still hung in the air. Even after all this time he could still smell her. God,
how he missed her.
"Oh, Rebecca," he wailed, shaking his head, "why were we cursed with
such thankless offspring?"
Sitting on the edge of the bed he put his head in his hands and wept.
Standing once more he went over to the window and peered out. The
garden had changed. The avenue of trees that he and Rebecca had planted
were gone, victim to the axe. Everything that he had shared with his wife
had been slowly and systematically destroyed. He was mildly surprised
that the house was still as it was.
This house, that had been his home and had held so many dear and
happy memories, had now become his prison.
What trees stood; were barren of leaves. Winter hung like a heavy
shroud and he could almost feel the weight of it pressing down on his
shoulders. He shuddered. Soon, he would have to go back to his room,
otherwise they would catch him out.
He saw in a waste-paper bin, a newspaper. It wouldn't be missed. They
wouldn't know. He stooped and with bony fingers lifted it out and glanced
at the headlines.
"Well, well," he muttered, "so they found that now, have they?" His
eyes quickly scanned the page. He didn't want to get caught out of his
room, reading, but the headline caught his attention: Spanish Man o' War
discovered. He smiled. That would make interesting reading.
Looking up, he heard a car approaching, tires scrunching over the
gravel on the driveway. Time to go, he thought to himself,
Standing on the landing he had an uncontrollable urge and giving into
to it, leant over the banister and slid down. Reaching the bottom, Robert
smiled. He hadn't done that in a long time. Rebecca would laugh at him
whenever he did it.
The scrunching of the car got louder and he hurried as fast as his chains
would allow. Perhaps next time I can find a way to escape permanently, he
thought.
Entering his room, he sat down on a chair, and looked about him. No
door, no window. A room barely eight feet square: blocked off and bricked
up. He looked at the date at the top of the newspaper, August the twelfth
1999.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, looking at the last date he had
scribbled on the wall. "I've been dead exactly four hundred years to the
day. Happy anniversary, Robert! "
The End.