In Rooms of White

24 07 2006

“When November Ends”

Was it a dark, drizzly November? I cannot quite remember. It has been awhile. The people here say it didn’t happen and that I should stay down and calm down. Down I go, but I don’t want to forget. I can’t forget. I’m losing this, but I don’t want to go down.

The rain shattered the pale concrete like thunderous applause, the lightning lighting the stage, the enveloping darkness consuming. As I walked to that queer, cold house, I wondered what drew me there; perhaps it had been too long since my last adventure, too long since I had done something unexpected. This was not the neighborhood’s haunt; it was the house of Mr. Blacksworth.

I don’t remember who screamed first, but that doesn’t matter. I remember something I liked about that house drew me to it that night. Mr. Blacksworth was a shadowy man to me. I understood what he did but not why. Blacksworth was the political prodigy of our town, amiable and intelligent he seemed to be a townsman if I ever saw one. He used to be tall, something like six feet; I remember- “the Tory”. Not because of his political views, but some Spaniard had called him “el torre”, the tower. I couldn’t ever call them that; my parents forced me to once at a rally, but never again. Was it disdain, mistrust, or skepticism that kept me from this man, again I cannot quite remember? All I can muster is that this man was a politician, and a shrewd one at that. He could tangle his opponents in web of their discontent, poisoning them with their own venom. What this man had and everyone lacked was control.

I remember landing at his door, the cherry wood, stained and marred by time. I rung the bell and asked to come in, he said yes. Something he did I cannot quite recall; something with a swish and a flicker no more. Under his watch I felt the chill of winter coming early, the biting freeze under the skin. He looked so austere, and it was minutes before he asked why I came. He called my name and told me I should be elsewhere, that tonight he was busy. With what you cruelly ask? I forgot.
All I can remember, it seems like rolls ago, was that he drew me into some room in his house. It was on the third floor, past the blue-painted bathroom and the Munch painting on the right. Into some oddly numbered room I was taken in. It was a room 237, filled with God knows what. You know what, you stay quiet! Don’t talk. What? Never mind. What am I doing? Was I writing something?

Oh here I am, sitting down, now I remember. Yes, m’am, time for another dosage.

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