Yes, it was important to him how people looked at him, their thoughts. He demanded respect for who he was and how he lived.
His life had never been easy looking after his dominant parents, fighting all their marriage long. He hated their fights, their voices and the way they treated each other. And him, particularly him, their only son, the one and only product of a night that turned out to be the biggest mistake of their life. Oh, never they failed to rub that in!
They involved him in every row between them, ever since he was a toddler. He never understood why they stayed together. Well, he did understand because his mother told him more then once that his father would never support them financially, how would she herself and him?
And they continued to destroy everything that could have been labelled 'love' or 'friendship' or...... 'sympathy' maybe?
It was a relief when they both passed away, shortly after one other. A time he did not want to recall. It happened as he had wished for and he never doubted the strength of his wish. But it made him aware there were forces he could use. And in the years following he also learned how to use them. At least, that is what he thought.
He was very tidy and soon the house and garden looked nice, he received lots of compliments from his neighbours who - but he did not even questioned this - never entered the house. Peeping through the windows is what they did when he was out.
Punctual he was too, time was important to him and every part of the 24 hours per day, had it's own time limit, was time phased.
He was not a hermit, he went out quite often. Although an excellent chef, he loved dining out, sitting quietly in a corner, observing the ladies. Carefully, not to upset them.
He loved women, their soft features, their hair, beautiful dresses and excellent manners. He could not believe his good luck when two ladies also showed interest in him.
No doubt it must have been his good manners, his broad and solid shoulders, his trustworthy confidence in life.
He saw these ladies quite often and when he fell in love, he knew it was from both sides. He did not think of it as complicated. Why should he not be in love with two? Or maybe more if he had the chance? And of course, he was irresistible so why not more then one lady in love with him?
To get to know them better, he invited them (separately of course) for lunch in different places. Invitations they only accepted occasionally but they never accepted his offer to hire a taxi for them; they preferred their own transport. He did not want to argue, he knew too well this could cause fights and he wanted a happy relationship.
Relationships which developed in his mind, not in real life. In his mind he had two fiancees but he never mentioned them together when he proudly talked about the love of his life. No, he talked about 'my fiancee', the lovely caring beautiful lady that had chosen him to look after her.
He went out to buy them presents, to cook them exquisite dinners, maintained the house and garden immaculate. And never questioned why they never arrived or even excused. In his mind they were faultless. They were caring and loving, always in his favourite. He knew he was always on their mind and in their heart.
Slowly but surely he lived more and more in his own world, his own fantasy. And when the shopkeeper in the village dared to ask him why he bought so much food being on his own, right? He answered his fiancee was coming for dinner.
With the table set for two, he ate and talked, kept a lovely and amusing conversation going. He smiled and laughed, was the perfect host. Held the tiny hand to kiss it, looked deep into blue or green eyes (depending who was visiting him) and dreamt of cosy nights in the arms of his woman. Dreamt of making love, tender and slowly but soon as the passionate lover he was. He slept with her in his arms, discussing a life together, a marriage even.
Waking up alone did not bother him, he understood that his beautiful lady left hours before, not to be seen by the neighbours. She fulfilled his dreams which was very satisfying on its own.
And every morning he watched the beautiful brass alarm clock he bought for her. The soft golden glow, the tiny little feet, the bell on top which tingled when he touched it. The elegant clock face set to an appropriate wake up time.
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| Photo: @beautifully_derelict © |
He questioned if his ladies ever understood how important this clock was to him. The rhythm of the tic-tac was in pace with his heartbeat. The beat that conquered the long cheerless years with his parents, the loneliness, that kept him alive to dream of what he really wanted: true love. Ensuring him his emotions were not dead. He was still capable to live a good life, to make love, to worship, to give and to receive. The beat which went faster and faster, thriving him to ecstasy, an ecstasy which pumped his blood through his vanes. Which blew his mind, which cramped his body, which silenced him forever.
The funeral of the little man that had lived on his own long after his parents died, was sober. His skinny posture was laid to rest at the local cemetery with only a very few people to sing a simple hymn, a few words that did not do his self image of being the tall handsome lover of two women, any justice. But who knew about his dreams?
With no next of kin, the house stood empty and slowly rotted away. Nobody dared to enter it, gossip went round that the most precious item in the derelict house, the alarm clock, had stopped at the time the little man passed away. And was therefore haunted. Nobody dared to touch it and slowly dust nestled behind the glass, covering the hands in a grey powder, like ash, until the time of death faded together with long forgotten memories.....
Word
of thanks:
the photo of @beautifully_derelict (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was
given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very
grateful. Thank you so much Jules, luv yah X
Note:
the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!
Helen