The Poor Sod

He looked in the mirror and admired his muscular posture, turning round and round. People might call him vain but he disagreed; looking well after oneself, wearing expensive and timeless cloths, had nothing to do with being vain. He was a proud person and showed it to who ever was interested.

   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.

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

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @beautifully_derelict

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Trapped (short story)

   'Young and Happy'.... words from another world.

   Followed by 'Old and Sad'? No... I am not old nor sad. I am forgotten, yes, but so is she and I did nothing to accomplish that. Well, nothing... If agreeing to make her happy helped to accomplish it, then that was my little share. But not on purpose.
Knowing what I know now, I definitely wished I had my share in her end but the stupid fool I was, did not recognise the signs.

   Please accept my apologies, I know I sound confusing but that is exactly what it was.
Let me start at the very beginning. When we met, we were young and I felt attracted to her because she was the opposite of what I was. She was beautiful and full of life. She liked partying, dancing and laughing and had many friends. Her energy was almost unbelievable and to me like a glass of sweet bubbly wine.
The bubbles found their way to my heart and brains; I entered a whole new world and I loved it.

   Still I never understood why she liked me enough to live with me. I was astonished when she asked me to dance with her on a party I never wanted to be but dragged to by a few friends who thought I needed to have some fun. I hated the crowd, the cigarette smoke, the make up of all the girls and I hated the Charleston. The latter because I do not have a feeling for any form of rhythm.
I hated her make up too but my heart decided to fall in love with her and the pace of my life changed.

   We married, moved to her house and continued partying. With her money! I gave up my job and did not even feel ashamed. In those days you were a gigolo if you did not earn the income and your wife provided the money. That she clearly insisted was a good excuse but I should have known better...
And when I started to enjoy myself, surrounded by her friends, celebrating her way of life, spending her money on parties and travelling, she announced out of the blue she was sick and tired of this way of living and wanted a change.
   At first I tried to persuade her to skip a few parties and going to bed earlier but she said this was not going to change much. What she needed, she said, was a different life, a total change.
I talked and talked but had to give in to her ideas of changing.
She (not we) sold her house and bought a house in France of all places!

   Did she understand that her friends stayed in Derbyshire? Yes, she did but knowing them they would come over for holidays for sure.
What ever I said, she always had an answer and off we went, driving in front of the removal van packed with our belongings.

   And indeed friends came to visit us but thought it was less fun than at home. They asked me what was wrong with my wife as she was less fun too. I explained she was tired and things were going to change for the better. But it did not.
   She got more and more demanding and bossy, hardly smiled and took a great effort in commanding me. Soon came the day that friends stayed away, local visitors didn't come by any more and going out stopped. We became prisoners in our own house. Pardon, her house.
I longed for a life of my own but with any attempt to go out on my own, she reminded me I was going to spend her money. And she never failed to remind me that I lived in her house.

   Silly me, where the average spectator would have noticed long ago that I was treated as a doormat or almost a slave, I still tried to see the bright side of life and still believed that one day she would become her old self again.
It never occurred to me she successfully took control over my life. She humiliated me until I was nothing more than an insect under her shoe. An insect to play with, to pull it's wings out.
Cruelty enjoyed her, it even made her laugh again but what a horrible laugh.
It started with a smile of which I thought was the beginning of her recovery. It took so long to realise she only smiled when I suffered but at this point I could not reverse our life's, let alone mine.
Her control over me was beyond the point of change.

   Maybe it was a blessing what happened next, when she asked me to bring her suitcases from the attic. She said she hurt her back working in the garden and she suddenly decided we needed a break.
I was relieved and pleased and hurried upstairs while she was preparing a meal.
I hoped we were going to leave soon and took all the suitcases to our bedroom, starting to fill mine with my clothes and carried them to the car in the garage behind the house.

   We had a lovely meal and for the first time in years she behaved normal. She even kissed me for carrying the suitcases and asked me to come to the garden to view all the work she had done so we could leave the garden on its own until we returned.
I kissed her in return and followed her happily, looking forward to our unexpected journey.
We walked through the garden and admired the flowers until we ended up at a large hole, hidden between roses and hedges. She stood still and with a smile explained she wasn't finished yet, the hole was for the pruned branches and old leaves. If I was kind enough to inspect it being large enough?
   Happy to please her I bowed and inspected the hole. Therefore I did not see it coming, the blow on my head that knocked me inconscious. Even worse, the blow that killed me but not before I heard her last loud laugh that scared the crows in the trees. The crows that screamed my death song.

   But there is no rest for the wicked and wicked she was. She filled the hole, replanted it and walked back to the house. She took a shower, put her cloths in a bag in her suitcase with her other cloths.
   She carried the heavy suitcases downstairs, all on her own and to the car.
When she tried to unlock the car, she noticed that she had left the keys upstairs and went to get them.
To her anger, they were not upstairs and she was very certain they were not in her pockets when she undressed. The only thing she could think of was that she accidentally packed the keys in one of her suitcases.
   Annoyed about her own stupidity, she left the bedroom to hurry downstairs; she wanted to leave the house as soon as possible. But this was a mistake. Instead of walking down the stairs, she started to run and already on the second step, slipped. She tried to hold on to the banister but could not reach it any more. Her scream was an echo of that of the crows earlier that evening and ended abrupt when her head hit the tiled floor.

Photo: @urbexsud (Instagram)

    She was silent, for ever. She created an environment where nobody was ever going to look for her. She distanced from all her friends and neighbours. She became her own victim, never to know she lost the keys in the grave in the garden. The grave she filled with her own hands.

   The car and the suitcases still wait to be collected, covered in thick layers of grey dust only disturbed by spiders catching their food in large webs.


  
Word of thanks: the photo of @urbexsud (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Merci beaucoup!!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @urbexsud
Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Letter (short story)

 'My Love,

My hands can not hold a pen any more. The red knuckles are swollen like marbles and my fingers grow in the wrong directions.
Do you remember when we were still children with elastic muscles that we crossed our fingers, one over the other? That is how my hands look now. I am glad you can't see this, it would have upset you.
The pink and ring finger are the worst but my fore finger is the best of all and allows me to type a letter to you. It is a slow process as you will understand but you have all the time of the world to read it.

I am in a strange mood. I thought I got used to my solitary existence but strangely enough I didn't. My thoughts often wander off to the old days when we still lived together. Married as in 'happily ever after'.
Have we been happy? Yes. We were childhood lovers, we knew each other so very well, our marriage couldn't go wrong. How wrong we were but let not dwell on this right now.
I still remember our wedding day with all the love and laughters, all the expectations for the future; our future.
We did not have a great income but you were determined to climb the social ladder and I was more than willing to hold that ladder, to support you where ever I could. I promised to do so and I kept my promise. You asked me to support you and that is what I did...... till death did us part.

Do you remember how we loved to curl up on the sofa? Or in bed? We became great lovers and memories of our intimacy still cause that special warm feeling. Or our arms wrapped around each other, talking about our dreams. Your dreams were more demanding than mine. You wanted a family, a job with status and an appropriate  income, a bigger house, being a member of The Lions and the Golf club. And, not to forget, a perfect and elegant, good looking wife to impress your colleagues and friends to be.
My wish list was a family home, children, a house and a garden, hugs and love, a dog. Could I ever dream that the only wish we had in common was children....
Maybe the house too but mine was cosy and big enough for our family. Yours was to impress, pompous and in my humble opinion, horrible.
You were generous and  promised me on forehand a house keeper, a nanny and a gardener. Well, I thought it was generous but I learned otherwise.

You ticked almost all the boxes on your wish list, almost. The children box was never ticked. At first you blamed yourself but soon you blamed me, not openly, I did not even notice it in the beginning. I did not recognize the early signs of mental abuse. I have to admit that you were very, very good at that. I am not going to repeat all the details, you know exactly what you have done to me. But what you did not know was that you forced me to play my own game. I had to to survive, to stay close to me. And when I finally, after so many years, saw through you, I became even better in playing mental games than you.

You never found out did you, that I became the best actress ever and that I only acted like the manipulated wife you created. Created in your mind my love, not in real!
You hated your sudden hair loss, you were so proud of the dark curly hair you inherited from your mother. You had never been ill before so you hated the so called influenza that caused stomach and belly pains and vomiting. Not long after you recovered but within half a year it started all over again. The doctor said you were stressed. The demanding job, the long hours, a holiday would do you good. And it did. A year after, the same thing happened again but you felt worse than ever. Strong as you were, you recovered again. But my love, you were not smart enough to know it wasn't a influenza! And it was not due to stress! Not at all, but I played my game so very well that no one was surprised when you finally died. They spoke beautiful words at your grave. Your business partner mentioned he had never seen a man before who was so dedicated to his work.

And I? I played the grieving widow. And I played it very, very well. I almost believed my own grief, I almost felt the pain for your loss. I played it so well that people never noticed the joy in my heart. The joy about my freedom and most of all the joy because I won the game you started!

Photo: Forgotten Heritage

Did you notice the Crow who watched your funeral? He and I became very good friends. He knows my moods and when my mood is as dark as his deep purple and black feathers, he talks to me. His hoarsely voice causes great fear with people who don't know him but not with me. He waits for me to finish the letter and to take it to your grave. This will also be my goodbye to my feathered friend. I have done what I wanted to do. I have enjoyed my victory long enough and it is time to go.
All that will be left is the two cups with the residue of what ended our lives. They lay next to the type writer and your portrait, guarded by the Crow who will be faithful to me until his own death.
Goodbye my love......'

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Helen