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

Time (short story)

   So many memories and yet so little…...

This is what she thought when she looked back on her life, wondering if she did the right thing.

   At the time it looked right but here she was, all on her own! And now it was too late to change it and reverting was impossible.

She felt old and worn, actually she was old and worn, it was not just the feeling, it was reality.

   To escape from reality, she often dozed off in her chair in front of the window; her head leaning on her skinny chest covered in lace and ribbons with the strong smell of roses and which faded over time from dark red and purple to pink; like the roses embroidered at her long skirt.

A good listener could hear her snoring, soft and gentle. Her hands with the veins like dark blue cords on top, showing her slow heart beat, lay still on her skirt. The fingers only moved when she was dreaming but at this age, even her dreams were scarce.

  A very long time ago, she could not even recall how long, she did have dreams. Too many, her mother said. “It is good to have dreams Rose-Mary, but don’t dream all day long and definitely don’t think all dreams come through!”

   But she refused to listen, particularly when she met Henry; the personification of every girls dream.

She was only 16 and Henry was 26 and ready to marry. Her parents refused to give permission for not just the reason that Henry was too old for Rose-Mary.

Although Henry fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her (she was indeed a rose that just opened her tender leaves to the warmth of Henry’s smile), he was also very down to earth and the parents knew as soon as the first amorousness would disappear, he needed a wife that could run a household and be an excellent hostess to his family and friends. And Rose-Mary was never going to be such a wife.

   Still they could not stop him from visiting her, hoping their love would slowly change in to normal friendship. But they never thought of a war ending this strange relationship!

   Like so many men, Henry too was called to fulfil his duties for his country. Rose-Mary was in tears and nothing could make her smile. She dreaded the day she had to say goodbye to the love of her life, not knowing if she would ever see him again.

The day of the last farewell was dramatic; Rose Mary rested in his arms and did not want him to go, she held on to him like a rambler rose to a wall in stormy weather. Her tears dripped on his coat, leaving a large wet spot of which Henry hoped it was never going to dry for this was the last memory of her for a very long time if not for ever.

   He begged her not to walk him to the gate as he could not bare to leave if she did.

Her parents left them in private for these last few minutes and Henry thanked them for their thoughtfulness.

Then it was time for him to leave, he walked out the door down the lane and never looked back.

    This was not only the day Rose-Mary lost Henry. No, it was also the day she lost reality too. She shut the door to the angry confused world and the war that was going on; she did not want to know of it. Instead she opened the door to her dreams and lived in this dream as Henry’s wife who was just waiting for him to come home for dinner.

Her parents thought this was only a temporary experience to be able to cope with the truth but it was not. They worried a lot but there was no one who could help Mary-Rose unless she was going to see a specialist but this is not what her parents wanted.

   They kept her at home and made life as comfortable as possible to her, not thinking about the future and what was going to happen when they were both too old to take care of her or to leave her alone.

The few friends that visited them during the first years, stayed away and they became more or less prisoners of their created little world.

Rose-Mary, still denying the war, never knew it ended after 5 long years. She never knew about the letter her parents received announcing the marriage of Henry who met a woman who was his equal. She never knew Henry got 3 sons. Even if her parents had told her, she would not have believed it.
No other men visited the once so beautiful Mary-Rose who more and more looked like an old wrinkly woman with the eyes of a child.

  Her parents passed away with 3 months in between. Mary-Rose kissed them goodbye, arranged the funeral but never left the house for the services.

Since that day, no one ever visited the house. She was only seen outdoors weeding the vegetable garden and feeding the chicken. The milkman left what was needed at the doorstep and collected the money from the small wooden box near the door.

Neighbours died or moved and soon she was only known as the strange woman next door.

Nobody knew her history and nobody knew about Henry. But also nobody knew that deep down her heart, she understood exactly what happened in her life. She knew she tried to shut the door to reality but never succeeded. But at this stage in life there was no reason to make changes and she decided to spend the last few years dreaming about her dream. Books became her best friends; she read them in the chair in front of the window where she had been waiting for Henry for over 60 years.

The chair in which she dozed off asking herself at the very last day of her life if she had done he right thing.

  

   The visitor of the house was surprised the door was not locked. Because no one came to see him after knocking the door, he let himself in calling “Hello?”

The sound of his voice muffled in the stillness of the house. His footsteps left prints in thick layers of dust and he understood by looking at them, he was the very first visitor for a long time.

The decaying smell of the forgotten house penetrated his nose. It was the smell of a long forgotten time, left furniture and old books that were held together by abandoned cobwebs gathering memories no one could recall.

Photo: @soul_mining (Instagram)

   On top of the books in the window sill lay a pair of old fashioned glasses, neatly folded in the open black case. The glasses called out to the man and when he walked over to take a look at them, he accidentally touched the lace curtains on which a delicate smell of roses filled the room.

   He stood still and looked at the glasses and the books for some time before his voice broke the silence in the room: “Mary-Rose, I am here to tell you my father has, despite his marriage, always loved you”.  


  

Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (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 Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

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

Helen