Room

Paris adjusted his position in the chair.  As chairs go, it was far from anything special. It was rigid, with no cushion or padding of which to speak. It was constructed of some unidentifiable wood, covered by a thin layer of a dark and slightly copper hued paint. The paint flaked off the chair at random spots, a bit from the legs, a spot or two on the back, even a few were missing from the supports between the front and rear legs, but the seat showed the worst of the wear.  Little was left of the paint job but a buttock-like horseshoe of ashy wood, relieved of its original covering by years of contact and friction. There was a slight unevenness of the half-inch thick slats that made up the seat, and a screw stuck out a quarter of an inch from its hole in the back of the chair, where the seat and back fused.  Yet, despite its derelict state, the chair still supported Paris.

Paris once again, shifted upon this rickety construct, he took a deep breath of the stale air in the room, and took account of his surroundings.

To his left, a pale, lemon-yellow wedge of sunlight forced itself through the slightly hazy window panes housed in frames that also featured flaking paint.  Powdery flecks of his own liberated, dead skin, feather light grains of dirt, and buoyant ash bounced and flipped upon invisible springboards hidden in the flaxen beam. A light breeze set the window coverings to an erratic, and yet wildly familiar dance.

Between the desk in front of him and the window to the left, a mid-sized painting hung, slightly askew, upon the wall. With strokes of midnight, periwinkle, ivory, and obsidian, the slightly abstract artwork depicted a melancholy scene. Between sparse, blackened, and bare trees, two featureless survivors stood on an elevated rock.  A roaring river of white capped, azure water, appeared to be rising at the base of this momentarily dry sanctuary. A flood is imminent upon this duo, yet they boldly hold above their heads, shaded packages assumed to be their last remaining possessions.

The desk in front of Paris is as memorable as his chair. Horizontal gaining is apparent in the wood of the desk whose front is extremely plain. It is a simple three drawers on the left, and three on the right, with large gap in the middle, design.  This desk lacks a separating, wide, center, drawer between the tower triplets. The knobs may have once had luster, but their current state is a grungy, matte black.  Several chips, scratches, and dings are evident on the face of these drawers, revealing a dark blonde wood tone beneath the cheap stain.  The bottom right drawer hangs open, tilted downward to the right, and pulled out ever so slightly.

Atop the desk, a stack of dusty, weathered-looking leather journals sits in the back left corner.  In the top right corner, a shabby quill lies over a glass inkwell accented with horizontally oriented feathers along its base.  The desk is strewn with papers in a variety of conditions. Some of the papers are perfectly blank, devoid of crease or crumple, unused, and begging for their markings of purpose.  Other papers bear the ink of nonsense, noodles, and scribbles; or are simply scraps and fragments of phrases and dialogue.  Upon several pieces of parchment are imprinted poetic verse.  On others are the beginnings and potentials for future, greater, writings.  On the remainder of the desk, are wadded up balls of failure, frustration, and self-defeat.

The bookcase to the right of the desk deserves to be renamed.   Once, long ago, this simple piece of furniture housed only literary items. Years have passed since it had been used for only this purpose, and it has since become a catch-all case. A fraying, rumpled, travel bag had been thrown haphazardly atop a row of disorganized, mismatched titles.  Dirty glassware, of different sizes and shapes, sits at random spots on three different shelves. A wadded up ball of coins and currency sits on the second shelf, next to a chipped, pewter candle holder that houses a two inch, bone-colored, candle with a charred wick.  Long cooled wax clings to the sides of a dull grey candle housing.  A wooden wedge and a small, dull looking knife sit on the bottom shelf, looking remarkably out of place.  Various knickknacks, none of particularly worthy note, sit on top of the stagnant books and at the edges of shelves.  Any remaining, non-occupied spaces, are coated by a formidable film of dust.

Paris shook himself out of his haze, rose from his chair, put his back to the desk, and strode through the wide opening between rooms towards the fireplace.

Now that it was springtime, there was no blaze needed, so the darkened, ash-flecked opening lay bare.  The small, white-tinged, brick, maw, that he had fed so dutifully during the winter months, was now statically hollow, eager, and in starving anticipation of the next chill and frost. Paris glanced at the back left corner towards the plain, yet sturdy arrangement of a wooden table and two identical chairs, noticeably unblemished from lack of use.  The miniature set had little in the way of flaking paint or loose screws.  Wedged into the corner, it seemed remarkably pristine, given the state of the rest of Paris’s environs.  The illusion of perfection was broken by what lay atop the table.   There were two dirty, crusty, plates, and a well used tankard.  The silverware that lay beside the plates bore the stained remains of meal ended long ago.  In addition to the lone tankard, two cloudy looking glasses sat near, at eleven and one in relation to each plate, and bore spots of water on their sides, and smudges from lips on their rims.  Paris turned away from the ghost of a this forgotten dinner, and turned towards the cabinet.

His hands found the bottle and glassware without thought, his routine so dedicatedly practiced that he could have executed it blindly.  His right hand found the wooden knob, then his shoulder and elbow retracted.  His left hand wrapped itself firmly around the glass on the second shelf from the top.   His left hand moved back, down, across his body and below the positioning of his right. His right hand grasped the bottle, and, with a dexterity resultant of habit he unscrewed the cap with his thumb and forefinger, as the bottom three digits maintained their grip on the neck.  As he generously poured the amber libation into his glass, Paris’s eyes peered through the open bedroom door. The aftermath of many, many, long nights of unrest was apparent.  The bed was unmade, the sheets were crumpled and pushed against the wall, and the pillows of his bed lay near his head rest, at the foot of the bed, and on the floor.  Articles of clothing were indiscriminately located in his bedroom.  Some were on the floor, several were on his poorly made bed, and a few items were on top of his aged dresser.  He caught a fleeting wisp of vanilla, honeysuckle, and lilac, none of these scents Paris knew came from the whiskey.  With a pained sigh, Paris returned to his chair.

Paris took a long, contemplative sip from his glass, and fixed his gaze upon a small, blank space on the wall in front of him.  He felt the kind of numbness that comes when one is exposed to extreme cold, where one can look at their frigid digits, move them and sense their reality, but simply can’t manage to feel them.  He felt like a husk, lifeblood still pulsing through his veins while his spirit slowy leaked from his body like slow drips from a loose valve, or leakings from a poorly sealed water skin.  He shifted and focused on the crack in the wall, the one that had been extending since he’d been there, the one that so very closely resembled the ever growing, never mending, rift in his heart.  Paris closed his mouth, and ground the remains the of day between his tightly clenched teeth.

Paris needed a change.