Curiosity ~~ Part Seven

I relied firmly on the fact that he had gone to retrace his steps to find his phone, withal his trodden path actually consisted of some of my own avenues. Something would not allow me to leave. The den had a Roman theme, the soldiers were erected in the east corners, their brass helmets latterly polished. Their swords gleaming. The orange oil was balmy, its hint of olive heavy and scarcely admissible. Its scent clearly stated she hadn't taken much pride in fine metal. Their red brushes dust filled, yet glossed. He'd said he had been out bidded. The Clavinova, surely he'd bought himself its natural wood keyboard and ivory keytops had been prerequisite. His fingers demanded opulence. I imagined him sitting on its bench at its keys, his fingers composing his sinister ballad as the prima donna bellowed his octaved anecdote. Her voice shrill and gut wrenching as she apprised his aim. Run she caterwauled! Run bitch run...

He composed sins not tragedies.

The Roman gladiators rested in a frame above the piano, their battle like stances displaying their chiseled frames, their smocks impending their positions preserved by the artist. Created, frozen and depicted with eminence. Their swords erected, their grimaces consequential. My own conjecture vying the victor. Their duped significances palpable and meaningful. The large marble pillars suspended the ceiling, the silk drapes swayed in between. How had she afforded this home? How had he afforded it? The fireplace crackled and casted its orange glow against my body, my shadow reflected on the obverse wall.

My feet had imprinted the plush carpet threads, my perfume filled the room. The grandfather clock chimed. The premonitions occurred. I imagined the sword being in my hand, its blade diamond cut, its durability not intended. It was only for display. But the grip of its hilt filled my hand in my mind, my loosened wrist prepared for battle. Who would be the victor? The ruffled black and gold Victorian drapes had been measured 3/4 of an inch too short, the dust on the floorboard could be seen 10 feet away. Rescued and ghetto. That's how he moved, he only targeted the peon. What had been her role? Her footsteps neared, she now spake an inaudible cluster of singsong regrets, her composure yet deteriorating as I watched from the large dark room. The sword, would I suddenly try to attack only to find out its blade was a cheap replica of copper? I imagined it horizontally sliding between her visible ribs. She'd displayed a severe anxiety disorder, I vowed to never surrender to the mental onslaught. He was known for his sinister and manipulative mind games.

The vase. She came closer. Was my silhouette not shrouded by the shadow of the tall vase? The light radiated throughout the den, her inebriated state now moderate. The gun she unskillfully carried juddered unintentionally, her aim likely despicable. She carried on a now interpretable conversation, her proprietary speech vulgar...her senses incoherent. 'I better not find u!' She said. Had she been hallucinating? Was this routine? The quickness of her turn to exit the room resulted in her ungainly stumble. 'I need a nap, I can sleep it off before he gets off.'

I could kill her, kill her now I thought.

But I needed to know.

She left the room, the light remained. Her pictures. The recitals, the pageants...the baptismal. He was there, but where was I? Her slanted eyes and broad chin had genetically been given. Her fingers juvenile yet sophisticated, an inherited trait. She embraced the violin. He had even taken her white water rafting, the silent and discreet drinking probably made her mother decide to pass.

Her voice now slurred and obnoxious. 'Lamont!' she called out in anger. She slid down and rested her back against the bar facing the den. She waved the gun at her own head. She cried. I could not move. I was only shielded but the large vase on top of the piano and one of its legs.

The phone vibrated, it was Mandel.