Again, last night, the air was filled with the unceasing, furious clawing. I don’t even recall the commencement. It was as if the sound had always been there, hiding under the noise of everyday activity. I do remember, though, the first instant I could comprehend the noise I was hearing, I turned on the gas on the lamp I had placed on my nightstand. Even with the flame lit and orange light cast about the room, the noise did not stop. It didn’t even hesitate. It sounded as if it originated within the room, but no being was present. This wouldn’t be nearly as frightening if my room wasn’t at a corner of the house and bordered on three sides by the out-of-doors. Seeing the futility, and hoping to return to the placebo feeling of safety given by my bed, I turned off the lamp and returned underneath the covers. The scratching never stopped.
Not entirely unexpectedly, my opponent is still participating in our chess match. In response to his Pawn to D-6, I’ve moved my bishop adjacent to my king, to C-4. Strangely, the presence that commands the black pieces does not frighten or worry me. The more I ponder our competition, the more I accept this phenomenon as almost commonplace. As disturbing as I know I should find both my acceptance and the actual presence of another somewhere on the premises, I find that I am not perturbed in any way. I don’t know if I should be scared simply because of this, either.
My father’s grave was unusually unhelpful. Much like the home that I live in, my father’s grave has fallen silent, and no longer provides me with any contentment. I resent this. I don’t want my father to be silenced like all that surrounds me. The only thing I ever hear anymore is the scratching on the walls and my own movements. I haven’t spoken a word since Charles left. I need someone to talk to. I need my father.
No comments:
Post a Comment