Ghost eyes followed 'round the vacant room, the only sounds being that of the bustling spiders keeping the
extra film of grime off the ancient tomes, and Mirabella's thoughts. Internal voices jabbed in the left ear, then the right, resulting in perpetual warfare between logic and sympathy, predestination and propitiousness, fortitude and pusillanimity, what might have been and what has been all points to one outcome, which is always our ultimate demise. Just as the sand made everything round, so will our bodies return to the ground from whence we first came. The day will come when you will cry for help, and will not receive an answer in return, and Mira knew this all too well.
Resounding shelves of long-forgotten words moaned and groaned as they shifted their weight, the very partitions alive with the sheer volume of knowledge they possessed. They lamented with anticipation to be opened once more, and to be treasured, cherished and embraced in one's arms once again. They were not entirely forsaken, though they were not fully cared for either. Mirabella felt as if she was one with them, they were not truly conscious and yet they were the most intimate thing she could find to quench her thirst. Meticulous hands craftily ran down the stable wood which held up the impoverished words, delicate ivory fingers tracing runes on spines of books long forgotten. Surely not all have succumbed to darkness if one is brought to light; if one has succumbed, let all be swallowed, and rightfully placed in their locality of creation.
Mirabella audibly gasped, her very own introspection surprising her, and she quickly retracted her pale hand from the shelves of books to rest by her side once again, where it belonged. If you lie down with dogs then you will get fleas, and in turn, if you treat your fleas you will be rid of them, no? 'If this is true, then why does this kleptoparasitism plague my very being to this day?' This is what she asked her head, but it gave no response other than a lulled sigh and a twitch of her eye.
Audible sounds of footfalls echoing down the dank and dark subterranean sewers snapped her out of her thought-induced stupor and summoned her to lift her prismatic hues to the gate, where she suspected company would be waiting. Accompanied by a heavy exhalation from the abyss of her very soul, she pushed herself to saunter up the spiral staircase, demanding a half-smile to show itself on her porcelain visage.
Peering through the gaps of the entrance gate, her polychromatic irises were met with that of an aged gentleman; he was withered and wilted, with his own set of prismatic optics that seemingly stared right through her, though his were more dulled down and tired with age, eyes of the wicked indeed. His hair as white as snow in the wintertime. His skin was that of parchment paper, so easily tearable, and defenceless to infliction. His veins protruded out of his nearly nonexistent skin and his eyebrows were downturned in the most antagonistic of scowls imaginable. He was dressed in black pants and a plain black shirt, though laying on top would be the finest of silk overlays, dark blue in colour, obviously belonging to someone of great importance- while at the same time he had a brown, worn-out looking satchel singed onto his shoulder. Whether that was him or not, was a different question. To say Mira was taken aback would be an oversimplification, she did not recognize the man.
"Who are you?" She uttered finally after what felt like hours of gawking, but in reality, was plausibly mere seconds.
"Child, I am offended you don't remember me," the man replied, sunken eyes dropping to gaze at the ground as he dipped his head in a regal greeting, "You disappoint me greatly," he spoke again. All the while Mira stared through the shut gate at him in scepticism, still not catching on to what the enigmatic man was saying. "Aren't you going to let me in?" His voice was that of an echo through memory lane, distantly there in the back of her memory, yet she could not quite place it.
She nodded hesitantly, "Y-Yes… of course, forgive me," she said in return as she gently lifted the lever to her left, which in turn left the gate wide open. The man stepped in, all the while the two watched each other, waiting to see who would make the initial move. "I apologize for staring, it is not often I see a brood such as yourself," Mira eventually spoke up, closing the gate behind the man once he had entered.
He responded with a light chortle of his own, infused with what sounded like a suppressed cough and dwindling breath. "It seems I still have not refreshed your memory. Maybe this will help," the man continued, while he began digging in his coffee-coloured satchel of mysteries. Pulling out a journal, he opened it to a distinct page towards the back. Mirabella's eyes widened at the display, her knees felt unsteady and her breathing laboured. The only words which escaped her lips,
"How dare you."
Her voice was freezing and low in a near snarl, guttural, grating, loathing- full of malevolence and pure hatred. Nothing could have equipped her for the moment she would once again stand face-to-face with this man.
extra film of grime off the ancient tomes, and Mirabella's thoughts. Internal voices jabbed in the left ear, then the right, resulting in perpetual warfare between logic and sympathy, predestination and propitiousness, fortitude and pusillanimity, what might have been and what has been all points to one outcome, which is always our ultimate demise. Just as the sand made everything round, so will our bodies return to the ground from whence we first came. The day will come when you will cry for help, and will not receive an answer in return, and Mira knew this all too well.
Resounding shelves of long-forgotten words moaned and groaned as they shifted their weight, the very partitions alive with the sheer volume of knowledge they possessed. They lamented with anticipation to be opened once more, and to be treasured, cherished and embraced in one's arms once again. They were not entirely forsaken, though they were not fully cared for either. Mirabella felt as if she was one with them, they were not truly conscious and yet they were the most intimate thing she could find to quench her thirst. Meticulous hands craftily ran down the stable wood which held up the impoverished words, delicate ivory fingers tracing runes on spines of books long forgotten. Surely not all have succumbed to darkness if one is brought to light; if one has succumbed, let all be swallowed, and rightfully placed in their locality of creation.
Mirabella audibly gasped, her very own introspection surprising her, and she quickly retracted her pale hand from the shelves of books to rest by her side once again, where it belonged. If you lie down with dogs then you will get fleas, and in turn, if you treat your fleas you will be rid of them, no? 'If this is true, then why does this kleptoparasitism plague my very being to this day?' This is what she asked her head, but it gave no response other than a lulled sigh and a twitch of her eye.
Audible sounds of footfalls echoing down the dank and dark subterranean sewers snapped her out of her thought-induced stupor and summoned her to lift her prismatic hues to the gate, where she suspected company would be waiting. Accompanied by a heavy exhalation from the abyss of her very soul, she pushed herself to saunter up the spiral staircase, demanding a half-smile to show itself on her porcelain visage.
Peering through the gaps of the entrance gate, her polychromatic irises were met with that of an aged gentleman; he was withered and wilted, with his own set of prismatic optics that seemingly stared right through her, though his were more dulled down and tired with age, eyes of the wicked indeed. His hair as white as snow in the wintertime. His skin was that of parchment paper, so easily tearable, and defenceless to infliction. His veins protruded out of his nearly nonexistent skin and his eyebrows were downturned in the most antagonistic of scowls imaginable. He was dressed in black pants and a plain black shirt, though laying on top would be the finest of silk overlays, dark blue in colour, obviously belonging to someone of great importance- while at the same time he had a brown, worn-out looking satchel singed onto his shoulder. Whether that was him or not, was a different question. To say Mira was taken aback would be an oversimplification, she did not recognize the man.
"Who are you?" She uttered finally after what felt like hours of gawking, but in reality, was plausibly mere seconds.
"Child, I am offended you don't remember me," the man replied, sunken eyes dropping to gaze at the ground as he dipped his head in a regal greeting, "You disappoint me greatly," he spoke again. All the while Mira stared through the shut gate at him in scepticism, still not catching on to what the enigmatic man was saying. "Aren't you going to let me in?" His voice was that of an echo through memory lane, distantly there in the back of her memory, yet she could not quite place it.
She nodded hesitantly, "Y-Yes… of course, forgive me," she said in return as she gently lifted the lever to her left, which in turn left the gate wide open. The man stepped in, all the while the two watched each other, waiting to see who would make the initial move. "I apologize for staring, it is not often I see a brood such as yourself," Mira eventually spoke up, closing the gate behind the man once he had entered.
He responded with a light chortle of his own, infused with what sounded like a suppressed cough and dwindling breath. "It seems I still have not refreshed your memory. Maybe this will help," the man continued, while he began digging in his coffee-coloured satchel of mysteries. Pulling out a journal, he opened it to a distinct page towards the back. Mirabella's eyes widened at the display, her knees felt unsteady and her breathing laboured. The only words which escaped her lips,
"How dare you."
Her voice was freezing and low in a near snarl, guttural, grating, loathing- full of malevolence and pure hatred. Nothing could have equipped her for the moment she would once again stand face-to-face with this man.
