Chapter One - the boy who never drownedA Story by BellaWe
lived in the city, for Father’s work thrived when he could escape the house as
much as possible. It was essential for the income. It was a tall white
building, with a blue gate running around the front of it. The windows started
about half way up, their small perimeter allowing us to see a small portion of
London. I used as much space as the window allowed me, seeing the view from all
four corners. To some, the picture would be much the same; but when focusing on
the details, the picture revealed cracks and blemishes. A middle aged man with
a top hat walked through Broadmore Avenue every Tuesday morning with a paper in
hand and a ring on his finger. Sometimes a well-dressed middle aged woman
walked briskly beside him, a note book in hand and a ring on her finger; they
do not exchange conversation in the width of the window that allows me to see
their journey. Every Friday evening the same man walks in the opposite direction,
a hand around a tiny waist, a young woman skipping beside him, no rings
twinkling in the silver light. I felt
a light hand on my shoulder that almost felt like a breeze of wind. I looked up
to see the wrinkled face of Anne; my servant. She had not dressed me that
morning, for Mother demanded more attention. “Felix,
you shouldn’t spy on people.” Her gentle pestering occurred throughout the day,
although I knew she did not care at all, for I learnt the minor parts of my
identity from her. “Your Father would not be pleased to see you are not
dressed.” Instead of hurrying me up to my room, she floated down the second
flight of stairs. “Do not let him see you.” The April evening came with a breeze of melted
ice. Sweet smells of baking bread and jam wafted to the back porch where I
drew. A canvas stood on a wooden board, in front of it stretched our meadow,
littered with daisies, humming with bees. I ignored the scenery and focused on
paining the darker elements of the ocean I had created. Father called it my
blue canvas, and painted a canvas purely in a single blue paint to prove a lack
of talent; I told him that the ocean is a complicated blue. He laughed. Among
the smells that servants were constructing, drifted my Father’s dominant voice,
a tired tone that dissolved my motivation to paint more. I crept to the brown
door ajar of the study, smoky fumes swimming from the vertical gap. “It
definitely doesn’t look good for him. I think it would be a victory if he
survives this. I can’t change the laws.” A pause in which I thought my heart
would surely burst from my chest. “No, we won’t be going. I can’t leave her,
George. She was- she is still my wife.” A tender pause in which I heard my
Father take several breaths of sentences that he would never have the courage
to say. “It does sound like an adventure, one I thought I’d never have to
miss.” His deep voice trembled like the strings of a cello. “I know, George.”
This abrupt sentence ended their conversation and I scrambled to my painting.
Father’s shadow soon concealed half of my ocean. “How
do you know how to paint the ocean?” He asked, gently. “You’ve never explored
it.” “I’ve
seen it.” I said. “I can imagine.” “Imagination
is for the poor.” He dismissed, walked away.
Wealth,
to me, was an invisible gold that each man had stolen. My Father had managed to
steal a treasure chest of ice blue rubies and blood diamonds. Only he could
access his treasure, and our lives were a result of what he chose to do with
it. This invisible gold also gave the individual the authority to judge those
who were not thieves; who had no gold. They lived in corners and cracks,
wearing clothes that looked like winter blankets all year round. But they were
never alone. Never did they walk without companionship, a sympathetic arm
around theirs, a reassuring smile that there would be comfort; they would find
land. I looked at their lives like I looked at our countless paintings, alone.
I imagined their dirty, black, loving hand in mine; I felt the grit in my palm.
Never would I have thought that I would feel more comfortable in the arms of a
battered, filthy tramp, than in my own silk sheets. I had
ignored the giggling coming from Victoria’s bedroom until it had ceased. The
nameless servants had ignored it too, all pretending to be busy cleaning or
cooking or running errands. I would observe them, sitting on the last floor of
stairs. They would all be dressed the same, but I knew their roles by their
faces. The Cooks; five servants with red faces and watered eyes. The Cleaners;
Eleven faces littered with wrinkles and small lips that spoke no English. The
Maids; Anne was more than a face to me. I had always thought that once you saw
someone for what they really were, their face would reflect even the darkest
parts of their soul. Anne liked me; she ignored the irrelevant authority I
supposedly held over her. I didn’t know what to do with such authority. The
other maids tended to mother, their faces worn, their skin stretched thinly
over their faces, strained. I treaded the steps with care, nearing Victoria’s
room. I hesitated for a moment before shyly pushing open the door, embarrassed
by the image of me. Her heavy hair looked like the night sky, spiralled over to
one side of her bed. She looked as if she had just finished smiling, a trace
that vanished when her eyes drifted over to me. “What
is it Felix?” She snapped, lazily. Her dark brown eyes pierced through her pale
skin. I wanted to cross the barrier that was between her bedroom and the
landing, but my toes stayed glued to the edge. “Was
someone here?” I almost whispered. The cold air between us turned my breath to
vapour. She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
After a moment she grinned, her face teasing me in a cruel way I didn’t
understand. “Was
she your friend?” I asked, hoping that she had a friend. Hoping that maybe a
friend would stop the tearful breaths I heard at night, as she bathed. “Who
says it was a she?” She giggled, stretched her arms above her head, pulling her
dress up so it clung to her thighs. I felt a tightness in my chest. “What
have you done?” I stammered, only imagining Father’s fury as to her sin. I then
noticed the blood on the sheets and no trace of a wound on her skin. She
blinked; looked to the window. “Victoria?” “Don’t
tell Father.” Her voice was deep, a sinister severity running thickly in her
tone. It scared me. She was eighteen and spoke with a threatening wisdom. “Who
says I can’t do what I want? Father? The Government? I decide. I have earnt the
right to dictate my life without judgment from little boys like you. You stand
there and you have no idea of what it’s like to be completely alone after
trying so hard to connect to someone.” Her eyes burned into mine, unblinking. I
froze, unaware as to her meaning. It was then that I truly realised that I did
not know my sister. “Go.” She ordered, hugging her knees to her chest, and I
went. As I
shuffled across the landing, I heard hushed whispered coming from Mother’s
room. The door was cracked, darkness looming beyond it. I was tired of
eavesdropping, but it was how I connected with my family. “But I
want to go.” I heard her delicate voice echo. A bold silhouette blocking the doorway
and the silence in the room told me that Father was alone with her. “You’re
not- well enough.” He stumbled over his words, a thick, husky tone that
weakened at the sight of her. “I’m
not getting any better shut away from the world. From my children. When was the
last time Felix visited me? He’s never more than fifty metres away but you make
this room into a dangerous prison!” Her voice became shrill. Father interrupted
with soothing noises that only fuelled her hysteria. “Tell me, John, do you
want to protect our children from me? Scared I’ll pull a knife on Victoria, or
rattle Felix in my hands?” “That’s
enough, Mary.” A silence, I held my breath. “That was in the past.” This
confirmation of events sent a sharp throb of pain gushing through my spine. “You
have trapped me in this past, John. You will never forgive me because as long
as you keep me here, those memories are fresh.” I saw a thin silhouette of an
arm reach out and land on Father’s. He flinched, ever so slightly. “Let me
out.” Her voice now seemed familiar, like what a Mother’s tone should sound
like. Her words seemed like they were coming from the mouth of another person,
a Mother who was gentle and loving. A Mother whom I may not be afraid. © 2015 BellaReviews
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1 Review Added on September 2, 2015 Last Updated on September 2, 2015 AuthorBellaLondon, Surrey, United KingdomAboutHi I'm Bella and historical fiction is my game. And I am lame. I love character development and stealing parts of strangers for inspiration. (Metaphorically, i do not harvest any limbs for the progr.. more..Writing
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