Chapter One - the boy who never drowned

We 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.

“Okay, darling.” Were the words than Father finally murmured. They remained in the dark, shadows of the lovers they once were. Later it was announced that we would be boarding the great unsinkable ship, The Titanic.    

Reviews

[Hakim]

wow this is pretty interesting. Seems lika a spin off to the titanic. I Like your style of writing too, the describing seems to be a strength of yours.

The "snapped lazily" phrase was cool, kind of an oxymoron.

Also "tearful breaths" was clever because being a kid, felix didnt quite know that his sister just got freaky haha ;)

This was a good read!

[Bella]

Thank you so much for this review! Means a lot man:) I do like a bit of descriptive writing haha it's because i'm afraid of dialogue..