The New House
A fiction based on thoughts and spacing-outs
Based on a prompt from Promptly Written
I open my eyes to face the usual white ceiling of my room. They do take a while to settle and really open, and the body has its slow start and stretches. No alarm has rang: the mood is one of a day off. No rush, no need to worry about going to work for once.
But why am I off today, again? I wonder. It is unclear, as the mind has not yet fully tuned and is still dizzy from booting. Then my eyes move down, to stare at my shelf full of nerd stuff. It’s not there. Nothing is.
The thought comes to mind it is not supposed to be, anymore. But well before it can be grasped I slowly bring myself to a sitting position, while still stretching. A cry comes from somewhere outside the room.
She’s here, I think. My beautiful, small black female dog is crying beyond the door for me to admit her in. As usual, she somehow knows I’ve waken. I then stretch an arm out of the bed to reach for the door and open it.
“Morning, good girl. Come on in…”
My smiling face freezes as I stare into nothing’s eyes. “It’s just this damn bed creaking again.” I stretch back, then slowly make my way to my slippers with my feet. Then I sigh, as the notes of a ukulele gently ring into my mind.
When you press me to your heart
I am in a world apart
The world where roses bloom
A different feeling makes my serenity stingy, while I contemplate its beauty just like you would holding a rose with its spines still on. I moved out alone, my head whispers to me. I make my way to the kitchen, unusually straight on a floor and not upstairs anymore. I get milk from my refrigerator and a mug, and a noise reaches my ear.
A persistent noise reaches my ear. I turn to shout to my dogs to stop fighting each other. But no one’s there.
And when you speak
Angels sing from above
I shake my head and go back to readying my breakfast. I then move in a weird way, and hit something which seems to grumble. “Hey” I greet my brother. But he’s not there either — it’s just my memories playing games again.
Everyday words seem
To turn into love songs
I take my mug of hot milk to the window and stare outside. The day has started, the city is alive. My eyes move through random points of the street — people running, cars flowing, words unheard being spoken. I slowly get the mug to my mouth and take a sip.
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be
As I savor every moment of it I cannot find in my head a way to describe the peculiar mix of feelings I have. It is sadness, but it is also hope. It is indeed bittersweet to some extent, but bittersweet does not seem to encompass it all.
I take in the sight in front of me while having sips of my milk. A sincere, delicate smile is painted on my face. A cold, yet fragile tear forms in my eye and then slowly makes its way to the very smile I can’t force back in.
It is sad, but overwhelmed by hope. It is bitter sentimentality, but a warming new energy.
La vie en rose.
