Hamlet’s Room | spotlight effect
What was laid before him, horrible at night, was even more dreadful in the day
Enwrapt. A kick inside. The eyelids seperate, and the iris, after a night’s polishing, squints a little. Stale tea and half-melted wax, and the ink is dry! What a tragedy. Sour pomegranate tea. But the cup is cold. But the floor is colder. The throat bobs and a sliver of saliva begins a-trickling-trickling-trickling; little drops rolling down from the corner of his lips, escaping the sluggish hand that attempted to wipe it away, down the neck and onto his shirt. Patterns of flowers and kingdoms and flying dragons, the roots of a tree growing thinner, lighter: he groaned.
The stub nosed candle watched all this without judgement: a vigilant and courageous guard, keeping company. The candle was an old servant, but he still had some life remaining. This loyal watchman held the secrets of the night, which only he himself remembers. This candle burnt, very faintly flickering, his long beard of wax trailing off the shelf and onto the table, along the veins of the wood.
The sleeper pulled himself up, heaved a breath that sent his papers scattering like morning songbirds across the lawn. Nothing much. Surely, his table did not morph into anything too much for him. A tap. He whirled around, and an agitation of hands ensued. Stumbling as he rose, a grimace: the realisation shot from the bottom-up, that his slippers were gone. And the tiles sent shivers up his feet and into his spine. The floorboards must’ve been chilled by the winds of his open window. Leaves were scattered about beside the window.
He turned to the window, held his hand against that light. For there comes the day, that burst of bright and brilliance which blinded his eye. Ophelia? Ophelia? No. He felt his keys, rubbed his fingers against the grooves that unlocked secret places. A curious rook, who shared a window with him on mornings like this, observed his every move with head lightly tilted.
And he turned back to the table. What was laid before him, horrible at night, was even more dreadful in the day: a wasteland of wax and inks and pens scattered about, layers upon layers upon layers. Day made the wax-drenched paper a little more dishevelled, put a crust on the inkwell and gave the pens a sheen like daggers. Brows furrowed, he pushed the stale teacup away. Traces of night were everywhere: the in the tea and along the beams of the windows. But no, all is different. Gone? He tilted his head, his mind squinted. All the little shadows receded back to their corners and their edges. Day brought his old friend the oily rook. Tap tap tap.
The Day was not welcome in his room. Slowly, very slowly, Day pulled out his shadow and threw it across the reflecting-glass.
Shoo, Day whispers to Night. My turn now.
And then everything grows sharper. Just a little. On the uppermost shelf the candle finally lets loose his breath, and collapses.
