Light penetrated the stained, yellow blinds in bars, as
those same heaven rays pierced the clouds outside, staining them an equal, yet
more pleasant shade of yellow. He set to work in physical ambience, sweeping
through those rays, his dusting cloth and hand gliding atop each surface in
that old, particle infested room. Each particle glowed and fluttered as it fell
to molasses tinted furniture, before being quickly swept up. The varnished oak
that littered the room held the scent of tobacco, spirits, must and firewood; a
scent that was disturbed, and proceeded to fill the room with each fluid
removal of dust. With every step the man took; the green, patterned rug kicked
up more dust, filling the room and causing him to hack as he continued his
work, eventually releasing all its contents within the room. With cloth in hand and a newly found rattle
to his young lungs, he continued to work, eliminating every speck of dust in
that forgotten space.
His cloth and hand moved on once more, and with his newly
found whoop and a final sweep of the room complete, a door creaked to its close,
and he was gone. Silence purveyed the scene, as the now highly glossed, yet
remarkably stained furniture remained still and embalmed, now only watched by
the portraits hung jauntily on the damp, printed walls; their eyelids
constantly unfurled. As sun set and moon
rose, the scene fell under low, iridescent blue, and slept. The eyes of the
wall based guards remained in a position of vigil, sleepless and stinging. They
never questioned the position of the sun. They were the stand man took against
a system that is universal and endemic. Yet, without care, even they would
fade.
As time allowed space to move in parallel, yellow light
flooded into the room once more, once again capturing the particles that littered
the stale air. Day after day this ritual would take place. Sun rose and light
flooded, only to be drained and replaced with an effortless moonlight that
highlighted everything and allowed it to glow. With each day, a new layer of
dust would fall to the furnished surfaces. Each particle dancing and jostling
to find a place in the soft carpet that its kind had created. Each day, the air
had forgotten more of its passengers, as the old, embalmed oak gained more
insulation for the winters that could no longer reach it. Each day, the room
fell from memory, one particle at a time…
As tradition entailed, light visited that room for another
day. It poured atop each set of oaken drawers, and positioned itself between
the decorative table-wear that had found its resting place on the dresser. It
lay atop the unmade bed, and set the dust that rested on the bed-end aglow, as
a door slowly groaned, and a man entered. Fresh air breathed its way around the
room as the dust families that lay in carpets shot up, and began to flutter and
dance once more.
The man slowly moved towards the bed, surveying his task as
he made his way to sit. His knees cracked as he rested at the head of the bed,
adjacent to where his pillow once sat. He turned his head to face the bed,
staring through age worn eyes, yellowed and lost. His gaunt hand fell to the
spot on the other side of where his pillow once lay and caressed the fabric
lightly, sending another small amount of dust into the air around him, causing
him to whoop, as his yellowed eyes became a deeper shade of red.
With wavering breath, abruptly and without notice, the man
swept at his eyes, stood with a readied, yet slightly jaunty position, turned
to face the molasses tinted furniture, and began his work.
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