#MisanthropeSolo -Â RĂŞve Noir
RĂŞve Noir - Domenico Sigalas
https://youtu.be/KEwP2fA7PGY
As I open the closet that hadn't been opened for over a century, the dark wooden doors creak as the old brass hinges turn, the smell of the past strikes me, and along with it all those memories I thought were long gone, bleached out, faded, not recalled ever since.
Inside the massive cabinet, hidden from time itself and now exposed to me for the first time in a long time, well-known items, once dear to me, like my father's pocket watch - a precious gem, not because it was his, but because I liked it, liked the sound of it, liked the weight in my hand and how it ticked constantly, always reliable if there was someone who wound it up every once in a while -, my mother's music box, which was meant to go to Stefan after she had passed away, but I selfishly kept it for myself. Stefan had his memories of her. The untainted memories of a child, too young to see what was going on behind closed doors in the world of adults. But I knew. I had seen. I had heard. Witnessed. And I still remember vividly.
Carefully I lift the box from the shelf, leaving a dark square where the wood wasn't exposed to the decay of the past century, blow the dust from the casket and slowly turn the key-shaped screw at the backside to wind up the mechanism. A strange melancholia, like a heavy blanket encloses me as the melody reaches my ear, and I open the marquetry adorned lid, as I always used to as a child to watch the comb-shaped piece of metal struck by the small pins on the barrel, turning inside the box, slowly and constantly.
Placing the music box back on the shelf while its strangely soothing song fills the room with not just the mere tune but with a certain atmosphere I hadn't felt in a long time but which still comes naturally to me, my eyes roam further through the shelves inside the closet, to explore the long lost treasures of a distant life that once was mine.
On another board, a couple of books I used to read. I was far too young to understand the deeper meaning of the words when I started to read Baudelaire, but I already appreciated the way he painted pictures of a world I had yet to explore by only using words. Words we all knew. Words we all used. And yet he managed to use them in a way I never experienced before. I even had an original copy from france which I used to learn french autodidactic. With moderate success, to say the least. Next to it a copy of Dante's "la Commedia", an anthology of Poe, well-thumbed, and other books, some of them prosaic novellas, but my predilection was clearly for poetries. Of course my father had other plans for his eldest son than letting him waste time with literature, music, poetry and other unprofitable arts. But I still cherished it as a hobby.
Furthermore, a photograph of Katherine, hidden in another book, but now partly revealed to me; I apparently had to hurry to put it back the last time I took it out, but were too sloppy to hide it properly, so a corner of the photograph became yellow over the years, decades, centuries. I hid it not only from Stefan, but from everyone. Even from her. I used to look at it every once in a while. Sometimes, when I wrote, I liked to place it on the desk next to me, so a part of her was always present and inspired me with more than just her obvious beauty. I also took it out to say her good night, whenever she was too exhausted, too tired to meet me. Of course I was always polite and decent; bid her farewell at  the door to her room when she asked me to, but was yet bold enough to steal a kiss at any given opportunity. Back then I was sure she secretly liked it.
Not much is left of the clothes that were stored in the closet. Generations of moths had feasted on the now mere rags, covered in dust - materialized time - but I can still recall most of the familar attire. The characteristic gray of the confederate army uniform. One of the many chapters in my life I'd like to erase, rip out of the book and burn the pages. After I had returned from the battlefield - deserted, they called it; looking out for myself and do what was reasonable is what I called it, and still do - it had become almost impossible to get into my father's good graces. I came back as an even greater disappointment to him and a shame to my family. The nightmares haunted me for a long time, and sometimes still do. Support for returning soldiers were an alien concept back then, and even when I look at it today, people still have no idea what horrors you have to face; things no human being should ever witness, and yet I think that a species capable of such bestiality deserves just that.
Besides the uniform there are several other pieces, beyond recognition, gone forever. But a surprisingly well preserved sleeve that stands out between the rotting cloths catches my attention.
And as I run my fingers casually along the fabric, take out what appears to be a tailcoat, fragments of the past flare up in my mind. Voices. Laughter. People whose names I don't recall. Music. Dancing. But not me.
I can see myself standing a little aside, right after I had finished a light conversation with a friend of the family, George Lockwood, more to distract myself than actually listening to him. Father would have appreciated to see me being more involved, more interested in the founding family's business. Politics. What an ineffably prosaic sort of pastime. Nothing more it was to me, back those days. And why should I care about the fate of Mystic Falls... when all I cared about... was in the center of the room, dressed in a blue gown and drawing everyone's attention, clinging to my brother's arm as he led her through the crowd, swaggering like a peacock in courtship.
She had chosen him to accompany her on the founders ball. I shouldn't be too worried about my little brother's affection for her, rather should be thankful that he kept her company while I was away, spending days at a confederate army camp just outside Richmond and helping to defend the south. Because it was just that, right? Just a harmless infatuation. But I couldn't help feeling a light sting at the scenery playing out right in front of me. Little did I know about the importance of the founders council in my future life; I just learned about the actual existence of vampires and that my beloved Katherine was one of them, which is why I low-key wished, hoped, that it would have been me who would have had the joy, the honor of being her escort for the dance.
Because of the secret we shared and the trust she put in me by telling me the truth, there was no doubt, that she appreciated my company. Still I remember vividly how we used to spend numerous afternoons wandering in the garden of my family's estate or simply roamed through the village until we reached the Fell's property with the town's church.
And now she seemed to have chosen my brother over me. Him, who whenever the topic of vampires was mentioned, shuddered with fear and disgust. He needs more convincing, I thought back then. She is just making an effort to show him that there is truly no difference between us, I tried to reassure myself. A fool I was. No compulsion needed. Just the feeling that someone cared about my point of view was enough.
From this day on, my courting became bolder. More apparent and obvious for everyone around us. I strolled through town with her, accompanied her when she visited her friend Pearl and made sure everyone saw us. I wanted this to be the image people would memorize. Not the dance at the founder's ball. And she welcomed the additional attention and my interest in her way of living. An inquisitive student I was, eager and hungry for knowledge. I wanted to learn everything and - once she would deem me ready - become one of hers and be with her forever. At night I snuck out of the house to join her in the woods where she showed me to lie in wait. Where she showed me how to bait, how to feed, how to kill...
And the more time I spent with her, the more I diverged from father and my brother; we grew apart, even cold. My brother and I, inseparable all summer, long before she stepped into the picture, rarely talked anymore. Whenever we exchanged words, it led to arguing, no matter how trivial the conversation started out. Especially since he was insistent in persuading father regarding his views on vampires. He even wanted to educate the town council and thought he could sway them. It was his naivetĂŠ that eventually led to the events that marked a turning point in our lives: The night of September 25th, 1864. Â
Another item veiled by shadows and dust at the bottom of the closet, now brought to light by removing the tailcoat from the hanging rail diverts my attention from the melancholic retrospection of having to share her and - once the object is identified - shoves me right into another, direful memory. Carelessly I place the hook of the coathanger back on the rail, uncaring for possible creases that - over time - might ruin the well-preserved fabric forever and crouch in front of the ancient furniture to reach for what I now realize is not neatly placed on one of the shelving for a reason.
I remember, I felt cold. Cold to the point that every fiber of my body hurt and refused to move or even shift its position. I also remember the smell of damp leaves and poached up soil. There was no sound at first and I felt like floating but at the same time under heavy pressure. Like the air itself was closing and tightening around me. It was a curious feeling and while my subconsciousness began to wrap around it and explore it, I suddenly gasped for air, realizing that I haven't been breathing for quite some time. My body, now finally being able to move, jolts into a sitting position and panic filled me when more impressions kept crashing down on me. Voices, yelling men and screaming women, but far away and even more distant, smoke. And being as cold as the peaty ground I even thought I could feel the warmth of a fire that must have been at least a mile away. I took a quick look around and found myself alone, absent of any company that my foggy memory insisted on. As I looked over my shoulder, I noticed ruts in the ground that led away from my place and... towards the church. Towards the screams and the smoke.
Katherine! It shot through my head and an ice cold fist clutched at my heart. And I jumped to my feet. And I ran. I ran faster than ever before. Perhaps faster than humanly possible.
When I reached the church, I found it blazing fiercely and I quailed. Several carriages waited in the courtyard and those few people who stood outside, armed with whatever they could find, were cheering at the fire, raising their arms with joy, rejoicing. Closer to my own position I rather heard than saw poor little Anna weeping for her mother, eyes red and watery with tears fixed on the conflagration. And instead of giving each other  solace, we both just watched in horror, too afraid to leave the cover of the trees, for we might have been thrown into the burning church as well, if we got caught.
Long after dawn and long after the sun reached and transcended its zenith, when the people of Mystic Falls were sure that all vampires were perished in the fire and left to probably celebrate, I dared to leave the shadows and slowly approached what was left of the former largest building in town. Most of the stone walls had come down and beneath them I could still feel the heat coming from embers that refused to stop licking at the remains of wooden beams. As I slid my feet through the ashes and took the few steps that used to lead to the door, which was now nothing but a stone arch leading to nothing but debris, I felt the heat burning my skin. But it didn't matter. It was nothing compared to excruciating pain she must have felt. And to feel close to her for one last time, as if torturing myself would have lessened her own torment, I endured it for a while.
Slowly I rise from my knees and carefully store the muzzle - too large and peculiar in shape to be made for anything else than a human head - on one of the boards, pulling out the book next to it and part its pages to look at her picture once more; this time I make sure to fully conceal the precious keepsake to preserve it from further decay. And as I do, the soothing melody of the music box slows, further and further, and stops, rendering the roomâs atmosphere to the former clotted silence.
Unaffected by any outside influences remains my own memory, unattached to any token that might not stand the test of time. It will always be there, treasured, for eternity. Long after the closet's content and the wood itself has turned to dust.
The old brass hinges creak again as I slowly push the wooden doors shut and seal those items, memories and stories - those and many more - inside, to be found again in the future, by myself or - who knows - by someone else.
~end of solo~
