#augustus.

March 1979 || 08:00 || Augustus Rookwood’s flat

Time blurred. Months had surpassed him, deserting all but a plethora of unread tomes. Literary towers rose haphazardly atop cluttered tables. Chapters lay unclosed, their tales remaining undiscovered, characters left to a millennia of unsolved calamity. Vacant saucers collected fine sheens of dust, their intricate cups desolate wells, their tea bags scorched by desert air. Masses of sleek fur perched themselves along library alcoves, legions of lion eyes analyzing a stranger among their pride. Yet, their maws remained securely fastened, ivory fangs kept to serene use. Their thunderous roars were exchanged for resounding purrs, tails flickering in unison with dwindling wicks.

The schedule failed to dissipate despite his self-proclamations. His gait would drive him toward untouched fact and fiction, mind overturned in relation to scrutinized shelves. His fingers would graze the spines of uniformed, yellowed-paged novellas. They held a twin to the right and a triplet to the left; their volumed siblings lined dark-wooded surfaces. He’d pluck an archaic, leather-bound title from an opposite set, and even its hefty weight could not suppress the rattling incarceration of his head. And when twilight began its scheduled swell he felt the fool, the imbecile, the rook-- for lingering within an absent man’s cherished, secretive collection.

Irritation had begun to manifest, its potency expelled in each sublime movement. He was the specter of his own manor, and the ghost he’d manifested here held mass similarity. The chamber mocked him; its walls encased his skeletal structure. What did he await to be entombed for? His loner’s visitations, only greeted by the mirage of various items Augustus left behind. The leather chair had grown accustomed to his imprint. A leg hung over its broad arm, the other’s tread pressed against unmarred flooring. Lines from his appointed publication sunk into hazy lettering and disrupted fibers. Lids grew leaden, shadows crept at his vision’s edge.

Perhaps the morrow would truly be his presence’s finale.