The Mind’s Manor Chapter 1: (1/4)
Some might call it insanity, I call it an act of brilliance. To create a world within the reaches of one's own imagination. Hyperphantasia, to be able to see things so vividly that the world created is parallel to our own. A world perfectly suited to your own needs and convenience, and then you forget. Forgetting of it's existence just to be brought back and never know where you are.
Chapter 1: Two Worlds (part 1/4)
I wasn’t quite sure where I was, but I knew I was there. It was a medium rectangular room, one wall lined with bookshelves, sagging under the weight of titles. Any wood trim or furnishings were of black walnut, which complemented the pastel greens and purple shades of the walls and decora. There was a grandfather clock near an elaborate fireplace, the organic detailings of each casting a nostalgic light on a country life they never lived. Pressed flowers and watercolour paintings adorned the lavender walls. Curtains, reflecting the work of William Morris, framed three arched windows; uniquely, it would appear the glass itself was frosted, although further inquiry would prove that the panes themselves had been etched with patterns of lavender stalks and mint leaves.
It was a quiet room, with a scroll desk and carpeted floor, two wing-back chairs sat in the middle of the room accompanied by a tea cart set for two. The room itself was Victorian in nature, however the dark gloom that often comes with such fashions had been dampened by the soothing colour palette.
I had only been glancing around for a moment or two, until someone entered the room from the hallway. She was young, no older than fifteen, although she had an aura that seemed older. Her hair was a chestnut brown and, although it was pinned up, I could tell it had a subtle curl to it. Despite our surroundings she better matched the trends of the Edwardians. She wore a tweed walking skirt and a blouse that contained enough insertion lace to make any seamstress fawn at the antique techniques used to incorporate it.
She smiled at me, throwing an embroidered shawl over her shoulders, “Hello, good afternoon, you can take a seat if you like.”
“You’re not my therapist are you?”
She seemed a little taken back by the remark, “No, no I’m not.”
I laughed and took a seat, “So uh, where am I, exactly?”
“Well yes I know that, but wh,” I paused, “Who are you, let’s start with that.”
She poured a cuppa and handed it to me. I took it hesitantly.
“I am known here as the Poet,” Was all she said, “And you are?”
I brought the porcelain cup up to my face. I'm a very cautious person so I smelled it and waited for her to drink first, it was black tea with the slight scent of bergamot, earl grey. I looked up at her as I took a small sip, “Scott, my family calls me Geranium.”
“Humph, Geranium,” She repeated, she continued to mutter something along the lines of, “Geraniums, happiness, good health or wishes, friendship. What a curious name.”
“I certainly don’t think so,” Silently I set my cup down, “If anything ‘The Poet’ is an odd way to refer to someone.”
The Poet froze, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offence. It’s just that generally when someone appears here they’re referred to by their role, the thing that brings them here. So if you don’t mind me asking, what is it that brings you here?”
I thought about it, the way she phrased it was confusing, as if people would just pop in out of nowhere, “I-I-I’m not sure,” was all I could muster.
“I see . . . at least we know your name, your role will have to wait ‘till later.”
“As I said everyone here has a role that brings them here, but they also have a name; for example my role is The Poet, that’s why I’m here.”
A thought leaked into my brain, “So if ‘The Poet’ is your role, then what’s your name?”
She smiled awkwardly for about a minute, “It’s uh , , , Poellan, it’s a type of fish.”
“Poellan? Spelled p-o-e-l-l-a-n?” I asked, just to clarify.
“And you thought Geranium was a weird name?” I said with a grin.
She chuckled and avoided eye contact.
I glanced at the clock in the room, it’s face swirled as if it was wet paint being mixed together. It was odd, although I knew exactly what time it read, it was only a few minutes before three ten and, going off of Poellan’s greeting, in the afternoon.
A knock came at the door shortly before the porcelain knob turned. In stepped a woman maybe in her early twenties. I was met with nothing but confusion, her facial features were practically identical to Poellan’s. Her appearance wasn’t entirely the same; she actually wore a Victorian dress, late Victorian with a slimmer skirt but without the s-shaped figure of an Edwardian. Her dress was green, an emerald green, with black foliage embroidered on the hem of the skirt, bodice, and sleeve cuffs. Her hair was braided in a clever bun leaving some strands to cover her ears.
She didn’t mind me any as she walked, all she did was silently walk over to the clock and open the glass pane in front of the face. She took out a type of key from her pocket and stuck it into its designated hole.
“Poellan, your clock is running five minutes slow,” She shut the door and turned around, “Not even quarter after three, and we already have another new one,” She said, approaching me. She offered to shake my hand.
It couldn’t hurt so I tried to reciprocate the gesture, although I never shook her hand, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.
I don’t know how I had gotten into that room in the first place, and just as I had come there, I left. My vision went dark sort of blurring out quickly then coming back into focus, it was like standing up too quickly; however, I didn’t focus back into that room.
I was in a completely different building, no doubt about it. I was in a large room with about twenty other people, a modern classroom with desks lined in six rows. Judging by the posters on the wall it was an English room. I glanced down at the worksheet on my desk, ‘Analyzing Poetry and Symbolism’, ah yes the unit we repeat every year.
There was a clock above the whiteboard, three thirteen. Students around me began shuffling around. I pulled the leather satchel that hung across the back of my chair onto my lap, I opened it and stuffed the paper inside.
“Please remember that this assignment is due next class,” The man sitting in the front said, his salt and pepper hair was cut in a simple buzz-cut, he wore a plaid button down and khakis. His name was Mr. Gregor, my language arts teacher, his personality was like vanilla ice cream, better than nothing but basic, bland, and boring.
Unlike that room I knew where I was and why. Was I confused, yes, was I worried, not exactly. That room had a sort of comforting and warm aura to it, here it was cold and felt wide open.
It seemed like we’d never be dismissed, that one minute seemed to stretch on forever. I looked around at the other people there, they were all my age, about sixteen or seventeen. My head was all over the place, then again it almost always is. I’m not sure why but as soon as the bell rang, I left completely ignoring the girl calling my name.
The halls were crowded, just trying to leave was like fighting a river current. People would shove and push one another, I understand they want to leave but it didn’t have to be like that. It took about five minutes just to leave the building, it only would have taken one minute tops had I been the only one there.
When I was outside I had to stop and catch my breath. The school just looked like several brick boxes stacked into a heap, boring. Geese flocked on the sports field. I looked around, there was no one there, it was empty and silent, and it scared me.
I did the irrational thing, I ran, although I’m not sure what from. My stupid amegdilia was overruling my rational brain, my heart was beating, adrenaline hit me like a wave.
All I really remember is running off, passing the school’s sign, it was just a concrete slab with the words 'Harrison Bridge Secondary School’. I ran through the traffic, no one really took notice of me.
At one point I slowed down to a walking pace, I turned onto a street lined with terraced houses. Carefully I scanned the house numbers, and then approached number ‘214’ . I walked up and opened the door.
It was beyond bizarre, I didn’t really feel in the moment, and like someone who’s train of thought changed on a whim I was back in that room with Poellan. It felt like zoning out during a boring conversation, or class.
“Oh there you are, you disappeared for a while,” Poellan said with such a tone one would believe this was a completely normal occurrence.
I turned my head to look behind me, the suburban street was gone and now replaced by an empty hallway.
“Is everything alright?” The other woman asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, although I wasn’t quite sure if that was true.
She smiled, “Well then let me introduce myself, My name is Kate, I’m the Groundskeeper,” She said, “It’s my job to keep everything in order, from dates and times to seeing everyone is taken care of.”
I nodded, “So are you in charge of this place?”
“No, the real owner hasn’t shown up in awhile, actually. Now then, I’ve already sent Helan to prepare your room, so I believe we’ll be off to the sewing room. After that you're free to explore ‘till dinner at eight sharp,” The Keeper said.
“Why do we need to go to the sewing room? Aren’t my clothes fine the way they are?” I asked, looking at the clothing I was wearing. I had on a white shirt with a stiff collar, a pair of white stockings, salmon pink breeches, a white lace cravat, and a contrasting navy vest adorned with embroidered geraniums.
“There’s nothing wrong,” Kate said, taking my wrist, “You’ll just want more than one outfit to wear.” She led me out into the hallway with no warning, we walked down the corridor and then took a sharp left into a conjoined hall where she opened a door and dragged me inside.
A shelf lined wall was filled floor to ceiling with fabrics, tweed, silk, cotton, velvet, and linen. A rack of thread was organized in colour order to the point where it seemed unnecessary.
Another look-a-like sat at a large cutting table and operated an antique singer machine.
“Good afternoon Susan, I trust you’re doing well.”
The woman, who I assumed to be Susan, paused and looked up, “Another one?” She stood up and grabbed a tape measure out of a nearby basket, “And what would your name be?”
“Geranium,” I said, straightening my back out of sheer habit.
She nodded her head and took several of my measurements, she wrote them down in a notebook and then proceeded to go right back to her sewing.
“I’ll get back with you tomorrow.”
It was a much quicker trip than I had thought it’d be. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I just stood there, my eyes slowly wandering around the room.
Kate, being the impatient one, took my hand and directed me out of the room, “There are plenty of other things to be doing here.”
Hello dearest readers I hope I haven’t bored you, er maybe I’ve just been rereading it too many time. Anyways I’m glad you guys are here and I hope to see some of you stay. I just want to inform you that I do not have an upload schedule, this is because I prioritize quality over ,,, well I’d say quantity but you get what I mean, I’d rather spend time making things ice with as minimal errors as possible this does take awhile for me because I do not have an editor.
Each chapter has about 4 sub-chapters (I will marks these) so chapter one isn’t over yet. Anyways I hope you guys learn to love my brain children, it feels very nice to finally start publishing.
