18 August 2012
A continuation of my last Opuss…
I watch Celyn walk off into the distance, then make my way inside the theatre, sighing deeply. The last of the audience slowly push open the door and walk outside. I wave them off, hanging my apron up on the wall and letting my hair fall loose. Emris and some of the actors from tonight's show walk through the door, huge grins sparkling on their faces. "Arwen! So, did you like the show?" Emris envelops me in a hug, smothering me. I pull away, smiling, watching the actors leave. I recognise some of them from school. "Yeah! It was brilliant! I think the audience loved it too, this is our highest profit this month!" He lifts me up, spinning me round and chuckles, his stormy grey eyes alive with joy. The theatre has been encountering a few financial troubles recently. Emris won't dare admit it, but sometimes, I can feel it, the sorrow burning up his heart and soul. This theatre is his life. If it goes, then I'm scared Emris will do something stupid and get himself killed. I can't let that happen. "Right then, off to your room, big day tomorrow!" I punch him on the shoulder playfully, then make my way through the door and across the stage. Behind the curtains, there's a small door that leads to the attic, where mine and Emris' rooms are located. I push the door open, and make my way up the staircase. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Creak! I stop at the sixth step and ease the floorboard up, resting it to one side. Inside the step, is a hollow space, filled with all my stuff that I want to keep secret. It's the only secret place I have, because unfortunately, having a staircase leading up to your bedroom from near the stage, means that sometimes you get lost children stumbling into your room, asking for directions to the toilets. I sigh, then lift up a notebook and a necklace, to reveal my watercolours and sketch book. The things that Emris found me with. It seems strange, to leave a baby that's barely two weeks old with paints and paper. I mean, my mum could have left a rattle or a teddy. But no, she left me with something I wouldn't be able to use until much, much later. Still, they are my most treasured possessions. The last connection to my parents. I take them out of the step, replacing the floor board, and continue up the stair case. The ceilings of the attic are always blanketed in spiderwebs. Even after several sweeps of the feather duster, they still sit there, mocking you with their general stickiness. Today, wisps of silk trail down from the ceiling, sparkling in the light and swaying in the breeze. I duck underneath them and open the door to my room. A thick cloud of vanilla-scented air hits me and I cough, the sickly sweet smell smothering my lungs. Dusky. Again. I growl at the blue-grey cat sitting on my rug, a smashed bottle of vanilla extract beside him. He tilts his head and meows softly, his eyes literally growing, until I can't stand it any longer. I set down my watercolours and pad and walk over. His cute face gets me every time. I pick him up and walk over to my bed, a misshapen oak base built into a hole in the wall, topped with an old mattress, and set him down. He purrs, then leaps off through the door, knocking over my alarm clock as he goes. Ungrateful feline. I ignore the mess on the floor, and the stench of vanilla filling my room, instead picking up my sketch book. Inside, I've filled it with paintings of people, Dusky, actors, gardens, statues, my dreams, wolves. Anything and everything is kept within these two covers. I hug the book to my chest, inhaling the scent of the paper, which surprisingly, is still there over the vanilla, then take out a photograph of Celyn that I've been sketching. She's sitting on the old rope swing by the river, her hair in a mess and her blue eyes full of naive joy. I take a H pencil from the pile of stuff on my desk, and continue from where I left off, sketching her head and neck. The pencil glides across the paper, and for once, I can forget about everything. Forget about the theatre, about Emris, about school. It's just me and the paper, trapped in my own little dream world. And for a moment, everything is perfect.
Any title ideas?
Part Two • Opuss № I