24 May 2012
In an attic room, high above the bustling streets of the Unknown City, a single, naked, light bulb hangs limply from the ceiling over a large wooden desk. Pieces of paper are strewn across the room, disappearing into thick black shadows not broken by the thin light.
At the desk sits a man, his face buried in his hands. Any visitor could easily mistake him for a statue in a museum. But then he sighs heavily into the skin of his palms and the illusion, as well as the silence, is broken.
He brings his head up and brings out yet another sheet of cream, letter headed paper from a drawer in the desk. This, he thinks as he picks up his pen yet again, must be my one hundredth draft. He runs his left hand through his streaked black hair, revealing a tired, yet young face, burdened by time that felt heavier than it really was.
His pen hovers at the top of the page for a second before swooping down and curving over to form the long, elegant letters of his words.
"Dearest Elena,"
He writes, having taken at least a dozen drafts to decide on this seemingly obvious opening.
"I don’t have much time to ponder whether this is the right thing to do."
He almost laughed at that. How hypocritical of himself, to say he had no time for choices when he had spent days in this attic writing one letter by the half-light of a bulb which only shone when the wind blew on the tired, old windmill on the roof.
"I miss you."
He felt it eating his insides, a terrible gapping hole inside him, oh how he missed her. He shook his head in frustration, and then looked down at the words on the page. What would the letter look like? He pondered. If it said what I really wanted it to say and not what it should say?
"I miss you like I would miss the air if it were taken away from me."
Oh dear, he thought, was there anyway of saying how he felt without is sounding cliché?
" I miss the brightness of your eyes in the evening. I miss the love I felt the first time we kissed. I miss how you would smile when I came home at night."
Maybe not. But it felt true.
His pen trailed off. He lent back in his chair a moment, looking up at the dim orange light bulb above, taking a deep breath.
"I’m leaving you."
His chest felt tight.
"They are coming for me."
In An Attic Room • Opuss № I