His hand ran along the cool metal, slowly, caressing the doorknob of the old abandoned farmhouse. He stood alone in the dark oceanic countryside, milky twilight engulfing his entire world. A burning fire built up in the pit of his stomach- should he go in? He tried the handle. Locked.
Locks were never a real problem for Vieled, though he had long lost the key to the old rustic door that stood in front of him. He took out a series of shining lock picks that twinkled eerily in the dim light of the moon. He skillfully unlocked the door and slipped inside.
The inside of the building had the same musty smell that it always had, perhaps now more than ever. The kitchen he stood in had begun to rot and decay- vacancy really did a number on the building. He supposed no one would want the old house, not after what happened. It was just an old run-down house, in an out of the way place, but to Vieled it represented so much more than that. These twelve dreary rooms where symbolic of fear and oppression to Vieled. He loathed them with a seething hatred beyond any feeling that is in man's capacity to feel. He burned with contempt.
All he'd need was one last good look at this place, for old time's sake. Then perhaps he could truly let his past slip away. That's all he wanted- to escape the dreaded torture that the memory of these haunting walls instilled in him. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Sweat poured down his forehead as he recalled his past.
He paced forward into the hallway. The blood pounded in his temples. He could have sworn he heard gunshots, but it was only in his head. He knew it was only some past memory clawing for escape from the dark vistas of his mind.
He turned and continued down the nearly unlit hallway. Why should he need light? Every crack in this god-forsaken house was only all too familiar to him. He wanted to leave. He couldn't.
He reached the old crooked stairway at the end of the hall. The dust was settled thickly on every surface. It rose up with every movement he had and swelled up inside his lungs- choking him and wreaking havoc with his breath. He stood and coughed for minutes straight. Nothing was going to stop him. He went up the stairs. They creaked under his weight and he suspected that at any minute they could easily give way. A deep hatred inside him pushed him to keep going.
He reached the hallway on the upper floor. The impulse to turn and run only grew stronger. He paced down the hallway. The old wooden walls of the house leered at him mockingly. He turned left into an old room.
The room was plain, barely furnished and every surface was covered in thick, grimy layers of dust. An air of melancholy hung like doleful curtains around the whole room. There was a closet in the corner of the small enclosure, and two frail looking beds were pressed against the wall. Their metal frames were rusted and weak. The beds held no decorations, just two filthy white mattresses laid upon the bleak frames.
A window stood inbetween the two beds. The glass was tarnished and hard to see through. The black trim only added to the austerity of the room. Beneath the window there was a small wooden night table upon which sat a half burned candle. Vieled paced to the candle. He pulled a book of matches out from his pocket and lit the candle in some queer attempt to relieve the oppressive gloom of the place. The melancholy only grew damper.
It was as if every board of the sullen room was watching his every move. The very house itself knew- it remembered who he was. It remembered what he did. The unforgivable crime that he committed. He was not ashamed.
He dragged himself over to the bed and wondered if it would support his body weight. He sat first, cautiously, on the edge of the bed. Seeing that the frame did not give way he pushed himself back towards the middle of the bed. Finally getting to the point where he was comfortable enough to swing his legs up and lie down. Even after all these years he still got the same sickening feeling. Were there still bloodstains melted into the floors?
He closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the waves falling to the shore a mere fifty feet away from the house. He could picture those nighttime currents so perfectly in his mind. The waves would rise up and cascade down in torrents, relentlessly tormenting the rocks that spurred out into the water. Sometimes he felt as vexed as the rocks of the ocean- as he was bombarded day after day with such merciless problems. Like the waves, his situations never seemed capable of showing sympathy or compassion. Vieled tried to think back to a time when he was happy.
He was never happy
Don't fall asleep... He warned himself in a pitiful whisper. Even the best of us avoid our own advice at times.
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Anyway, I was looking for comments/constructive criticism. I have a little bit of the first chapter written but nothing worth posting. It's part of an ongoing story. What do you think?
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