Rumor Hasn't

Finally she abandoned the room in a huff, leaving behind the smiling child. The child watched Goldenrod go, then stood, tottering over to the window, leaning against the glass, arms crossed. For a while, just a little while, the window showed something more than the fog gathered outside. There were buildings and trees –

And then they were gone. A defeated sigh escaped the child, who straightened up and looked away from the window, back to the room. A cluttered room, it was. Pale in shades of charcoal. After a while, whether moments or something longer, finally the child wandered back to the center of the room to collapse and curl up, staring at the floor, running fingers though the soft material.

Even if I wanted, I could not leave. Even if it was all I longed for, I\'d still be stuck here. There Is no escape from the iron jaws of Hell. There is no love lost between Purgatory and Heaven.

Strange thoughts from a child\'s mind, but then again, sometimes children aren\'t quite as childlike as they first appear. There are those who will push the norms of society and life, and those who look to escape whatever lines have been laid. Those who seek to break boundaries that never should have been crossed.

What would happen –

The curse of the questioning mind.

– if we were different?



In the middle of the day, to what do you turn for explanation? Who tells you the why of things? Who explains what is what and why it is? How do you know what happens on the other side of the town when all that echoes are tiny sounds that could be the feelings of someone else? There is only so much covered by belief. There is only so much that I can feel before I begin to break. I\'m breaking. I\'m reaching for something beyond my control, and something outside yours. I want to be free.

***

The beginning of the inside of the house was black. There were black walls, black floors, black ceilings. The tables secured to the floor were black; the chairs, the lights – black. The color of new birth, the color of the beginnings of life. Enter here, it spoke. Enter here and be. Though the house, black wound into charcoal grey, then to the dusk, then into silver and finally white. White was the end, the conclusion. White was the exit. No one left the house from the front portal; it was one way, and the only exit was out the back, from the rooms that were drenched in ghostliness.

"Vermillion?"

He looked up. "Yes?"

Goldenrod tilted her head. "Are you finished?" Her voice was soft, delicate.

"No, not quite yet. Shall I hurry for you?"

Goldenrod looked down. "It\'s all right. I was just wondering is all. Please excuse me." She melted back away into the white rooms, leaving Vermillion to the black entryway. He ran his hands over the mantelpiece, closing his eyes, shaking his head.

Someone else came into the room, and he looked up.

"Yes?"

"Your shift is up?"

"Yes."

"Who is in your place?"

"Another one."

"Which one?"

"Vermillion."

"Thank you, Vermillion."

"Yes, Vermillion."

Once again the room was empty but for one. Vermillion\'s hands raised from the mantle, and he ran them through his hair, drawing away from the walls to settle in the middle of the room. There were odd times like this when he felt acutely. That feeling, the emotions, were something he was not used to. These emotions… This sense of knowing about oneself. Am I the only one who feels? Am I the only one who does not simply exist anymore? Once upon a time, once upon a time, there were people. I remember reading about them. I remember wondering about them. I remember. How many others remember? Remember anything?

Am I so very alone in this?

Of course, answers never come when one needs them.

Vermillion closed his eyes and pressed the flats of his palms together as though in prayer. His lips moved with silent words, and behind his closed eyelids, pictures formed. Easier, far, to review the day then to reach forward into some indeterminate future. For whatever happened in the future, there was always the pattern of the past to be read and obeyed. He knew the past well enough; let the future care for itself, at least for now. What was familiar was safe.

Slowly, his tense body relaxed, and he began to go back though his mind, categorizing, tidying up. There was the encounter with Aqua today, the time with Indigo.. He lingered on that a little longer. Indigo… She had been an odd one, he thought, his reflection slightly hazed within the middle of the entranced state he was in. Who had ever heard of a brother of Indigo? But there had been one. Perhaps a mistake, Vermillion mused, and turned his thoughts away. Something else, something more.

Cerulean – Cerulean had been there that day. Vermillion frowned. What had Cerulean been doing there?

Probably nothing of importance, probably nothing too interesting…but Vermillion was curious all the same.

"Vermillion?"

Vermillion looked up, dropping the trance. "Yes?"

"Are you finished?"

Vermillion sighed and closed his eyes briefly before pushing himself to his feet. "Yes, Goldenrod," he replied. "I am done."

She bustled about as he watched for a moment. Goldenrod was like an insect, jittering all around, moving from one job to another. Her hands flew over the mantle, destroying invisible specks of grime until the piece shined. Vermillion was beyond her notice now. He knew that, and faded back into the white rooms, leaving Goldenrod to her tasks. Best not to force anything, he supposed.

Once out of the room, he found himself sitting down, staring again at walls and the floor. Thoughts that were dangerous poured into his head. Vermillion touched on them before recoiling. Eventually though, as they always seemed to do now, those thoughts sent out their seductive tones again, and he began to explore, left alone once again.

It was times like this when he was grateful that the past was his forte. How much more difficult something like this would be if Vermillion was a reader instead of a rememberer.

Sparkles of the day crossed his path and he snatched at them, analyzed and released.

"Vermillion?"

Vermillion\'s eyes opened. "Yes?"

"Are you –"

He stood and left the room.



Why is night evil? Why is day good? Why is killing bad? Why is saving wonderful? Who decreed that life is better than death? Whoever it was, bring him to me please. Bring her to me. Let me teach – the night is not evil. The day is not good. Killing with a purpose is not bad, and saving without intention cannot be wonderful. And how could you know that life is better than death? Have you died? I did once. It was beautiful.

***

She was curled up on her floor, hands twisted together. Indigo\'s eyes fluttered shut. She was lost in thought. It was not a typical pastime – thinking wasn\'t overly encouraged. To be lost in something so indelicate, well, it was better to keep to herself for times like these. Indigo began a tap-tap-tapping rhythm with her right hand, keeping pace with her heart. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. She wasn\'t sure what cause the little jumps, but they made for an interesting break in the pattern.

She inhaled, then blocked her airways, held her breath. Slowly the white room began to darken to grey. Indigo shook her head to clear it. It didn\'t work. She shook it again, and the room went even darker, as speckles of black appeared in her vision.