Adventurous To The Marrow Is The Mask Of Cowardice

Velvet drops of blood on the white carpeted floors, splattered like a painting gone horribly wrong and attempted to being demolished for a reason unknown to its ignorant audience. Velvet drops of blood on the white painted walls, blotted like a shrink’s twisted tests to figure out the state of mind of an absent minded patient. Velvet drops of blood on the white stoned roof dripping onto the scar wrapped around my neck and tucked into the collar of my snug navvy sweater. Velvet drops of blood giving color to the unturned stones of the setting, one I am unfamiliar with; a place with yanked chandeliers and broken wooden flooring, apparently of a 60 year old yew tree from glance of an eye of expertise. Velvet drops of blood on every inch go this indecent castle plated with forgotten fortunes of gold and memories. It’s a slaughterhouse, and that thought is affirmed as I walk further to find wallpapered hallways and checked floors guiding me through into several rooms, the first being of a child, a girl. Baby pink duvets and lace curtains make up the main design go the space. Aside from the faded pink, there are broken dolls, a broken mirror, carpets torn by claws of what seems to be a wolf’s; the blood is everywhere, dry and of revolting stench. Petrified, I considered the option of looking away and forgetting of the very existence of this house, but something pulled me into staying: a force I never understood to this day. The next room was of simple tapestry and a silk covered king size bed. The master bedroom. It smelled of dead rats and a week old’s rotten meal, aside from the smell of blood of course. This is a site of genocide, it seems, but how was this not reported before? I walk deeper into the room, approaching the balcony. The glass had layers of dust, which I wiped off with the hem of my sleeve. Beyond the barrier, I saw light, radiant and intense, and in that light was a family of transparent physiques, but they had no heads, only bloody chopped necks. They’re happy, the married couple embracing, the children playing “Hide and Seek” blindly, and the nanny caring for the infant crawling on the yellow grass. They’re happy, but how? My skin shivers. A mass suicide? But why? I shut the curtain and fumble to the stairs, almost tripped as I haste towards the exit doors. I push the double hinged doors, only to  find the horse lying hoarse lying corpse of a man in a well-fitted suit of black, butcher’s knife in hand, throat slit and still soaking wet. Fresh blood. This is recent. I cross over it and rush off to the pavement in my minivan. Lesson learnt. 

30/11/2014 – 10/03/2015