Through the cracks in the blinds I could see the holly bushes dance and shiver. The first icy drops of rain were plummeting lazily from the slate gray sky as the wind called out briefly in a breathy howl. Stark against the world in burnt yellows, vivid oranges, crimson reds and indigo, the leaves cascaded from the copse of bald cypress and sweet gum trees that separated the two front driveways of the southern plantation home. Behind the amber incandescence of my window, lost in the waning days of Autumn and my own melancholy morass, I regarded the landscape intently as the leaves chased each other across the yard like children.
Alone, I sat in the low glow of an antique cat desk lamp. Perched low, it's eyes blazed bright at me through green stones and it's dark iron tail curled up into a hook holding a Tiffany shade. A candle that smelled like a campfire crackled next to me, the glass collecting a black soot ring at it's top. I sipped a shot of whiskey and rolled the taste around on my tongue. In that moment, I realized that I couldn't smell the candle anymore; not unless I left the room and returned after some time had passed. It's amazing what we get used to. The senses subconsciously accept a constant stimulus and then seemingly shut down. Imagine if your vision became dim and foggy the more you looked at the same thing. I suppose, in a way, it does. Awareness can be a lazy mechanism when it thinks it's got it all figured out. Maybe that was where I went wrong? I could feel the focus of the dark thing in the corner behind me. I certainly didn't mean to let my guard down but it happened. It was all just... so damned easy.
"I should have killed myself when I had less empathy for everyone," I sighed to no one (to the shadow). How did all of this begin? In a childhood memory...
