•••🖤dawn of a dull day: go, my child, I'm good! (fiction)
there again he bounced against the door, poor paul dying to escape that clutching dark.
the door was not just locked - it was bolted and barred.
prisoner of his own four walls.
death answered that find, by calling his name, calling him somewhere it could face him.
paul entered the room where his mum was kept, frozen and just unearthly.
he touched the casket where she eternally slept, only slightly graced by the family gold, tampon in the nostrils.
her gracious face had been powdered, neatened up to be...fit to be seen.
in a minute or two his father, sitting there asleep, would tell him to open those fucking doors so more people he'd never seen could come and mourn poor iris and have some whiskey-laden tea, and maybe start another row - as usual in wakes.
paul's azure stare, placed like a caress on his mother's heart, flied off to consider how haunting was his living room at the moment. the clocks' ticking time-signing had died, as their hands signed the hour iris left the world.
there was no mirror in the house that wasn't covered in a white damask sheet. paul closed his eyes, breathing the dusty air, tainted by head-spinning candle smoke.
'so you don't start thinking you're next, paul' his dad had said, helping to cover the last mirror.
he sighed, letting his eyes open. Iris, in her last photograph, smiled to him warmly. she dearly seemed to say, in a complicit whisper, 'go, paul! I'm fine up here, go!' young paul opened up his eyes wide, their blue gleaming with the gold of the frame.
'don't worry, my child, go!' she invited. here, now he also heard voices. he looked around, finally meeting the keys right next to his father. he sneaked close, heart pounding in enormous fear of being shouted at.
and there, his father woke up. paul could already sense his tightness around his neck, the scold so close.
he couldn't stand it anymore.
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