Post by armand on Aug 23, 2011 1:44:55 GMT
It vainly comes just crashing down...
in this sad and forgotten little town.
Rain pounded down from the sky resiliently on this particular evening. A giant stretch of clouds – grey and dark with the weight of water – suffocated the usual light of day, and there was not even a drop of the pale blue behind them. There was nothing but darkness. For hours now, the pattering of rain had filled the timid alleyways and buildings of Manuka. Shallow streams of water flowed into crevices and flooded potholes, and the few people on the streets ran with umbrellas turning inside out and arms projected over the faces as if to shield from bright lights. But to no avail. It would only keep pouring until the sun dipped beneath the horizon. So it had been forecasted in the papers and on public television, and so it would be.
There was on man, however, who had not cursed upon hearing the tapping of raindrops against his window panes this morning. He did not think of it as a stroke of bad luck when lightening flashed and illuminated his apartment with vibrant light like dozens of candles. Nor did the sound of thunder perturb any notions of escaping the shelter of his home. In fact, he found it all serendipitous. Alluring. Storms meant one sweet, blissful thing for Armand: freedom. For years he’d played as slave to the sunlight, hiding from it beneath layers of quilts and sheets with teeth ground together and trembling fists clenched by his head as he dreaded its steady approach, hoping to God that sleep would find him soon. And for years he’d gladly embraced the night as his day, and the moon and gossamer stars as his sun and clouds. Only when the day was gloomy and wet would Armand venture out.
Usually, Armand would spend these days inside of the enticing shops and restaurants that Manuka had to offer. The Steaming Bean for a delicious caramel macchiato, then to the multiplex in search of a new menu to raid. After, he liked to slip into antique shops and gawk at things he could never afford, fingertips always roaming over engraved table tops and dust ridden jewelry boxes, obstinately ignoring those signs plastered from entrance to exit that read quite clearly in black and white: DO NOT TOUCH! But there was to be no macchiato today. Nor would he set foot into the antique shops or sample new cuisines. Today… Armand had planned out the festivities for today a long while ago. It included no shops, no streets, no antiques, and (more importantly) no people.
Weeks ago, Armand had strayed from his usual route home from La Vie en Rose, as he found himself doing more and more frequently. He’d taken a winding, dirt path with his back to the arches of bridges and buildings with his amber eyes lingering over the thick of unyielding, ghoulish trees and foliage ahead. It was some distance after he’d been submerged in wildlife and untamed wilderness that he’d happened to stumble across what must have been an old work-shed. Armand was enthralled by it, but hadn’t the heart to enter alone. It was too dark inside, too daunting for someone like him – and the idea of going inside now gave him the uncomfortable sensation of being closed in a suffocating coffin or buried beneath unforgiving layers of earth. Terrified, he’d turned tail and run until both the shed and the towering cypresses were out of sight.
When he had reached the safety of his home, Armand was ashamed of his cowardice. Much of his time was spent romanticizing about what he might have found inside of the withering boards of walls, and what might have been added to his collection. There had been a few times that he’d found the path again and stood at its start, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tried to summon the courage to go forward. But no matter how much he encouraged himself to go back, it always ended the same: he would turn and walk home, murmuring to himself, “Another night, Armand. Another time.” But for a long while, Armand was sure that the time would never come. Would he ever be able to swallow his fears and take the initiative to step past the rotting doorway? He couldn’t imagine that he would. That is, until he’d caught word of a storm brewing. It would be the most impressive storm that Manuka had seen in years, he’d heard a customer saying, capable of flooding the whole damn city. Undeterred by the thought of flooding, Armand had hurried home to mark the date on his calendar. He’d waited for its arrival impatiently, and now, it had finally arrived.
Armand followed the damp, red dirt path after fantasizing for weeks of doing just that. His boots sank into mud and squelched as he pulled them free, the rain still beating down on his shoulders as relentlessly at it had done when he’d left his home. By the time that he’d staggered blindly to the shed, his white, button down was soaked so thoroughly that it was translucent upon his skin, and his uneven bangs were slick and slathered onto his cheeks like streaks of straw-colored paint. For a moment, he hesitated outside. Thunder roared and lightening flared as his eyes, make up smearing from them and dripping down to his cheeks, lingered over the roof which was falling in, and completely taken over by moss. Vaguely, he envisioned the whole place falling onto his head as soon as he were to go inside, but he shook his head and stepped beyond the hollow doorframe anyhow.
Being inside was hardly an escape from the weather. The entire place seemed to have been taken over by nature. Dust coated the walls and the floor, and moss grew in thick patches even on the walls inside. Water dripped excessively from a place in the roof that was, as he’d noticed outside, indeed falling in. Now, as he moved deeper into the shed, he saw that it had not only already fallen in, but the floor below had given in to the weight of the debris. A large, splintering hole gaped from in the middle of the place, and in its midst there was nothing but darkness. And something that sounded much too like the soft chitterling and pawing of rats for Armand’s comfort. He recoiled, feet leading him in reverse until his back tapped lightly against a window. Despite himself, he was starting to regret this little adventure of his.
There were no treasures to be found here, only a few old gardening tools and pots of undeterminable types of plants with leaves of all kinds of colors. Oddly enough, they were the only things that were even slightly kempt. And aside from Armand himself, they were the only things that looked as if they just didn’t belong. He was disappointed by it. All the time he’d wasted, all the pointless, romantic dreaming had been in vain. Armand thought to turn and leave right that very moment. But something stopped him. Something light dropped onto his shoulder just as he’d gone to push away from the window. And it was moving down his arm. Armand was frozen in horror. It took a few moments for him to force his gaze upon his forearm, which he extended at an awkward angle – as far away from his body as he could possibly manage.
Eight large, stocky, furry legs moved along the sleeve of his button-down with a sickening kind of grace, and what appeared to be hundreds of beady little black eyes gleamed on a fat head in a flash of lightening. Pincers gave a terrible click. And Armand felt very, very light headed as a violin-shaped body came to rest over the back of his hand, the coarse, warm hairs along the under-belly of this unwelcome creature sending an array of shudders along his spine. It was the biggest spider he’d ever seen. And there was no doubt in his mind by the way that it carried itself, by the intimidating shape of its forceps and flexibility of its extensions, that it was deadly. He felt the hairs on his neck stand straight up on end. What luck he had. What terrible, terrible luck.
The spider seemed to wind down. Its legs stayed motionless and its pincers only clicked from time to time. Its giant, pointed abdomen was pressed flush against Armand’s skin as it rested. He could only stare down at it, half in fear and half in wonder. “What are you doing…?” He asked the spider, though he knew no response would come. It didn’t even stir. Deathly and toxic spider it was, but it made no move to attack. And Armand, though obviously flustered by its sudden exploration of his arm, found that the only fear that he had was instinct. The smallest shred of a ghosted instinct, left over from human life. This spider couldn’t kill him. It could hurt him, it could bite him. Venom would swell in his flesh until his body filtered it out, but he would never die. Perhaps that was why Armand made no move to scare it off or run away: there was no point to run from something that couldn’t have him. “Can’t kill me, if that’s what you’re wanting…” Armand muttered to it bitterly. Again, the spider was silent. He supposed there was no point in speaking to something that wouldn’t respond, either.
word count: 1,584
tag!: My darling Dali.
note:He's all yours, Ravana. Come and get him.I hate spiders. <<
