Fan Fiction ❯ Depth Perception ❯ The Mantle-piece ( Chapter 5 )

O.k, I'm posting this quickly but I wanted to get to a point in the plot where it begins to make more sense. This is also a crucial chapter so read carefully. The opening quote is from Ariel by Sylvia Plath.

 

Chapter 5: The Mantle-piece.

 

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue, Pour of tor and distances.

 

“From the information I've compiled he is relatively tall, around 5.9 feet, has black hair, dark blue eyes and was last sighted wearing a mid-length black coat with a casual t-shirt and a pair of distressed jeans. The suspect is now considered to be dangerous and must be apprehended immediately. He was last spotted leaving custody after charges were suspended against him. All personal are now assigned to this case.”

 

Am I dreaming now, or is this just my fantasy?

 

I'm peering into your eyes. The forest surrounds us, expansive, almost closing in around the two of us. The leaves brush against my face and turn to pine needles, abrading my skin. Everything is distorted. The sky opens up, almost as if gesturing to me. It is now impossible to differentiate between night and day, black and white, it is now disclosed into my ear that the world is not governed by these once obvious and yet fundamental principals. Falling now, the earth caresses me, it holds me, grazing my equilibrium yet comforting me like a mother, mother Gaia. She whispers to me but I cannot make out the words, almost as if spoken in a foreign language but the relevence and meaning of them is still clear and obvious. My lips peel apart, trying to answer but my larynx is unable to produce sound. “Abigail” the voice now whispers, it continues but I have now awakened.

 

“Lloyd, Lloyd, wake up, were here”, the transition the comfort of dreams to reality is harsh, while sitting up in a jaded manner I glance over at Iris's concerned face and still, not to my surprise, have no recollection of our so called “relationship”. Her hair is dyed blond, she has coated her face subtle make-up but it is obviously not modestly applied. Thin lines decorate her forehead and give her a stern yet concerned expression. Her most prominent feature is her eyes. Light blue, like a husky dog's, with hints of a deep turquoise dappled around the pupils. For the first time I see the untold truth and emotion buried in those eyes and with that I begin to believe her impossible story, even though completely implausible. Maybe she truly thinks what she is implying has actually occurred, therefore convincing me of the impossible?

 

“Can you remember anything now? She whispers, gently directing the sentence towards my ear. “Look let's go up to the apartment, it might trigger something”, she soon utters softly; I respond; “O.k, this is so strange for me I'm sorry if I've been any trouble. Look, I never got to thank you, for getting me out of jail and for paying my bail.”, “Bail? Don't be ridiculous! You didn't do anything that bad, I was just collecting you, they rang me when the charges were dropped, I am your wife after all!”. I pause momentarily and try to re-absorb the full extent of this ongoing drama, “Yeah I guess you're right, tell me when we go up”, I say in an enthusiastic voice while deciding to ascertain as much more information as possible; before going home to find Abigail that is. Besides, I consider, I don't even have a wallet on me never the less money to hail a taxi. I look on as Iris unlocks the hideous Romanesque door to the red-brick building, tarnished with city smog. Iris now beckons to me with her hand, dressed neatly with a silk glove. I climb the three granite steps to the doorway and am guided in by a homely touch. We now stand in the entrance hall, silently.

 

The stairs to the top wind on, elevator being “out of order” we endure the arduous climb to the top. Iris brushes her hand against the once pebble dashed, now stone clad ochre wall. The lighting on the stairwell seems to dim with every blink. A moth is fluttering against the pulsating bulb; it burns itself and swoops downwards, spiralling, like a winged feather, floating towards the ground. While briefly pausing in my tracks Iris grabs my hand with a sense of fleeting urgency. She pulls me onwards. My senses heightened, I can now see the grain in the chipboard flooring, footsteps sounding like nails, slowly wrenching down a chalkboard, hyperbolised yet by the tingling sensations rising from the wooden steps into my calves. I snap myself out of this temporary trance and move onwards and upwards.

 

Before I can readjust to the environment the door to the apartment slams dauntingly behind me, sound echoing around the high ceilings, unsettling the dust on the antique light shade. Ornaments and various types of debris are scattered around the room, a grandiose television being its focal point. The wires falling from the computer in the corner intertwine like black and white snakes, permanently entangled. For a couple of seconds I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out my new. Soon afterwards, as if by some sort of instinct we both sit down in unison. Iris's body language seems reasonably guarded, her legs are tightly crossed, brushing off the blank quilted sofa gently; her arms are also neatly folded, giving off a cold psychiatric vibe from her once friendly and sympathetic stance. Unable to think of a suitable topic to lead the conversation I let her begin;

 

“You really can't remember anything?”, she says at an interrogative vocal level, lying through my teeth I proceed to reply; “No it's pretty surreal actually, probably dissociative amnesia or something, it happens after a sudden shock… I suppose you should tell me about myself anyway, I'd like to know what I work at; whether I'm a serial killer or not!”, I force a smile, her palette seems to digest the dry joke well, “I'm sorry, Lloyd… but this is just so strange. How would you feel in this situation, I mean… Oh well; um we've been married for 4 years and we were going to have a baby but it miscarried but… as for…oh well that's another subject, I'll fill you in later, when…”, her slightly jovial expression immediately darkens, revealing a degree of withheld information, this doesn't matter, I think, it's all falsified anyway. Iris continues her spiel, solemn expression slowly fading with the passing of each new sentence; “we've been living here for almost 5 years and you work as an apprentice lawyer in a local firm. You say you've been doing well but recently, over the past five or six months I haven't been seeing that much of you anymore, you said it was work but now I'm beginning to get concerned about you, Lloyd just tell me what's going on, we can't go I on like this”. She begins to look distressed and agitated. “Lloyd answer me!”.

 

I ponder on the conversation for a minute; didn't I first meet Abigail around five months ago, maybe six? Besides that Iris's genuine tone during her disclosure of information truly shocks me. How could a mad-woman or even an actress put so much emotion into a concocted lie? It's probably just another coincidence, I begin to consider and make an expression, gesturing her to continue “You were in Jail because you were struggling with security staff in a hospital? What were you doing there anyway… that's right you don't remember! But anyway when you explained yourself to the attendant and they called me a few hours ago after they dropped the charges…” Finally a clear and logical statement streams from her already soiled mouth but I wonder; how was I able to converse with the police and convey my previous situation without even remembering doing so? Again the bigger picture eludes me.

 

After delving in the very depths my thoughts, trying to rationalise the situation, I come to the conclusion that the woman must certainly be insane and the most perplexing fact of the matter is that it's even more deranged of me to be naive enough to be taken in by any of this rubbish. A feeling of anger seethes below my skin, fuelling me to uncontrollably stand up and shout;

 

“How can you just imply all of these things, I don't even know you! Are you a maniac or something? Have you ever even seen me before? And how could you even attempt make up such a cruel story, sick bitch! I'd never even think about getting married either, especially to someone like you and anyway I have a girlfriend, Abigail! Besides if this is true wouldn't you have to have some sort of evidence? Did you really think I could be taken in by all this crap? Well, speak up!

 

Sinking back into the puffy upholstery of the couch, Iris cringes at my sudden outburst of anger; her squinting eyes begin to glisten with unnecessary tears; eventually working their way down the crows' feet adjourned on her aging face, pathways sourcing from the region of her eye-lashes. Seated below the light, shadows shroud her face, emphasising the whites of her eyes, blending with that of the sofa. Her frightened glare flickers, in turn giving an ominous atmosphere to the room. Dust is suspended in the air. After a seemingly perpetual silence Iris begins to speak, stuttering with an untamed degree of emotion; “Just go over to the mantelpiece and look for your bloody evidence! And then get out Lloyd; I've taken enough of this, this crap! Ever since our wedding day you've been like this!” The stutter wavers in pitch, “I'm not putting up with it anymore and why don't you even think of…Look just get your stuff and get out, now!”.

 

From her last drawn string of nonsensical jargon one thing immediately strikes me “the mantelpiece”, what evidence could possibly lie on the mantelpiece anyway, this is genuinely becoming absurd now, I almost utter but bite my tongue, the clamp soon fails; I get up while erratically screaming “Kenith, my name is Kenith!”, she starts glance at me in a fixed state of horror and doesn't say another word. I instantaneously turn round and as Iris had said, this illusive mantelpiece comes into view. It is dotted with cheap wooden frames containing a miscellany of fading rainbow-coloured photographs. The now swinging light-bulb creates dancing reflections on the panes of glass covering the pictures. Their colours swirl and blend together in the mirage of light. I proceed closer and the images gradually begin to sharpen, slowly coming into view.

 

I now see that this seemingly innocent shelf above the fire is adjourned with many different photos, different photos of me and Iris, posing in an array of different positions. I stand there bedazzled at this, unable to decipher this apparent enigma. The one thing that immediately strikes me is a photo of me and Iris standing on the steps of a Gothic cathedral. Iris is clad in a classical white dress, with a flowing pale silk veil place above her forehead. I am holding her arm and have a genuine smile breaking the contours of the normalities of my face. I am also substantially younger and place myself at around 23. This isn't possible, I shout within the expanses of my mind. Taking another painful glance forward; the shelf itself now seems to be spatio-temporal, belonging to both space and time. These photographs are real, and this one moment is black and white to me, although the content of this moment is comparable to the completely impossible. These pictures were not produced in “Photo-shop”, they are reality.

 

I run out of the sitting-room and begin to frantically open doors in the hall, searching for “my room”. It turns out to be the last door, on the right. I slowly open the Georgian stylised entry-point. The green walls of the room glare at me, my favourite colour is red; how could this belong to me? A mahogany piano is placed by the full length window, fitted with multiple panes of transparent glass. A music rack and carousel of Cds is situated on a laminate, teak computer desk beside it. I cannot play the piano, never mind this one, nor have I even heard of any of the music placed so carefully and neatly around the room. But disregarding this, when I sit down at the instrument and caress the yellow tinted keys with my finger tips all seems strikingly familiar. Without warning my state of mind starts to change and I collapse into the comfort of sleep. The last thing I recall is my head coming into contact with the keys.

 

“The coroners report states that he bludgeoned Iris Gainsborough in the head with an ornamental glass vase. Upon impact her skull shattered, splinters of bone and blood came into contact with her brain causing convulsions and ultimately a seizure that was responsible her fatality. There is was no evidence of any apparent struggle, indicating Ms. Gainsborough knew the suspect. Evidence of attempted strangulation and lacerations were also detected on the body. Blood is said to have been present, in a vast degree on the floor and was splattered on some of the surrounding furniture as well. There were no signs of theft or vandalism in the house, besides one ornate mantle-piece where the pictures were deliberately smashed and thrown in the fire. This further indicates that the crime was motiveless and we could possibly have a psychopath on our hands.”

 

I regain consciousness in a bath-tub, my bath-tub, my flat. Never have I been so warmly greeted by the peeling paint and damp marks of a room. The light from the window is streaming in, indicating the onset of dawn which fully re-awakens me in the process. I sit up and hoist my legs over the edge of the tub, pulling myself out. While peering into the mirror I detect a smear of blood that has stained my cheek. I turn on the tap and wash the stain away, the water momentarily runs red. There is no cut present on the surface of my cheek. I look into the bath. There are particles of water melding together on the bottom; scarlet red droplets of coagulated blood mixing with the contents of the tub.

 

Taking off my jacket, I now see the red stains decorating my white t-shirt. Shock sets in. I rip off the remainder of my clothing and realise it is not my blood. Everything seems to rush into my head and a feeling of faintness ensues. While trying to support my weight against the cistern a bird swoops down from the sky. I watch it, unable to open the window in time, diving towards the glass. The bird hits the window with a deafening crack, completely shattering the only unbroken pane of glass left in the window. The creature flutters into the bath tub, dazed by the incident. As watch its grey feathers soak up the sediment of the bath and turn crimson everything begins to loose focus. Once again I fall over the toilet and am sick.

 

That's another one down & at least some questions were answered! I hope you're still enjoying it & the next chapter explains more too! I know the fic. seems weird right now too but you begin to be told things more blatantly as it progresses further. Again, Feedback on each chapter is much appreciated. Thank you and goodbye!