mansion noise
words by Sarayu Kurra, art by Tori Ochave
A gust of wind rustled dead leaves, as spiders scattered across the creaky floorboards of the eerie mansion. The window door rhythmically banged against the side of the brick wall. The girl followed the sound up the broken stairwell, collecting cobwebs of intertwined memories on her journey of reminiscence.
The mansion reminded her of her now broken self. Its once grandiose granite countertops and painted windows were replaced by dust, cracks, and splayed shards of stained glass.
But, granite doesn’t crack, she remembered. It melts. It melts like she did the last time she felt alive in the mansion, before it crumbled out of its majestic state: its chandeliers glowing, tapestries of battle heroes decorating the walls, and not a speck of dust withholding on the shiny brown floors.
Another gust of wind. A bang. Like a whisper. Run.
Another gust of wind. A bang. She remembered light pouring into the now dark bedroom, haunted by sporadic screams and small dips of moonlight. She remembered the scent of sweet smoke from the fireplace and her father telling her stories of war. A gust from the window. A bang. Like a flying bullet.
The girl made her way to the dining room, letting the cold air carry her. She remembered the glow of the gold candelabra on a long, sturdy dining table, illuminating her mother’s pointed features and long evening gown. Moonlight now traced the features of a shadow across the fragmented dining room table. A woman that she thought looked like her with graying hair and eyes that carried a warning. Another gust of wind. A bang. Like a whisper. Run.
The girl blinked. The candelabra is on the floor.
On the other side, she could see her mother saving her pearls and her father saving his pride.
The wind is replaced by heat and the bangs are replaced by cries and prayers. The blue flames race across the floor of the dining room, competing with the scramble of guests running out the door. Chairs being used as salvaging mechanisms to escape the chasm beneath. Screams shatter the stained glass. The girl whirled around to see the fine tapestry of Napoleon burn. On the other side, she could see her mother saving her pearls and her father saving his pride.
And so here the mansion lies. The remnants of the flames a high social status could induce. A beacon of light turned cold and weary.
Amongst the chaos, they said they would come back for her. And so the girl prayed for the cold as she was engulfed in red and orange.
But her prayers were only answered in exchange for her life. And so here she stays. Forever trapped in the memory of betrayal.
