Downstairs there is a Party
Downstairs there is a Party
Downstairs there is a party. The ladies arrive steadily, entering in their refined manners, expensive bracelets sliding up and down their bony wrists. Their dresses, purchased on husband’s credit cards with the airiness others would display when buying a loaf of bread, seem to fill the room creating a wash of colour and an overwhelming stench of claustrophobia. The men, in starched white shirts and pressed suits and combed hair stand equally tidily around the piano. Though in the midst of celebration, they are thoughtful and silent, arms folded as their heads beat gently in time to the music.
One stares into his glass of champagne, fingers itching to play the piano himself. He turns to observe his wife, who stands with friends she cares little for, mouth open in false laughter. She too clutches drink, grey fillings on display to the crowd as she delivers a rehearsed, emotionless display of merriment. The man, suddenly filled with unexplainable loneliness, slips quietly away from the crowd. His polished shoes click across the floor as he strides, champagne still swirling around in his glass. He finds himself in the kitchen, where two of the ladies have escaped and are screwing the cork from one of the mountain of liquor bottles into a bottle of another description. The man stops, observes, fists clenched.
It barley fits; one is clutching the smooth brown container in manicures hands while the other attempts to force the cork in as gracefully as possible. Their eyes fall on him, and their Botox ridden faces stretch into smiles as phoney as that of his wife’s. The man is asked to assist. He is told that the hostesses’ daughter is ill, and the lid of her medicine has been lost among the mountain of toys piled up in her room. He is asked to push the cork into the bottle of vile smelling liquid, a simple request and one he can fulfil while in keeping with the mock politeness and sombre celebration of the party. Yet the man, as his hand extends to take the medicine, fills a rushing of blood and a deep growl rumble in his throat. Something pulses behind his eyeballs, and without warning tears of bitterness and panic are sliding down his face.
The man smashes the bottle to the ground and runs. He sprints past the piano, past his wife and the friends he cannot engage with. He runs into the street and into torrential rain which soaks through his ludicrously expensive suit. His hair is plastered to his head, his legs stiff at the sudden burst of energy. He hasn’t run like that that in years.
Finally he reaches an alley and slumps against it’s crumbling, moss covered wall. His heart thuds furiously as he slides, defeated to the floor, slipping into a puddle of alarming wetness. His tears dissolve into nothing, mixed with the rain and sweat enveloping him as he continues to sob. He cries like a child, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking gently in time to his gasps as he did previously to the melody of the piano. He catches his breath for a moment, rakes the hair from his face, and begins to cry again, alone with memories he believed he had buried forever. As he buries his head in his arms, images of his past dance tauntingly before him.
The man looks into the eyes of his younger self, cowering on the filthy ground of a cell where blood stained the walls and the stench of urine filled his nostrils. The firm hand of someone who didn’t care being placed on his shoulder and dragging him to a room with walls that seemed to close in on him. The spits, the questions, the unquestioned belief that he was evil flood back to him as he curls up alone in the ally. Yet he continues to file through his memories, until he comes to something so utterly unbearable that he leaps up in a sudden burst of intense, long forgotten grief.
The feeling of her, lying against him as life was slowly drained from her body fills him with such misery that he howls like a wounded animal and smashes his fist into the wall. His knuckles sting with pain, yet it does nothing to mask the memories he can no longer control. He recalls gulping down vile thick liquid, feeling it burn his throat and squeezing her hand in his as she mimicked his actions. He remembers pulling her into his arms as the chemicals within them took hold and the huddled under the thin sheets stamped with the logo of the cheap hotel. It is at this point that his memories become jumbled; confused and only fleeting moments of their last conversation are able to torture him. He is overwhelmed by the whispered “I love you’s” and the recollection of awaking sometime when the hotel was still consumed by blackness to find he was very much alive and she lay dead beside him.
The man again runs. He has no idea where he is going, yet he cannot bear to stay in the wet. It is late and no shops or pubs are open, he has nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. His mind again directs him to the moment he has been afraid to dwell on for twenty years. His younger self strokes her hair, tells her it is over and not to be afraid. Yet he is lying as he is aware that any moment, someone, somewhere will realise what he has done.
The man, alone again, continues to run into the nights consuming blackness.
One stares into his glass of champagne, fingers itching to play the piano himself. He turns to observe his wife, who stands with friends she cares little for, mouth open in false laughter. She too clutches drink, grey fillings on display to the crowd as she delivers a rehearsed, emotionless display of merriment. The man, suddenly filled with unexplainable loneliness, slips quietly away from the crowd. His polished shoes click across the floor as he strides, champagne still swirling around in his glass. He finds himself in the kitchen, where two of the ladies have escaped and are screwing the cork from one of the mountain of liquor bottles into a bottle of another description. The man stops, observes, fists clenched.
It barley fits; one is clutching the smooth brown container in manicures hands while the other attempts to force the cork in as gracefully as possible. Their eyes fall on him, and their Botox ridden faces stretch into smiles as phoney as that of his wife’s. The man is asked to assist. He is told that the hostesses’ daughter is ill, and the lid of her medicine has been lost among the mountain of toys piled up in her room. He is asked to push the cork into the bottle of vile smelling liquid, a simple request and one he can fulfil while in keeping with the mock politeness and sombre celebration of the party. Yet the man, as his hand extends to take the medicine, fills a rushing of blood and a deep growl rumble in his throat. Something pulses behind his eyeballs, and without warning tears of bitterness and panic are sliding down his face.
The man smashes the bottle to the ground and runs. He sprints past the piano, past his wife and the friends he cannot engage with. He runs into the street and into torrential rain which soaks through his ludicrously expensive suit. His hair is plastered to his head, his legs stiff at the sudden burst of energy. He hasn’t run like that that in years.
Finally he reaches an alley and slumps against it’s crumbling, moss covered wall. His heart thuds furiously as he slides, defeated to the floor, slipping into a puddle of alarming wetness. His tears dissolve into nothing, mixed with the rain and sweat enveloping him as he continues to sob. He cries like a child, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking gently in time to his gasps as he did previously to the melody of the piano. He catches his breath for a moment, rakes the hair from his face, and begins to cry again, alone with memories he believed he had buried forever. As he buries his head in his arms, images of his past dance tauntingly before him.
The man looks into the eyes of his younger self, cowering on the filthy ground of a cell where blood stained the walls and the stench of urine filled his nostrils. The firm hand of someone who didn’t care being placed on his shoulder and dragging him to a room with walls that seemed to close in on him. The spits, the questions, the unquestioned belief that he was evil flood back to him as he curls up alone in the ally. Yet he continues to file through his memories, until he comes to something so utterly unbearable that he leaps up in a sudden burst of intense, long forgotten grief.
The feeling of her, lying against him as life was slowly drained from her body fills him with such misery that he howls like a wounded animal and smashes his fist into the wall. His knuckles sting with pain, yet it does nothing to mask the memories he can no longer control. He recalls gulping down vile thick liquid, feeling it burn his throat and squeezing her hand in his as she mimicked his actions. He remembers pulling her into his arms as the chemicals within them took hold and the huddled under the thin sheets stamped with the logo of the cheap hotel. It is at this point that his memories become jumbled; confused and only fleeting moments of their last conversation are able to torture him. He is overwhelmed by the whispered “I love you’s” and the recollection of awaking sometime when the hotel was still consumed by blackness to find he was very much alive and she lay dead beside him.
The man again runs. He has no idea where he is going, yet he cannot bear to stay in the wet. It is late and no shops or pubs are open, he has nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. His mind again directs him to the moment he has been afraid to dwell on for twenty years. His younger self strokes her hair, tells her it is over and not to be afraid. Yet he is lying as he is aware that any moment, someone, somewhere will realise what he has done.
The man, alone again, continues to run into the nights consuming blackness.