Silhouette

Note: At this point, I have reached so far back into my collection of flash fiction and poetry that my writing skills may have been a bit questionable. I wouldn't say I'm embarassed, but it isn't my best though I was proud whenever I wrote it more than three years go, and thus it warrants a post on the blog. My writing in my book - yes, I've written a book that is awaiting publication - is much better. I also realise that I had a tendency to write macabre thriller-esque pieces. That is definitely not the case now. Regardless, enjoy.

It was a picturesque townhouse, just like any other. Windows positioned in uniform stacks of three, coated with a mundane shade of blue, reminiscent of the gloomy skies that seemed to encase that part of town exclusively. The people itself were the embodiment of a sombre lifestyle, either waiting in queues with the unusual patience of penguins, or watching the ‘eventful’ news broadcast, sometimes loud enough for people in another continent to hear, but on the whole, quiet. But the most invigorating part of the week would be the hordes of people, buckled and belted and full of excitement for their evening walks, chattering like mynahs at dusk and releasing a whoop of joy every now and then, hoping to resemble an uncontrolled army in an effort to pepper the place with some energy, as they’d meander lazily through the streets. A guest in this town was as, if not more, rare than one seeing a beached whale. Yet despite all the attempts to liven up the lifeless town, what the people enjoyed most was, on a clear day, to lay sprawled on the lush grass and gaze at the clouds, a blanket of soft threads, through which the light of the laughing sun would shimmer through, like myriad streamers floating through the sky as the free wind caressed the skin of the people.

But every now and then, sheets of torrential rain blanketed the town, enveloping it in a ghostly mist, an unforgettable shade of grey that would linger on for days. Once it had settled, a cool breeze almost like a sharpened blade, would slither through the dull town and leave invisible scars on whoever the blade’s tip met, but to the people, it was simply the dry, bitter wind.

It was night time and the deafening silence was disturbed, when the occupants, a man and a woman, heard the raucous rattle of aggressive knocking on the aged, wooden door reverberate through the house, circling every corner like a dervish. As the man, his heart leaping into his mouth, slowly made his way towards the door, he was met with a wraithlike silhouette, an eerily stark contrast between the night sky, illuminated by the pearl-esque moon and the jet black figure standing on the porch, unwavering in his stance with a spectral glare, fuelled by an inhuman sense of determination.

Upon opening the door, the man’s face broke into a forced smile, upon seeing the guest’s warm grin and whiskey tinted eyes. The opposing men greeted each other, as they exchanged glares and bare smiles, while inspecting every single feature. The man couldn’t help but feel like he had the aura of a shadow, it was familiar, like an extension of oneself, a reflection of what he was in the past, yet a sense of danger lingered. And slowly, the tension started to leave his body as he realised that his sins had finally caught up with him.

He welcomed the shadowy figure into his house, lit by warm, glowing lights, filled with the wonderful aroma of sandalwood, adorned with furniture in velvety maroons, deep oranges and a yellow reminiscent of those in a field of reeds. On the walls were mementos of sorts, of the man’s past and his travels, which the shadow gazed upon, emotionless. They sat down near the fireplace, both admiring the beautiful embers spewed out by the dancing flames, both knowing what the outcome was to be.

The woman called out as to who it was, but received no answer. Curious, she went down, trembling slightly. And as she saw a pool of a viscous red liquid and the man’s cold, emotionless eyes, she screamed.