Title: Passing
It was just before late June that I first decided to mention my perilous adventures to my only grandson, Will. I had no particular reason for postponing my recount but after my recent heart attack and diagnosis of asthma, I had barely enough energy or conscience to allow movement within my body. So it was on June 26, after much pestering and threats, that I actually travelled to one of the most strangest rooms.
It was confusing. To one side, partially submerged in the inky darkness, was memorabilia for James Bond. There were faded figurines,photographs and t-shirts of this which seemed almost different in contrast to the room’s ceaseless 17th century cottage-like interior. There were oak wood shelves laden with mysterious objects and a stone fireplace, at the heart of the room, was roaring beside a desk. On top of this, to the right, were four ancient armchairs covered with dull eiderdowns and to finish, a woollen carpet tucked behind these as a souvenir for the troubles and happiness the room had to face.
The room seemed almost alien to me when I first arrived. It had been several years, 4 years, 2 months and 22 days to be precise, before this was my main household and after 3 hours, I became accustomed to my once familiar surroundings. It became clear that this room was somewhat ancient for it was crammed with so many artefacts that one could have called it a paradise for archaeologists.
Nevertheless, every second almost developed my love for this room and even the fireplace, with its burning embers, created an encouraging fantasy. So with everything scrutinised by my detective eye, I started to place my magic(i.e. pristine) onto impressing my grandson. It was quite critical for this may as well diagnose me as the doctors had claimed me with asthma. …1 day later…
He entered. It was hard not to notice him for he was the only mobile object in the room. The room so stationery(due to my hard-work) that he almost disturbed the tranquillity and presentation of the room itself. Footsteps began to emerge. They quickened but soon lowered to a monotonous drumming. In a matter of seconds, they abruptly stopped in some sort of command and the calmness, thankfully, was restored. I had to give it to him. Anyone who had not been seen for an innumerable amount of years was surely an invader or an enemy likewise. And so I was too. He…
looked at me. He looked at me! I was basked in his warmth and goodness for just a second. And it was almost as if he was angel sent from heaven. But it soon changed. He glimpsed at me. I glimpsed at him back. I looked at a boy who was troubled. He obviously had a nervous past for behind his eyes, in the deep core, was a meek boy and if looks could kill, I would be dead already.
The prolonged silence was shattered by a voice. It was a deep and mournful voice that one experiences in a funeral yet I somehow knew this was made for me and these private reservations would soon be put into action. ” Who are you? You know that I am only here for one day so don’t push it,” cried Will, who although harboured the repetitive teenager attitude, was not prepared for such a hostile if not slightly tense atmosphere. I chose quite a frail and squeaky voice: “Your grandfather and don’t speak to me like that. I won’t accept something like that!” I bellowed at the top of my voice. The message had evidently seeped in (a bit too much) for now he had appeared to elevate to an emotional wreck. So much anger had been vented into him, that he did not recognise the repetition within my speech. I had first realised this on my second exploit to Africa where I had contracted a rare(if not highly likely in the northern regions of Europe) speech impediment. It was after that he regained his school boy confidence and an unique replacement for his language, that he settled, with difficulty, onto a shabby-looking chair.
At first I told him of my childhood. Of my first words, first tumbles, first friends and my first love. Then came the negative part, me leaving, my worst enemies and my worst fights. But all throughout, there he sat, as glassy-eyed from the start to the imminent finish. In this way he looked interested and amazed, not just feigning a certain emotion for if he done so, there would be a lack of focus and concentration. But no, it was genuine and this realness seemed to lighten and adapt the dusty interior of the room.
But above all, it was not this that fascinated him the most. In fact, he seemed less interested in my first account than of my second story. After my first account, I decided to give him some orange juice and a plate of biscuits so that the environment would not be lost in the thought of hunger. Over a ”very healthy” meal, I executed my second story in hope that engrossment would be dependent on consumption.
“So let us start with the best part of my whole account,” I said, for it was the best introduction I could think up of. “Yes, go ahead. I am hard to impress or get scared through fear. I am a difficult audience,” said Will. “We know. So let us start in a village. The year is 1948 and there has been a recent hit for murder. Devon is riddled with crime and poverty. It may be something of love or not fear yet it is not a place you want to be in right now,”I accounted. “I am walking down a street. It seems to be ceaseless for on my right there seems to be an incessant ivy-clad wall whilst on my left,an innumerable amount of shops. They seem to be abandoned; there are clear signs of this. Walls are partly inwards, windows are smashed with their remnants silenced and products of each shop have been stolen so that it may as well be a paradise here for any sort of criminal. To my eyes, there has been the same fate to the whole street; no wonder it’s damned. There is the same treatment and future for this street. In this way, the surroundings develop my feelings towards what happened next. I stop. There are faint if not very quiet screams around the corner. They become louder but soon returned to a slow rhythmic pattern. I approach the source of the noise and I know far too much about the feeling of fear. I know the consequences if I stray too far.”
I take a brief pause then continue: “When I approach, I see a horrific sight. A dark-visaged man, face covered in the hood of his garment, was standing in front of me. He was armed for in his right hand was a knife. It was bloodied perhaps from recent killings but this was not what disturbed me the most. I was slightly startled to see a woman in his arms; a baby was clutched in her chest. He was hostile, she was screaming at all her lungs capacity. The baby is weeping in her arms. The man sees me. He drops the maniacal laugh at replaces it with a stern and serious look. He is worried. I can clearly see beads of sweat dropping at lightning speed. He is cornered. The only way for him to survive is to make one choice and this decision is what I disgust. In his nervous and tense wreck, the man murders the lady. Her head is cut open and she is dying.There is not much for me to do. He runs away with no trace. I am by her side and I hear her last breaths. I do all I can to revive her but it is useless. She is breathing yet she will not survive. Her breaths lower until there are no more. The baby is still crying. She will keep on until she cries herself to sleep.” ” I am amazed at how fear may be portrayed. It is of great hurt to be in such a situation like this. The killing did not strike fear into me but in fact the crying. One thing I do know is that I would enjoy to experience my past experiences of fear than to hear the monotonous cry of the baby as it sulked for the longing of its dead mother.”
…26 days later…
It is a rainy day. It has been rainy for the past few weeks and yet it is summer. It somehow reflects my mood for there has been an almost separation between my body and soul. In some ways, I feel my body is not present any more and it may be to do with my age but I am not entirely sure. But the reaction is all the same. I seem them in black clothing, my daughter and hers in a dress and her husband in a suit. Their heads are on a downward incline and are stooping over a black object. They are quiet and silent,armed with handkerchiefs, and are sulking so much that it could put a river to shame. All my belongings are being moved and taken away. Now that the ceremony is underway, flowers and wreaths are being placed. Yet no one is telling me what is happening. I am right in front of them and they continue like I am a nobody. I will stay that way until someone joins me, confused and perplexed as I am, whilst they are sulking and handkerchiefs are dabbing in their silent homage.
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