Honey Due's Blog, page 7

Arc-en-ciel (Part 2)

He heard the noises long before he saw the flashing lights. Despite his age, the old man still had perfect hearing.

They’re looking for me, he thought. And it felt nice because nobody had looked for him in a mighty long time. His children, now grown-ups with tedious jobs and most sour faces, seemed to take him for granted, as if he’d always be there, at the home, just waiting for the Sundays, when they’d come visit and his world would be filled with meaning once more.

Of course, if you asked them, they would’ve never admitted to feeling this way about their dear old Dad, who was, by and large, still quite in his prime. No, they would never tell you that, yet they did this thing where they gracefully accepted the roles of miracles in the old man’s life and while the old man loved them all dearly, they were by far not miracles. Not his, at least.

The old man was called Andreas and he’d always known that although nice, his children weren’t that far from completely ordinary. And he’d always known they would not, in the long term, prove to be worthwhile companions, although it pained him greatly to admit this, even now. But he needed someone destined for adventure, like he was.

And so far, the only person he had encountered that fit the description was himself.

So, Andreas walked on, hearing the voices in his head grow louder, while the buzzing of the helicopter grew fainter behind him until it disappeared completely. And he let it go.

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Andreas had been listening to the voices for close to fifty seven years now, ever since he was a boy, and he heard the, one cold afternoon, playing in his backyard. They had told him then to get on his little play-bike and ride with them to the far-out edge of town and even as a small boy, Andreas had known that these voices were not to be ignored or played with. So, he’d done what they said and he rode to the edge of town only to find the faces of his ancestors, all looking up at him from the cold dirt. And the woman.

The woman with the soft blonde hair and the eyes like melting honey. And she smiled and looked through him and Andreas knew, then and there, that she was not real.

‘You came for me,’ she whispered into the boy’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. ‘You promised me, and now here you are.’

And then she did the most perfect thing – she smiled down at him and her face and entire body lit up with a million brimming fireflies.

‘But I’ve never met you,’ the boy said, confused.

‘In another life, you promised. Don’t worry, little one, this will all make sense to you one day.’

And she left him, wrapped in a cloud of flashing lights, like a rainbow in an archway, hidden behind a door to some other place. And through all his life, Andreas had followed the image of this strange woman, that lead him from place to place, through danger and happiness and sorrow and terrible excitement.

And now, he hoped, was finally the time when it would all make sense to him.

To be continued.

Sometime-voices (Part 1)

He sat in the park, but the voices wouldn’ go away. It was the third time this week he was doing this and he knew Nurse Addleton wouldn’t stand for it.

If he walked up to her one more time and told her he was having a headache again, they would definitely put him on stronger meds. And he didn’t like the stronger meds because they made his head bleary. Sure, they got rid of the headaches and the voices, but they also got rid of his memories. Last time, he forgot his own grandchildren, for crying out loud and he’d be damned if it happened again just because of some silly voices.

He had hoped the cold November air would clear his head a little, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

It’s decided, he thought, as he got up off the wooden bench. It had been in the making a long time, to tell you the truth and now that it was finally here, he was more than a little excited.

What came next was the most natural thing in the world. He would leave, as he had a million times before. As he’d left Laney that one winter morning and never came back.

They’d look for him for a while, just like Laney, but then they’d forget about him, just as she had.

The old man packed his bags, which came up, come to think of it, to really only one bag – three neatly-folded shirts he’d owned for 40 years, two pairs of brown trousers (his jeans got torn last Christmas and it had been a relief, ’cause they weren’t comfortable anyway) and a stack of photos. To tell you the truth, he liked the photos best of all, for they reminded him of all the faces he’d forgotten.

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The old man went down the hallway without as much as a glance from the other residents and he assumed they were taking the role of willing accomplice. Either that or they didn’t see him go by.

These days, they weren’t seeing all that much.

He ducked under the scanner at the door and he was gone, just as easily as he’d come to the Atkinson Home for Old Crones.

Of course, that was only what the old man called it.

He wondered as he went down the gravel road, if his grandkids would remember to look for him or if they, too, would forget after a while.

That needn’t matter now, he told himself, for he had a new purpose in life.

The old man left to follow the voices.

To be continued.