The Castle

Posted in Prose by Sandra on November 7, 2007

No one really knew exactly when she began to inhabit that corner of the apartment more than her room. Perhaps no one cared, but it does not matter anymore.

Days dragged on, and the clocks around her apartment never once stopped moving. Their hands chased each other around, a never-ending loop of tag. People came and went, items shifted their places, and sounds rose and fell around her. Doors creaked opened timidly and slammed angrily shut, whilst the life contained within the apartment’s confines never once stopped moving.

Her shadow burned a permanent shadow of itself on the wall against which she leant, undisturbed in her protective sphere. She read books, papers, receipts, thoughts, lives, desires, sins and good deeds. Notes were taken of promises, of aspirations, of failures, of perseverance, of letting go, of simply giving up. She was writing a tome of her own, to add to the libraries of the world. She wrote about the famous, the infamous, the rich, the poor, the lovers, the haters, and the overlooked. People whisper, that she wrote about everyone.

She begged to differ. She wrote about people who can be remembered. Because of their quirks. Their deeds. Their charisma, or plain repulsiveness. Or perhaps it is only because she saw something in them that deserves more than what people around had accorded to them.

So she writes. She wrote and weaved fiction into fact and created a barrier between her and the people around her, the very people who had inspired her to such frenzied outpouring of words. A castle of words was built up around her, paper fluttering from the narrow window-slits masquerading as curtains, and paper carpetting the grounds, so that her feet may not touch the slippery sharp words she created.

Over time she began to yearn for the people. She peeked out of the window slits, and tried to climb the never-ending stairs, hoping to reach the top where she might look out over. To see what, she did not know. But she kept climbing anyway, hoping against hope that the words had not turned against her. Months dragged on, and soon she was crawling up the steps, fatigued beyond means. She had shrunk to a mere skeletal figure, hardly capable of even lifting a writing instrument

So she stopped where she was, spread lugubriously over the steps. In the wall she wrote a window, as large as she could, so that she mind see the sky, which was little more than the wallpaper of the world outside. But her imagination knew no bounds, and visages of birds and clouds crowded the window. She reached, trembling, for the closest pen, and began to write, on the paper carpet, of the destinies of people outside of the castle.

Her name was Fate.

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