§Twisted Hourglass§
Well. . Here it is. The day that's supposed to be the most important of my life: my wedding day. Again I say, well. Though I sit before my mirror, going over my appearance much as any other bride would, though my lower torso is surrounded by waves of white satin and lace, it certainly does not feel like a wedding day should.
Maybe that is because I never looked forward to today. Truth be told, I did not even want to see it. At twenty-three, I feel marriage can wait. My parents, of course, do not.
A week ago, Mother and I stood on the front porch of our home, watching the servants and maids bring several new pieces of furniture into the house.
"Vanessa," she said, suddenly, but casually; obviously she had been planning this for a while.
"Yes, Mother?" I answered the same; with planned casualness, as if I didn't know something important was coming next.
"You are twenty-three years old. A young woman of your age should have a good life already set before her." A brief pause, then, "I know that our family has always been well-off, but your father and I cannot house you forever. Therefore, we want to make sure that you never need worry over financial problems."
At this point, it wasn't hard to predict her next words as she paused for a moment, looking at me now.
"You are going to be married."
And just like that, my fate was sealed. I didn't waste time trying to get out of it. "To whom?"
For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer me. She turned away, pondered her words. "His name is Antwan Ravenswood,"
As distraught as I was, the name Ravenswood jumped out at me as if it were printed in bold letters. Ravenswood was the family name of my best friend, Melanie.
As if she'd read my mind, Mother continued, "He is your friend Melanie's cousin. His rather, er, interesting name comes from his Lithuanian grandfather."
The term 'interesting' was more than enough to tell me she didn't approve of such a foreign-sounding, strange, insensible name. I, on the other hand, could not have cared less, whether the man's name was Bartholomew or Swift Red Fox, whether he had Cambodian or Guatemalan blood in his family.
"I believe he is twenty-six years old, and, is, of course, quite wealthy and respectable."
Of course, I thought bitterly, as the face in the mirror scowled at me. Neither Mother nor Father seemed to care that since that day, my appetite had all but vanished, my nights had become sleepless and filled with nothing but angry thoughts. In fact, it didn't bother them at all that I was going to be marrying a complete stranger.
Antwan Ravenswood. From the very moment I heard his name, even if he was related to Melanie, I hated him. The very thought of being tied to him forever, like ribbon to a hat, incensed me beyond reason. When I met him, my opinion didn't change. However, I will take into account that I glimpsed him before I knew who he was.
At that moment, I didn't know who I was seeing. My eyes simply enjoyed what was before them. Rarely had I seen such a person before, let alone who was not only attractive, but unique, almost exotic: with a body of perfection, chiseled face with a slightly tannish hue, sleek hair like shiny chocolate pulled back into a ponytail under his jauntily tilted stovepipe.. From a distance of about five feet I gazed, enraptured, until I found myself looking at a pair of marbles, dark brown and black swirled like oil. .
Something moist and warm brushed against my gloved hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Vanessa. . You will make a lovely bride, I am sure."
His voice, smooth and rich as vanilla cream, didn't manage to coat my heart. I knew him now. My eyes involuntarily narrowed. "Thank you, Antwan." You could have pricked your finger on the icicles hanging from my words.
The fact that Antwan Ravenswood was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on didn't change my opinion of him. The fact that Antwan Ravenswood actually wanted to marry me didn't change my opinion of him. Not even the fact that Antwan Ravenswood was wealthier even than I didn't change my opinion of him.
Because yes, I cared about wealth. Very much, in fact. Compared to being poor, this marriage seemed a joy. But I was a free-spirited person, selfish and independent, and I wished with more than all of me for another way, any other way, to live a wealthy, comfortable life.
I sighed and glanced out the curtain-framed window. A shining pearl in the black sky outside gazed right back at me. Behind me, someone entered the room.
"Miss Vanessa?"
It was Joanne, my maid. "Are you through?"
I watched her reflection in the mirror, twisting her hands nervously at her waist as she always did, her small, rabbit-like face with its round, rich brown eyes flicking over me, taking in my splendid appearance.
"Why do you ask?" I admit, in my terrible mood, I wished only to toy with her, as she was the only person available to vent some of my steam on.
"B-because, you, uh. . Your wedding is due to begin. . Very soon."
I waved a hand impatiently. "I am aware of that, Jo." I stood up, and turned to face her. "Fortunately, I am, as you put it, through."
I swept past her, in all my white, silky finery, and out of my bedroom. Such a simple motion that felt like so much more. Like heading to the gallows. In the darkest corner of my mind, where the most irrational, pointless, and even foolish thoughts formed, I felt I'd rather be headed there than downstairs to the parlor.
§oOo§
It was cold and heavy in my hand. Much colder and heavier than I thought it would be. I turned it over, once, twice. How I had managed to get it here, in my hand, didn't matter. What mattered is that it was there at all.
Never until that moment had I been more grateful to see a door that was slightly ajar. It was just enough to see through. He was in there, alone, unguarded, preparing for the wedding much as I had been.
His back turned for a split second, and I ducked into the room. He turned back to the mirror, and my reflection gazed back at him, sharp-eyed and fierce. For a fraction of a second, not even enough to drop a pin in, our eyes locked.
The next second, it was done. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought it would be so easy.
I loosened my grip and let it fall, as if in slow motion, until it landed on the wooden floor with a slight clunk. Then, without so much as a second glance at my work, I turned and swept from the room.
I knew I had to move quickly. I could already hear the panicky voices rising, footfalls thumping around, starting to come closer. But where was there to go?
Of course, downstairs was not an option. I'd be running right into the lions' den that way. I was already upstairs, so the only answer was to go further up. To the attic. Until I could get away for good.
The fact that I was on the upper floors meant that running at full speed would set the floors thumping under my feet. Trying to move as fast as possible without pounding the floors was frustratingly difficult, or at least for someone like me, who never ran at all.
Finally, I found myself climbing the creaky steps to the attic. Ascending into the ever-increasing darkness which would be my home for now. . A strange (to say the least) feeling washed over me as I climbed the stairs. .
Being windowless, seeing was practically impossible. I groped like a fool in the darkness until my shifting hands located a candle. After more tedious searching, I found an old match that I suspected would not work. Fortunately, it managed to create a small spark, barely anything but sufficient to light the candle.
Its warm, dully orange glow softly illuminated the small, musty room. The smells of raw wood and dust combined to create a strange scent; faded, like an old gown you pull out of the very back of the raw wood wardrobe only to find it covered in mothballs.
Next thing I knew, I found myself lying on my side, staring at an old wooden crate. My head was throbbing, in a way that told me, quite plainly, that getting up would be no easy task. I took a breath and tried to sit up.
I may as well have triggered some dynamite. Everything that had happened in the last few minutes came hurtling back to me, like a speeding freight train, along with equally awful thoughts of what would be happening to me. .
I knew they had heard it. I could hear them downstairs this moment, or, at least, I assumed it was them and not the distant vibrations of otherworldly drums and voices. . My family and friends, all in a panic, searching for the person who had murdered the groom and the missing bride without realizing that finding one would find both. .
There might have been an anaconda trapped inside of me, thrashing wildly, for the way my limbs jerked and twitched, and every part of me had gone numb. My eyes saw not the dark dingy attic that was truly before them, but fiery images swirling and pounding in my ears, demons taunting, even when I closed my eyes. .
My sweet. . May you live a long and prosperous life. .
§ooOoo§
Ugh. When your pillow starts talking to you with a suave voice that just about gets under your skin, you know it's time to get up. Slowly as possible, I began to sit up, taking in everything from how the sunlight shining through the window to the calendar on the left wall.
My programmed hand reached out and flipped on my bedside radio. iPods are fine for the polished, modern age, but I, the freak of nature, actually prefers the good ol' fashioned radio. It blared out the morning traffic report as I straighted the rumpled bed and threw my pajamas off.
As the hot water spilled over me in the shower, my brain decided it was in a thoughtful mood today, as I stared at the smooth walls of marbled tile and wondered about where the stone might have come from. Heck, everything I saw got me thinking in some way. When I'm in a thoughtful mood, I think like nobody's business.
Twenty-five minutes later. I was eating breakfast and reading. Not just reading. Going over my script for my part in Clementine and Wendell, the smash-hit stage show in which I had somehow managed to snag the lead role of Clementine herself.
Actually, maybe it wasn't such a surprise. The words floated into my head like a lazy breeze. "C and W" is set in the early eighteen sixties. . a time that I have always felt at home with. . Certainly, Clementine is the first role I have ever truly connected with. Even when I first heard the title of the play, I knew I was destined to portray Clementine. And I was right.
It took three air-filled swipes at my bowl to shake me out of my thoughts and realize I had no cereal left. I shut my script book, tucked it into my handbag hanging on the chair behind me, and cleared off my breakfast mess, which included an act that always made me feel good: putting dishes in the sink.
Now before I become labeled a complete lunatic, I must explain that the reason for this is because of the big, long window over the sink, laced on top with a lavender-and-dusty rose valance. It also had mini-blinds, but I kept them up most of the time. What was on the other side of that window was almost as much a representation of who as I was as what was on this side.
I may not have felt like I was a typical young person, but I lived like one: in my first pad, the city apartment. Yet, outside was choking on trees, even if they weren't huge, and there was actually an adequate amount of space between the buildings. Still, a fair amount of cars went by from dawn til' dusk, and I only knew the names of two other tenants.
One more unique aspect of my home- every piece of furniture was an antique, or, at least, as antique as I could get it. Having things from the past around me just made me feel at home. The shiny wooden chairs, the grandfather clocks that were tall as me- I loved it all.
But none of that meant I was entirely down on modern stuff. (I may as well get married to my Nintendo Wii, at least I know we'll always be together)
I headed out of my apartment, locked my front door, and headed down the street to the local bus stop, which, by the way, took over fifteen minutes to reach. Every day I wished for a cozy, eco-friendly, chic little car of my own, but I still didn't have quite enough in my car-savings account to get one.
So there I was, getting on the bus as usual, heading for the furthest-back, emptiest area possible. I sat down, messing with my thick turquoise beads, and thought idly about going through my script again. I leaned against the back of the seat, and, even though I didn't remember feeling a tired at all, I must have fallen asleep. As most would see it, that's the only rational way to describe what happened next. What I saw next.
It wasn't really seeing, I guess, more like a quick glimpse, forty-five seconds at most. Everything was dark at first, black. Then white. Whiteness swirled toward the middle of the black, forming something. A face. A face with skin of pure, sheer white. And raven-black hair shining as if it were polished, falling in slight layers. Prominent red mouth area. I mean red red. Like blood. And the eyes. . Glowing green like a cat, surrounded by rings of black, like a raccoon. It was the face of a male, a young man. It was the face of a male ghost.
How did I know this, you ask? This wasn't the first time I had seen the face. Heck, it wasn't even the second, or third, or fourth. I had been seeing that face, whether in dreams or just my subconscious, like this, for years, ever since I was about thirteen.
Thirteen years old. . unlike most people, that age is as early as my memories will stretch. . I remember absolutely nothing earlier than ten years ago. Thirteen is also, coincidentally, the age I was, as they told me, found by my parents, lying unconscious in the woods near their house.
They said they had thought I was dead at first, since I'd been lying there all alone. But they had taken me home and I was fine. They tried to ask me who I was, but I could only tell them one thing about my identity: that my name was Vanessa. I didn't remember or know anything else about myself, but I knew that Vanessa was my name as surely as you know your own name.
They were baffled. Completely baffled. But despite my strangeness, they were determined to adopt me, and, with some difficulty, they did. I became Vanessa Autumn Marlow, first and only daughter of Sean and Daisy Marlow. And I was quite happy with them.
However, one afternoon, only the day after my official adoption, I was up in the attic of our house, looking for something (I forget what). I had a flashlight and, though I couldn't see it, I knew it was broad daylight outside. I wasn't scared at all.
Until.
Until I was kneeling near a box, and I distinctly sensed a presence behind me, in that strange way that all human beings seem to possess.
I felt my stomach twisting itself into a pretzel as I whirled around and stood up at the same time, out of instinct rather than a desire to face whoever this person was.
I needed only a split second to know that this was a male, from the body proportions and stature. What my attention focused more intently on was the face of this young man, a mere two feet from me, little specks of light and chips of shadow meshed together like stained glass across the paper-hued flesh, greeny-gold eyes glowing like lanterns out of the black mascara-like shadowing that surrounded them.
My twisted insides tightened again at this sight, my legs lost all their feeling and became weightless, propelling me faster than they had ever gone before, out of the room and crashing down the stairs. I was stopping to catch my breath, eight feet from the staircase that led up to the attic, an amazing two seconds later, clutching my flashlight that I had miraculously managed to grab.
I had been frightened, as any thirteen-year-old would have, by the experience. But something, some unnameable force, had kept me from telling my parents. Besides, I had reasoned it was better not to tell them than to have them think I was delusional or a scaredy-cat or some other problem.
But that was not the last time. Many times in the ten years leading to now did I see that ghost appear to me, sometimes in my sleeping dreams, sometimes, like just now on the bus, in my random subconscious. It was always just a brief glimpse; never again did he show himself in full body, like the first time. And a strange detail I had noticed a while back and still knew to be true was that this ghost's expression seemed not to be mid-scream or glaring or any other stereotypical 'ghostly' expressions, but rather, looked lost and lonely, even pleading, sometimes. A few times, he had first appeared head-down, only to lift his face and reveal tear streaks, a fresh one coursing down his cheek.
Maybe it was that, or maybe it was that he had appeared to me so many times and never seemed resentful or dangerous, but I had long since lost my fear of the young apparition. On the contrary, I always felt excitement rise in me whenever he appeared, curiosity and hope that something new would happen, that he would possibly speak. Disappointment usually followed when nothing new happened. I desperately wanted to know who he was, and why he appeared to me.
I looked out the window when the bus stopped again, thinking I was probably at my destination. Sure enough, Delong Avenue. I paid the bus driver and stepped off onto the sidewalk, walking the usual fifteen-minute route to the Walnut Grove Studio of Performing Arts.
From the outside, the studio was modern in appearance; posh and expensive, sitting on the corner, yet set back into the comfortable shade of many trees, made of layers of brick, a shiny black marble-like substance, and maroon-colored plaster. It had double glass doors with fancy handles.
But on the inside, it seemed endless, filled with nothing but rooms large and small, where, in each, different people were creating stories, piece by piece, rehearsal by rehearsal, getting ready to present them to whoever wanted to see them. At that moment, I couldn't get wait to go back in time once again, trying my hardest to make my every little move seem like it just stepped out of the eighteen sixties.
§oOo§
"You are most kind, Mrs. Angleton."
"Likewise, I'm sure, darling."
Isabell Angleton's (Known off-stage as Kendra Derman) poisoned-honey statement closed our scene, meaning it was time for us to take a break, and for the crew to get everything ready for the next scene. As for me particularly, all I cared about was seizing any opportunity I could to take off my horrible high-heeled boots.
I headed backstage as usual, heading for a private spot to relax for a minute. Unfortunately, this happened to be a very bustling time backstage, and there were people everywhere, carrying costumes or yelling at someone else, or distracted by a hand mirror. I finally found sanctuary in a small, rickety wooden chair in one of the darkest, furthest corners.
Massaging my sore feet was just as comfortable as it's supposed to be. Something, though, something was making grabs at my attention, and I didn't know what until it finally seized it.
The area behind my chair, dark and seemingly empty, was just calling me to explore it.
In an instant, my shoes were back on. I rose slowly from my chair, throwing a quick glance behind my shoulder. No one watching. I took a few steps further into the dark. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I made out a large shape before me, ascending upward. A dusty staircase. . Immediately, I thought of my old attic, ten years ago, and I knew I just had to climb these stairs.
The planks of wood beneath my boots were too weary to creak. With each silent step, I felt my excitement, curiosity, rising, ascending right along with the staircase, until the moment both my foot and excitement mounted.
I blinked. A room made mostly of wood sat before me. Objects big and small sat here and there throughout the room, some stacked, some laying, some so covered with dust you could barely see what it was, others looked as if they'd been put in here yesterday. It smelled like the past; musty, mostly forgotten.
It looked fairly interesting, yes, but from the way I'd felt on the stairs, the whole thing should have disappointed me. Then, why was my heart pounding wildly under my elaborate costume, as if I were still expecting something. . unexpected?
Slowly, I advanced further into the room, my shoes tapping tapping lightly on the wooden floors. I ran my hand over various objects, scattering dust into the air. And then, exactly as I had before, I sensed a presence behind me. I whirled around, my full skirt swishing around my ankles. No one. I moved slowly toward the middle of the room. A step further. A person standing a few feet away from me, in the shadow, head slightly bowed as if deep in thought.
"Oh!" I yelped, as if in surprise, though I was nothing of the sort. "I thought I was alone up here. ." A small chuckle meant to sound amused instead made me sound like I had just been caught shoplifting. I spoke as if I had no idea who stood before me, when the heart racing like a frightened animal in my chest told me all.
Two feet was the distance between us, when, he looked up. Looked right at me. I didn't need to stop in my tracks, because I already had. There was no mistaking the gold-green lamps that shone through my eyes to the back of my head. The expression he wore was the same as usual; longing.
". . It's you. ." was all I could bring myself to say. I was almost hypnotized by his face, half trying to read whatever it might be hiding.
Seconds became a minute. I felt the sand running through my fingers, felt this opportunity slipping away. I had to say something. My brain was on overdrive, thinking too fast for me to keep up.
"W- who are you. .?" I asked, braving a step further.
"Merril. . Merril Manson. ."
The words were barely audible; soft and slightly raspy, as if it had been a long time since he had spoken. I was fascinated, hungry to learn all I could about him while I had the chance. I found that my voice and my words came easier now. "Why have you been haunting me, all these years? We've never even met before. ."
"We haven't. ." His eyes dropped to the ground. "I know we haven't. But there is. . I. . I just. . "
To my horror, he backed away slightly. In turn, I progressed two more steps. "No, it's okay. I didn't mind. . Well, I did at first, but I was only thirteen. . I couldn't help it. What. . What is it you want from me?" I added, lowering my voice some.
He didn't look up. Instead, he took two more steps backward. So did I. His back gently bumped the wall.
I froze where I stood. What was I doing; cornering this timid phantom like some kind of hunter? I mentally slapped myself on the forehead.
"There is something," Merril blurted out suddenly, looking up. A strange, determined light flickered in his eyes. "something you must know."
Taken aback, my eyes widened and my heart increased speed. Before I could speak, however, Merril pressed on, as if, now that he had started, he didn't want an interruption. "And it is something. . only I am able to tell you."
My heart was pounding so fast it felt like it would burst out any minute. Bubbling thoughts deep down within me began meshing together, forming one, solid idea that rose to the surface. "It's about. .my past, isn't it?" I was positively whispering now.
He nodded. "Yes." By now, he had straightened his form, so he wasn't leaning on the wall anymore.
Mild surprise and eagerness boiled the rest of my thoughts. Never would I have guessed that this mysterious young man, this Merril Manson, would know about my past. I had been expecting to hear about him; who or what he was, what it was he'd been pining for ten years.
And my curiosity doubled as, unexpectedly, his spindly white fingers slipped into one of the inside pockets of his black velvet tailcoat and emerged clasping an ancient-looking piece of yellowed, deteriorating paper. Slowly, he extended his arm, silently handing it to me.
For a minute, my own hands were frozen with nerves. But I certainly wasn't about to turn the offer down. Gingerly, I took the paper, noting how soft it felt, not like a paper at all. It was the color of dying straw, with jagged, crinkled dark brown edges. Not a word was on it.
Swallowing the the lump that was steadily rising from my esophagus into my throat, I turned the paper over. And I gasped.
"This- I- no way-" I gasped. I felt my hands go numb, all the blood in my body go rushing like a vacuum.
Clasped in my sweaty, shaking hand was an old photograph, faded to a dull brown. But even so, there was no mistaking the young woman who solely occupied the picture. At least, there was no mistaking for me. Because unbelievably, impossibly, ridiculously, it was me.
And I was dressed splendidly in a full-skirted eighteen-sixties dress, my hair all done up in pretty locks that tumbled onto my shoulders, sitting daintily in a lush patterned armchair.
I couldn't rip my eyes from the image.
I shuddered and jumped in surprise at the same time as five deathly cold fingers settled themselves on my wrist. I jerked my head up to see Merril's jade-like eyes glowing before me.
"It seems startling, I know," he said quietly. "but it is the truth. You-"
"The truth!" I squawked. Suddenly, my power of speech had returned, full force. "This- that's, I'm sorry," I added hastily, realizing how harsh my voice was starting to sound. "but it is absolutely impossible for this to to be me. I'm, I'm not even twenty-five years old yet, and this photo is at least one-hundred and forty years old!"
"It doesn't matter." Merril said, as calmly as ever. "That is you." He began slowly stepping toward me. "I have been around much longer than you have. ." His voice grew steadily softer. "You were wealthy. .respected. . and a bit selfish as well. ." He was right in front of me now; so close I really took note of the lush, black silk suit he was wearing, complete with a glossy red string tie. "You must believe me." he said.
I gnawed my lower lip, sent my eyes darting in every direction but right in front of me. There was no way what he said could be true. I didn't want to believe it. But deep down, whether my mind agreed or not, I just knew I did. Sort of. I looked at the picture again. Was it earthly possible for two human beings to look so exactly alike? I didn't think so, unless they were twins. And the girl in this photo was definitely not my twin. How could she be?
Suddenly, it all seemed too much. The lump was in my throat now, causing my breathing to sound as if I had just run a mile. "No. . no. . this is not the truth..it's impossible. .if this were me, I wouldn't be standing here this minute! No; this is a hoax . . a scam. . ." And I made up my crazed mind, then and there, that I wasn't going to fall for it. With much swishing of skirts, I turned to march away. I was barely disappointed; I was so whacked right then that I thought Merril was nothing more than a guy in makeup trying to make me go nuts.
All of a sudden, my back was warm, while my arms were chilled with those same cold hands. I felt hot breath prickling the sensitive nerves of my ear. "Please don't go.." he whispered. "What I'm telling you is the truth. .why do you not believe me?"
Goose bumps had made their way completely up my arms. When I spoke, I found my voice felt and sounded as if I hadn't used it in five years. "B-because. . It's impossible. S-simply impossible.. Look, I-I know what this is, all right? I I'm not. .you know, f-falling for it. ."
"What do you mean?" Merril said. No, scratch that. He practically moaned with despair. "This is not a trick! I swear. . I would never lie to you. .Never. ."
Highly riveted as I was, feeling like someone had just tightened the authentic corset I was wearing by about ten tugs, something in his words sparked my brain to start working properly again. "Why?" I heard myself ask, shocked at my own bluntness. But that was nothing compared to what I did next. I gently removed myself from Merril's grasp so I could turn to face him.
"You've been watching me all these years. .why do you care so. .so deeply about me?"
Never had my eyes focused so intently on anything as they focused on Merril's eyes now, searching for answers. "Am I that dear to you?"
Something flashed in his eyes. ". .I- "
It was just my horrible, rotten, luck that right at that moment, the entirely unwelcome sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs met our ears. "Vanessa! Are you up there, for heaven's sake?" "Yes!" I hollered back, my heart in my throat, tripping over my skirts as I made my way toward the entrance to the stairway. I practically snapped my neck as I tossed it over my shoulder, desperate for a last glance. All I saw was dusty darkness.
I swiveled my head back around to see a short, broad-shouldered man with tousled dark hair, standing with his hands on his hips. "Vanessa! What have you been doing? We're all waiting down there!" It was Cesar, a stage hand.
"I know, I'm sorry, I just lost track of time," I stumbled over my words as much as my feet as I bustled past Cesar, heading down the stairs without so much as a glance behind me. I jumped the last two stairs and went as fast as I could into the backstage area, desperate to avoid any further questions from Cesar.
For the rest of the dress rehearsal, I had to put much more effort than usual into concentrating on my lines and my acting. Somehow, I managed to execute a decent performance. Though, of course, there was at least one "You've been better." At the moment, I really didn't care.
For the first time in history, all I wanted to do was change out of my costume, and take a nice, comfortable taxi home. And that's exactly what I did.
I was highly grateful to the taxi driver for not being a talkative pest and allowing me to sink into the soothing silence of the backseat, watching the scenery zoom by, my mind somewhere else.
Over and over again I replayed what had happened in that dark, dingy attic. Piece by piece, I tried to assemble all of what Merril had said into something that made sense. I understood his message, I thought. I just wish I knew if it were true or not. .
Trees, streets, cars, people and buildings whizzed by, and as I sat, my eyes seeing not what was out the window before me but another scene entirely, I made a silent vow to myself that I would, one way or another, find out.
§oOo§
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