The moment the doors opened, a filter of people came strolling in. It was to be a big turnout, he knew, but he never expected this many people so soon. He sat, looking quite lonely (yet to the naked eye unnoticeable), in the furthest corner of the room; the perfect place to see everything. Guests arrived in large groups, and very quickly; and soon the room was filled.
Earlier that evening, the room had been completely empty, and he liked it that way. There was no sound but that of his own fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair. There were overly lavish decorations and more then overdone table settings. The curtains over the windows were very heavy and dark; they helped to darken both the room and the mood. There were obscure paintings hung at hundreds of different angles on every wall. The only light was in the candles and oddly placed lamps, each with a coloured bulb; again adding to the macabre atmosphere. The only brightness in the room was the shine of the chairs and freshly cleaned silver that was placed along with the dinner settings at each table. The carpet was a rich, dark red colour, which seemed to draw you in, and the walls were of the same genre of colour.
The tables themselves had seven chairs to each. In the middle of each table was an obscure piece of artwork or sculpture that served as a centerpiece. Each chair was completely silver except for the seat and a section of the back, which was upholstered in the same decadent colour as the carpet and walls. In front of each chair on the table was simply a single plate, a wine glass, a couple utensils, and a name card.
If you brought your eyes to the ceiling you would find that the room was extremely high. It domed slightly at the top and looked as though it was dark-stained glass, when in fact it was made of a much harder material (almost like rock), as was the whole building. Seven chandeliers hung from various points and they remained unlit until the guests arrived.
When the guests began to take their places, slowly the lighting became a little brighter as, one by one, the chandeliers were illuminated. But the light was still dim, the way he liked it. If only the noise would stop...
It was an hour before the affair would begin, but the room was already filled with private discussions, excitement, and a sense of jealousy and ruthless competition. It was tonight that the announcement was to be made, the "winners," if you will, were to be announced; and everyone was anticipating the outcome. Everyone was rooting for someone, and it was always someone different. You could talk to a hundred people, and each would tell you something different and have a novel's worth of an explanation to back up their opinion.
It was the competition that he didn't like. Or maybe it was the fact that the 'competition' was staged. He knew who was going to go, and if any of the others had any kind of brain they would too. But they shielded themselves in the delusion and possibility that their husband or brother or whomever could be chosen instead. Didn't any of them expect the outcome? Were they all that desperate to have to cling to an obvious scam?
She had told him that it was for the best; that the people needed something to cling to. That it was actually a public service to give them a false sense of a chance. But he knew she was just making excuses for her own misguided schemes. She did it all the time, and he should be used to it by now. After all, he really should be grateful after all she had done for him. But he couldn't help but think that there was something she was holding back - but that's only because she always was. There was always an ulterior motive to everything she did. But who was he to challenge? Not until there was some sort of proof. But how could he get proof of something when he had no idea what he was trying to prove? It was a never-ending battle that constantly went on within himself, and if you looked deep enough into his eyes you could see the conflict, the pain.
There was one up side to all of this. Since it was fixed, he knew that he would be going along as well. Maybe he'd be able to prove himself, and upon his return he would be able to have some form of a life. He was going to make the best of the situation as much as he may have opposed the unfairness and deception. This was his chance; probably his last and only one, and he could not fail, no matter what...
Earlier that evening, the room had been completely empty, and he liked it that way. There was no sound but that of his own fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair. There were overly lavish decorations and more then overdone table settings. The curtains over the windows were very heavy and dark; they helped to darken both the room and the mood. There were obscure paintings hung at hundreds of different angles on every wall. The only light was in the candles and oddly placed lamps, each with a coloured bulb; again adding to the macabre atmosphere. The only brightness in the room was the shine of the chairs and freshly cleaned silver that was placed along with the dinner settings at each table. The carpet was a rich, dark red colour, which seemed to draw you in, and the walls were of the same genre of colour.
The tables themselves had seven chairs to each. In the middle of each table was an obscure piece of artwork or sculpture that served as a centerpiece. Each chair was completely silver except for the seat and a section of the back, which was upholstered in the same decadent colour as the carpet and walls. In front of each chair on the table was simply a single plate, a wine glass, a couple utensils, and a name card.
If you brought your eyes to the ceiling you would find that the room was extremely high. It domed slightly at the top and looked as though it was dark-stained glass, when in fact it was made of a much harder material (almost like rock), as was the whole building. Seven chandeliers hung from various points and they remained unlit until the guests arrived.
When the guests began to take their places, slowly the lighting became a little brighter as, one by one, the chandeliers were illuminated. But the light was still dim, the way he liked it. If only the noise would stop...
It was an hour before the affair would begin, but the room was already filled with private discussions, excitement, and a sense of jealousy and ruthless competition. It was tonight that the announcement was to be made, the "winners," if you will, were to be announced; and everyone was anticipating the outcome. Everyone was rooting for someone, and it was always someone different. You could talk to a hundred people, and each would tell you something different and have a novel's worth of an explanation to back up their opinion.
It was the competition that he didn't like. Or maybe it was the fact that the 'competition' was staged. He knew who was going to go, and if any of the others had any kind of brain they would too. But they shielded themselves in the delusion and possibility that their husband or brother or whomever could be chosen instead. Didn't any of them expect the outcome? Were they all that desperate to have to cling to an obvious scam?
She had told him that it was for the best; that the people needed something to cling to. That it was actually a public service to give them a false sense of a chance. But he knew she was just making excuses for her own misguided schemes. She did it all the time, and he should be used to it by now. After all, he really should be grateful after all she had done for him. But he couldn't help but think that there was something she was holding back - but that's only because she always was. There was always an ulterior motive to everything she did. But who was he to challenge? Not until there was some sort of proof. But how could he get proof of something when he had no idea what he was trying to prove? It was a never-ending battle that constantly went on within himself, and if you looked deep enough into his eyes you could see the conflict, the pain.
There was one up side to all of this. Since it was fixed, he knew that he would be going along as well. Maybe he'd be able to prove himself, and upon his return he would be able to have some form of a life. He was going to make the best of the situation as much as he may have opposed the unfairness and deception. This was his chance; probably his last and only one, and he could not fail, no matter what...