Shadows of Yesterday
INTERLUDE: BELLS
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
—Edgar Allan Poe, 'The Bells'
The bell rings and he looks up, hope glaring to life in his eyes. Hope that today is the day—the day the bells will ring and his friend will walk through the door, soaked and bemoaning the state of his hair; that they'll banter back and forth until he finally asks for his mail, and inevitably there will be none—they'll laugh, and he'll walk away waving and grinning only to do it all again tomorrow.
'But there was one,' a snide voice whispers. 'One letter, and he left. What was your friendship to him if one letter was enough to send him running?'
'It's only been a week. Maybe he went on vacation, or had to visit a relative or a friend. He'll be back.'
'Denial,' it whispers, and leaves.
The bell brings not his friend, but a man he listens to with only half an ear, wallowing in his disappointment. Apparently their building's mailboxes have been destroyed by a rogue driver, and he can expect a lot of traffic in the next few days. He nods absently and the man leaves.
True to his word, people flow in and out for almost a week before it goes back to normal.
That doesn't stop the small flare of hope each time the bell rings, though.
The bell rings, and he looks up from where he is mopping the floor, so fast he nearly gets whiplash.
It's been almost a week since he last had a customer, and he's taken to mopping to alleviate the boredom.
(And so that the next time his friend walks through the door, he can brag that he did wash the floors.)
'Two months,' that snide voice whispers. 'Almost two months. Face it, he's gone.'
He ignores the voice easily out of practice.
And it's just another nobody, come for their mail.
The bell rings as he shuts the door behind him, an end to another long, empty day.
Unwittingly, his gaze is drawn up the street, towards the building that until now he has been too much of a coward to approach.
'Maybe...' he thinks, and begins to walk towards that distant building.
He reaches it and spends several minutes just staring, trying to work up the nerve.
'Stop being such a goddamned coward,' he thinks, and walks up the front steps to slip into the building.
An empty hallway greets him, dimly lit by a fluorescent strip light. Number doors stretch down it, and it is at these numbers he looks as he walks down the hall.
'106...107...108...109.'
He stops, heart suddenly leaping into his throat.
109.
It's a brown door; nondescript, simple.
It fills him with more trepidation than he's ever felt before.
'Just do it,' he thinks, and finally, slowly, his hand comes up and raps firmly on the door.
Silence. He waits, begins to fidget, and is about to turn away when a voice calls, "Coming!"
He feels his heart sink—the voice is female.
The door opens, revealing a pretty copper-haired, green-eyed woman, a small child balanced on her hip, looking at him with a quizzical expression on her face.
"Yes?" she asks, when he doesn't speak. "Can I help you?"
"Ah...ummm..." he gapes for a moment before finally finding his voice. "I'm sorry, this may seem strange...but can I ask how long you've lived in this apartment?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Eight months, thereabouts. Can I ask why?"
His heart sinks even more. "Never mind, thank you very much. Sorry for taking your time."
She smiles, shifting the silent child on her hip. "No problem. Did you...know someone who used to live here?"
He freezes, even as he is turning away. Sadly, slowly, he nods. "I did."
"Oh...a friend?"
He is partway down the hall now, her voice echoing after him.
"Yeah...or at least I like to think."
The apartment wasn't even empty, hinting at a return. It was occupied, no trace, no forwarding address—the he had never existed.
It hurts. Eight months. It really hurts.
He vanishes into the fading colony dusk.
The bell hasn't rung for a long while, now. Gang wars have erupted across the colony, and he works—and lives—in one of the lesser neighborhoods. Most are too afraid to venture out.
With each reported battle or death, his already dwindling hopes dies a little bit more. Why would he come back now, to this?
Rumors are spreading though—rumors of a division of shadows or Shadows as some say it, the capital 'S' apparent in their tone—a division where stealth, secrecy, and anonymity are the name of the game. No one even knows where the rumors come from, with these ghosts rarely leaving a target alive.
Many disapprove, but he doesn't care, so long as the wars don't touch his life. It's a simple life, but he likes it.
Once, a short while ago, he thought he saw one of them—one of those shadows. An indistinct figure, sprinting down an alley, vanishing moments later into the darkness, black cloak flapping in their haste.
He also thought he saw, for just a split second, a flash of violet eyes and the tail end of a chestnut braid, and that was when he knew he was hallucinating.
It had been a year, now. A very long, lonely year.
And a part of him—just a small part of him—was starting to admit that maybe, just maybe, that voice was right.
The bell rings, and he slowly lifts his head, barely acknowledging that small, stubborn spark of hope. It dies quickly, however, as he takes in the man that has walked through the door, a man whose vibe literally screams, 'dangerous!'
He has blue eyes and shaggy brown hair, but the eyes are cold and hard, and he walks with a stiff, formal, yet graceful and dangerous air.
This man is a soldier. And he is obviously not here for his mail.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asks. No need to be rude, even though he's quaking in his metaphorical boots.
"Hn. Yes, you can. Have you seen this man?"
A picture is held out for his perusal, and he leans forward to look, feigning boredom.
His heart stops, though, when he takes in the image of his friend, all black and braid and laughter, obviously caught in mid spin. It is the first time he has seen him anywhere but his memories since he left, and he realizes now that they didn't do him justice.
Still, if this man is looking for him, it can't be a good thing. Friend or not...
"No," he replies, thankful his voice is steady. "Haven't seen him."
The man doesn't reply—only stares at him, unnerving him. The stare morphs into a glare—one of the most terrifying he's seen.
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not," Yes, I am.
"You are. And I highly suggest you start telling the truth."
His gaze promises all manners of pain and death is he doesn't. And finally, he caves.
He turns away, pretending to check something behind the counter. He hears the snort of irritation, and just as the man is about to speak again, he cuts him off.
"He was my friend, once," he whispers. "A long time ago..."
He can feel the stare on the back of his neck, burning into it, but he refuses to turn around. Finally, after a few minutes, it stops, and moments later he hears the bell.
With it goes the man—and the last of his hope.
Time goes by, and slowly he forgets. A phrase here, an image there, a scene there, and slowly his friend fades from his memory, gone save for a few vague thoughts here and there when he sees something that happens to remind him. One day the bell rings, and he looks up in eager anticipation—only to quickly become confused, for he does not know why he looked up.
More days come, day after day after day, and finally a day comes, a slow, usual day.
The bell rings.
He doesn't look up.
This is, as you can obviously see, not a chapter, but an interlude that I've had planned from the very beginning of this story and have been scribbling into a composition notebook at every chance for the last few days, to give you something to chew over until I can get the actual chapter planned and written.
As I write this I am officially done with my first day of school, and it was torture, let me tell you. Yes, I did get my reading done, thank you for asking. The Kite Runner was amazing and yet so very sad. Favorite line—"For you, a thousand times over."
Those of you reading this who have decided to read only this just so you can figure out what's going on, GO BACK AND READ THE INTERLUDE NOW! I worked damn hard on this, and there's a lot of important foreshadowing in it. So read! It's Seth, for those of you who didn't guess.
I may not make my chapter deadline, though, too much to do and it usually takes me several days to write it. I will try my hardest, though, and remember—every review really helps, even if it's just a good job and keep it up.
Thanks for sticking with me, and hang tight for the next chapter—'Welcome to Hell.'
I disclaim anything you recognize as not belonging to me, including the poem at the top.
Ciao!
—Erin