Her dainty, little hand lingered at the brass door handle, the other raised to her beating chest. She inhaled deeply before the rich timber door squeaked open, revealing the dim lit space inch by inch. First she saw the midnight blue walls; encoded with a paler floral pattern, followed by a handsome figure standing at the foot of the grand double bed, positioned in the centre of the room; his bowler hat resting on the suitcase at his side.
“The car's here,” she said cautiously in her soft voice, as if tiniest of sounds would bring down the walls around her. He simply nodded in return, putting his hat on his head and lifting the luggage from the carpeted floor. She stepped to the side, opening the door the widest it can go as his heavy footsteps approached her. Their eyes met for a split second when he passes; her glossy blues and his silvery greys. He studies her face before leaving, taking in the little details such as her luscious blond eyelashes and the faint freckles that speckled her nose. She closes the door behind him with a quiet thud.
The musky scent of the room enclosed in on her, devouring her senses. It smelt of him. She fought the urge to jump on the neatly made bed and mess it up; so it would be like be like he never left. Perhaps, she thought, I could just stay here, lie on his bed for a little while? And with that inkling of a thought, she made her way over to his favourite side of the bed, and carefully reclined as not to completely crumple the sheets.
There she stays for what she feels might have been days, drifting in and out of dreams. Dreams and memories. They clouded her vision and senses, and she starts to remember the heat of sun and the complexion of the beggar children that lined the streets of her family’s neighbourhood. But it was a voice; one voice that lead her from the lost memories of her childhood, into the nightmares of his eyes. Only nightmares due to that she would only ever see them once more; at the end. This she knew. This she could not change. But this is not what drove her mad.
What drove her mad was the small, yet ever evident whisper, that echoed in her head. It did not belong to her, and was neither a memory nor a dream. But it stayed, and resited the verses of list. A list that was forever changing. A list that was never ending. A list of names.
A list from death.
..
