Sunrise Gate

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Slivers of moonlight shimmer on the rotting floor of my home, stretching across the room, reaching for the foot of my bed only to fall short. As night dwells on they only reach further and further only to find the bed no closer. A dresser slumps next to the bed, the top drawer missing a nightgown. Sitting atop is a small painting of a young woman wrapped in the arms of a man. Their figures are blurred, unidentifiable, distorted by brush strokes. You had to know who the painting was of to know these people. They are my parents, sitting by the rock above the Guardian Graveyard, watching over the plains. Little did they know in the distance is a tree where they would be buried.

A  set of red and white armor lays atop a chair, piled and criss crossing and stacked in various ways, each piece its own kind of cold.  White boots with red metal buckles stand at the foot of the chair, alone. The gauntlets refuse to remain still like the other pieces, a gentle draft from the window rocking them slowly. The torso unwillingly stiff, tense from a day’s protection. The leggings draping over the edge, the white chain links melting like a slushy snow. The fireplace can only warm them so much.

A table is crutched by a few old books long ruined, their contents worn away with the dust and time. They once read of great kings and heroes, traveling the sea, slaying beasts with one eye or snakes for hair. They spoke of a time when books were burned and lost and civilization dazed by ignorance, as a man flees the horror. They spoke  of a prince avenging his father’s death, freeing him of this realm. But those stories have long faded to sheets of tainted paper and running ink. Another memory ripped from the past.

A fire is lit, it’s embers restless and uneasy, leaping from log to wood log, eventually spinning and twirling away into the night sky. Its light combats the moon, a vicious battle between pure coolness and vicious heat. The flames dance and flare, the battle rages on as the lights intermingle and fight. By morning it will have been too late to know who won.

I lay in bed with the covers pulled high overhead. The sweet scent of smoke hints and teases, drawing me to the fire but the covers pull me back. They blind me to the world as I lay, drifting away into the night. Sleep comes slowly, rifle shots crack and pop from the fire, exploding to smoke and nothing. They bring comfort to an otherwise silent room. There is no safety in silence.

A deep breathe. Smoke drags in and exhales, a visitor and guest.

The scent is potent.

The fire cracks loudly and pops a rifle shot to the heart. The bed rises around me, cupping me in a cradle, the covers laying soft and heavy. The battle wears on as the armor lays restless and the picture of two figures continue to sit against a rock. I feel my eye close. I do not fight back. Slumber sets in and the nightmare begins.