CHapter 4: "Smoke"

This is part of a chapter of my short novel. It is set in the late 1800s England. The section mostly focuses on the early relationship between the two characters (their names not revealed) and how they are alike in nature and personality, even though they are not aware how similar they are to one another. It may be a little hard to follow, since it is taken right out of the story, but hopefully it won’t be too difficult to understand the real purpose. There are some symbolic terms and statements that refer to colors and elements such as fire…Which later adds meaning to the overall story. I hope you enjoy reading it!

Chapter 4: Smoke

He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled the fumes. Smoke curled and weaved till it reached the top of the low ceiling, where it branched off and encircled downward. The grayish color contrasted with the dimly lighted room, making it appear as ghoulish phantoms that were not welcome. The smoker raised his cigarette to his lips and raised his eyebrows, then puffed out once again. He then sighed, and laid his cigarette hand down on the table, tipping it into the pearly ashtray. Smoke clouded my face.

“You know,” he said, his handsome features grimly set on me, “I don’t understand you.”

I straightened even more to the back of my chair, trying to keep my self from avoiding the intense stare of dark eyes. I did not answer; but instead made some sort of mangled sound in my throat. He smirked, seemingly pleased at my uncomfortable position.

“Why are you so tense? I am no monster.”

Seeing I was unable to make conversation from his awkward and rather revealing opening, he sighed again and continued to smoke. He was done within the minute, and put out his light. I was in a trance, mesmerized by his calm and almost mechanical movements, until his deep, manly voice startled me:

“Do you speak at all, you inaudible brat?”

I was too scared to say anything, but I was even more afraid of dying if I didn’t, so I mustered up the courage of voicing a word or two.
“Ye-Yes, sir,” I stammered stupidly.

“Well, that is good then. I expect to be answered when you are spoken to. Is that clear?”
I nodded, wishing he would just go away and leave me to my work. For a moment everything was quiet, and I heard the grandfather clock ticking seconds away, which for me were hours. But the miniscule interview was not yet over. He continued with the ice-breaking subject: her.
“So how is she?”
I immediately panicked. I did not know how to answer that question. Casting my eyes down, I felt a swarm of chills run up my spine. I could feel his glare, as he leaned his head closer, and his dark hair fall about his eyes. I knew he had no doubts that I knew exactly whom he was talking about.

His eye caught a glance of my sweaty hands gripping the chair’s arms with fright, and he asked again, louder and sterner: “How is she, boy?”
I lost my voice, my mind, everything. My tormentor’s short temper was about to erupt, and he would tolerate no further of my nonsense; I dared not to look at his face.

With this last denial on my part, he suddenly seized my trembling chin, thrusting it upwards to force me to stare into his serious eyes. His face was flushed with anger, and he looked no more a gentleman, but an unruly youth who had forgot all morals and rules; a monster.
I clenched my jaw and grimaced as his hand, shaking with anger, grasped my face even harder. “Now, you are going to respect me, and treat me as your elder. When I ask you something, you reply! I AM not going to waste my time with you. You will obey me; nothing else, for I want it to be as if you weren’t even here! Now, will you answer me?
A sudden burst of anger waved through me, and I looked up at him. “No!” I cried, wrenching my face free from his claws.
He stood up, shocked at my outburst, but quickly recovered. In a second he had slapped me down. “Now,” he boomed, “You do not want to get me any angrier. Do you like how it feels?”

My fists clenched in resentment. I rose my burning head to meet his own, my eyesight blurry and hazy. My glare was violent, and my eyes burned fire as I penetrated his own, as if I were taking his soul hostage. There was complete silence, except for the heavy, quick breaths I drew.

Little did I know the effect of my actions. His face, already twisted in fury, got somehow darker, and the black of his eyes, blacker.

“You will never look at me that again! I never want to see that kind of hate in your damned eyes again! Never! Get out!”

He kicked me out of the room, dragging me by the collar. With that, he slammed the door and locked it.



*

I sat there for a long time, in the dark of that hallway, slumped up against the north side of the wall. My hands still shook from the episode-I was more caught of guard at my own sudden rash actions than his. I wasn’t sure what to do. The dust settled on the wooden floor and my hands cradled my head. A beetle walked by, and old cobwebs swung in the drafty corridor.

Soon I fell into a light sleep, and was awakened by a stream of light that came from the end of the passage. I clumsily followed it. There was a single window, lonely in the center of the blank and black wall, glowing silver from its grimy panes. Blinking sleep from me eyes, I reached for a low chair that was nearby and sat, resting my knees under my chin. There I pressed my nose into the frozen glass, watching the moon cast its rays onto the brown snow.

It was cold, for there was a crack in the glass, and I shivered. In the distance I saw the gray ghosts, warm and pale against the night sky, rising from their long brick pipes. I then figured that this house was the only one cold, the embers not stirred and the pipes dusty with age. The only one great and empty. Unfeeling. It lacked of burning coal, but was abundant in the ashes.