The search for Panacea

The search for Panacea



The far-spread houses were small, made of wood which already grew murky. The colours had been fading and by the next storm the houses would blow away. They probably had already been scattered around the country a few times, but the humans persistence had put them back together again. The routine is the way of life.

The bench standing infront one of the houses had been painted, but the painter must have stopped halfway. He had dropped the brush, something must have happened, maybe another storm had brewn up and he had to flee, and left the bench standing there. A wind had pushed the wet paint towards the untouched part of the bench. The colour, which must have originally been white looked like it had been urinated on quite a lot, it had yellowed. However, the bench was still standing as a whole, it was a bit crooked, with one side a bit closer to the ground and its hinges loose and rusty.

There was a rusty fence right behind the worn out bench. It too, had been once painted but rust had given it a new colour and amateur law-breakers and thieves a new look.

A few holes had been cut into the wires so that they stuck out at odd angles around a hole. It looked like a spider with crumpled legs.

The house behind was weather beaten. The porch seemed to sink into the ground, and the wind blew dust from the ground up and whirled it onto the wooden floor and against the windows.

A child cried. Lights inside flickered on, flickered off, flickered on again. A glooming light went on. Buzzing slightly, louder and weaker, as if it was a strain to hold the bulbs to the ceiling. The electricity was giving off its groan of tiredness.

A man inside shuffled around. His steps were hard on the floor. A woman was walking behind him, mirroring his steps, but hers were only his echo, faint and nearly indistinguishable.

The baby cried louder. The electricity kept groaning. The wind kept throwing the yellow dust against the windows and the woman started weeping.

He took the child. He lifted it onto his arms and patted his son with hands as big as the babys head. He whispered hoarsley and rocked it to and fro. The woman sat next to them, watching and silently mourning, tears rolling down high cheekbones, pushing towards the ground. She turned and slipped out of the room again. Standing in the kitchen, she thought. She thought and thought. Going a million different paths and stopping at a million different dead ends. Her face looked like the bench outside the house. Half painted. The half painted face. The mask had never been applied correctly, and where it had been, it had faded, yellowing her features and making it equal to the background.

A fly buzzed around. The bulb hanging over her head threw light onto her haughty features. A thin nose. Eyes that had deep rings under them, gravity pulling them down. Gravity was hanging on to her like a burden, like a baby.

The once so full lips had thinned, as if the threads had been pulled out of a rose carpet one by one.

Her husband was singing now. The baby whailing. The melody grew rougher and rougher, trying to dominate the childs voice. The fly tried to drown the whir of the lamp.

And the wind tried to cover the footsteps of the women fleeing. She had crossed the living room with a few hasty steps, into the loveless bedroom. The matress was lying on the ground, the mosquito net covering it shoved to one side. The air felt sticky and used. She opened a wardrobe on the far end of the room. It mustve once been elegant and fashionable. It was the only piece of furniture which seemed to have any value left. The wood was still the rich dark it had been 20 years ago, and the golden handles sculptured into two eagles heads with beaks pointing to the ceiling and proud eyes piercing through the nothingness. Careful carvings on the side of the wood told stories of wildflowers and long lost wealth.

The feet of the wardrobe must have held it up for years. But the weight had pushed the wardrobe closer to the floor, with the feet now just little stubs, battered and abused. It looked like a mutilated veteran of the ages, a war-drobe. It had been eaten out from the inside. She took half of the savings. They were softly embedded in a little box, which had once contained shoe polish. Swipe away. Swish swish. And a man with black polished hair and black polished shoes grinned white polished teeth. She let the shoebox gently rest on the floor. Now the wardrobe contained nothing but a few gowns. And when the woman took those out, the wardrobe was empty. She turned without a glance and left it, standing open and bare.

She slipped out of the house, the dust on the porch dampening her footsteps. Her eyes were on the ground. She did not look back. She did not dare to look back, allthough she wanted to. But her fear kept her looking down, at the weatherbeaten ground, the soft earth which was still warm from the days sunshine. If she would have looked back, she would have gone back. She would have slipped through the door. Past the fly which kept hitting the bulb. Into that lonely room, and under that mosquito net onto the matress. She did not turn back.

She climbed through the spider fence, and past the half painted bench, which in the night just looked grey and onto the road. The asphalt was rough, the road had deep cuts. It was torn, like everything.

The child did not cry anymore. The man was silent. He had put the child back to bed. It had moaned  and sweated. Pearls of tears mixing with sweat. His own, his fathers and the generations long past, who had buildt nothing, and still wasted their sweat and their tears.

The father had left the room. He stood in the kitchen under the light bulb. The light was throwing the yellow rays onto his brown, weatherbeaten face. Long deep cracks covered the skin, which was tightly stretched over the skull. The hair had greyed. Tufts of black mixed with streaks of white. He stood in the light, like his wife had. And he thought. He thought of a million different ways and found a million different dead ends.

He passed to the bedroom. He saw the empty bed. The sweet smell was still present. Her desperation too. He picked up the Shoe polish box. The wardrobe doors stood open. He went over to them, put the box inside and closed them. His rough fingers touching the metal of the handles. They were still warm. Her touch was present. He shut the doors, turned off the light and lay down. The electricity gave a last groan and the light extinguished.

He lay down on the matress and covered his face with the sheets.

The fly stopped buzzing.

She looked back. Her mask had fallen. She was frail in the darkness with big eyes and a hint of youth. She turned her head and upper body. Turned it towards the house. Her feet were still carrying her away. In the middle of the road, her soft feet patting along. Swift. Jolty. The lights were off. She stopped. She thought.