Lavender

• Melanie Gordon, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2014

Feet fell heavy on the side walk. Heels dug into the well-worn paves with such force as if several horses were slowly trotting down the street rather than homecoming monotonous business men and women, tired from whatever boredom employed them. They shuffled to pass one another – the slower, the older, and the ones whose figures resembled characters of a science fiction novel. Some appeared more eager to get home than others, somehow entranced by the notion of comfort that awaited them, and energised by such a blissful thought. He failed to recognise this desperation exhibited by the young lad clutching his computer bag whose footsteps landed awkwardly behind the heels of his black patent leather.
The breath was heavy and annoying in his ears, and despite his longing, the obstacles before him would not allow the pleasure of removing the desperate being’s heated exhale from upon the back of his neck. To fight his own aggravation, he reduced the speed of his walking pace, which had replicated the speed of those in front, causing the young man to also slow, whilst forming a small distance between himself and the large women and her colleagues before him. The young man grunted yet his voice was inaudible amongst the sighs and moans and conversation. He trod quicker, standing now without care on the back of the man’s heels, and shoving his left shoulder into his back to get around him. In passing, he lifted his bag over his head and squeezed past the women in front forcing out annoyed excuses as if in attempt to remain ‘polite’. The man scoffed at the behaviour, the eagerness of the chap and his inability to be patient. Within seconds the sight of the boy was lost and again he was alone fighting his way amongst the crowded mass of bodies, limbs to limbs, solemn faces filling his vision. In the darkness, the glow of brake lights of congested cars flooded the bodies in a luminous shade of red. The trains howled past like wounded dogs, swallowing the noises and reminding the wayfarers of how slowly they were progressing through the streets.
At the corner lights, the sea parted and the weary travellers accumulated the sanctity of air in the space which no longer restricted them. Within seconds, the clattering of feet fell into a distant echo in his mind, and it was merely his own steps which bounded off the walls of buildings, whose occupants had retired to their TV dinners and silent conversations. Opening the passenger door of his car, he rested his briefcase on the seat with deliberate care. Clambering into the car himself, he started the ignition and took off down the road.
The car and its driver meandered down the quiet streets, few cars passed, and the lights remained green for most of their travels. Upon arriving in suburbia the car faltered to a halt upon the driveway of a single storey lot, features borrowed from its sisters next door. From the lone street light, the simple garden cast familiar shadows on the house. Sighing to himself, he took his briefcase and moved indoors. The lights came on, the blinds were closed, the man removed the hangman’s noose from around his neck, popped a few buttons and kicked on his slippers. He placed a plate of frozen leftovers in the oven, greeted and fed the cat lingering around his legs. He sat for a moment in the lounge room, the television reporting the news of sport teams and their successes, tomorrow’s weather, the absence of a young woman, and the most recent debate between the country’s politicians.
Silence returned to the room as the man stood and took the basement stairs down armed with his briefcase. The small space below was strewn with accountant books, papers, and stationary which surrounded an empty rectangle upon the desk, sized to fit an absent laptop. He passed this workplace walking further into the room, towards the back wall where he pushed aside his mother’s old paintings, the ones she gave to him as ugly gifts to fill his home with colour, exposing a small door which the cat bounded through and through which he followed.
The room was drowning in walls of black and glows of red, small lights flickered and the floorboards creaked under his weight. With deliberation, he placed the case on a workbench and flicked the latches. The cat appeared leaping onto the workbench from the darkness. It stretched its lanky body forward, then called for its owner’s affection. The man, now smiling at the case, cooed the cat and surrendered to its desires. With the feline’s purrs reverberating, its attention turned to the sudden urge to coat itself in saliva. The man’s focus also shifted, and he became transfixed upon opening the case and admired the work within. He lifted out a pair of sewing scissors and a paperknife, then reached for a dirty cleaning cloth which lay discarded on the bench. With his forefinger and thumb, he ran the cloth over the blades, scratching at the muck that coated them. He doused them in a foreign liquid from a black bottle where merely masking tape and a permanent marker had been used to scribe its name. The cat lifted its leg and began the grooming of its nether region.
From the case he produced a delicate lavender form stitched with lace flowers and an encasement of malleable foam. Through his teeth he produced a small high pitched noise of excitement, which caused the cat to look up as the man brought the strip to his chest and danced gleefully on the spot. Despite his hysterics, the man placed the soft fabric on the workbench, stretching it out to its full length. He patted it down so it lay perfectly parallel to the table’s ridged edge. The cat yawned, and the man looked within the case, and he acknowledged that the removed was simply a token of his endeavours, and that the true prize lay within.
With gentle fingers, he placed his hands into the wet leathered case and pushed his knuckles against the fabric as his phalange’s sweaty skin brought his precious cargo into the light. Its skin rippled and folded over his fingers, which pressed into its drying interior. The appearing figure was scarred with stretches and bruised makeup, drained of life and tired looking. Long strands of dyed golden threads hung, some in clumps, weighing down its features. He stared in awe at its glory, its beauty, its flawless and innocent state. Breathing heavily he thrust aside the brief case, causing it to fall to the floor, it’s hinges almost snapping with its sudden mistreatment. He pulled the cloth up from its abandonment and dabbed with accuracy to remove the mistakes that haunted the façade.
Turning it over in his hands he rubbed the cloth over the dewy substance, before tossing aside the now red cloth. He hurried over to the floor-length mirror which occupied one corner of the room. Before himself he saw the figure of a man, his beaming unbalanced smile, his tightened cheeks, his stubble well-worn, and the bags under his eyes highlighted by the dim light. He lifted the mask to his face, positioning it so that his eyes shone through her slits, and so her brows met his. Her own face could not match his size, his cheeks and jaw bone prominent against her smooth olive skin. She was perfection, she was angelic, she was everything and more. His laughter carried through the dirty room, where blood pooled at his feet and limbs hung from meat hooks protruding from the roof, knives rested in the basements sink under a coating of drying hues of red, brown and black. His laughter echoed through the lonely room, through the secret door of the basement, pounding against each wall, the darkness that resided within him.
All the while, the cat merely yawned, wrapped its tail around its thin body and fell asleep in the resonance of his owner’s hilarity.