From the shadows a whip of a figure a young lady watched from the corner of the room. 'In the corner, I have stood watching, just as I have done for longer than one can remember. From the corner I can watch there reactions, their interactions, I can read there thoughts, I can control, each generation mother to daughter.'
She sat and watched the darkening steel grey clouds as they boiled angrily in the sky overhead. She watched as they were tossed around, and as they grew more fearful by the minute. Then just as fast, they faded into no more than wispy pale entrails as the wind carried them along. For some obscure reason, they reminded her of just how alone she was that day.
Like it often does on days like this, her mind wandered off and filled with the images of that crazy day. How could she forget? It was burned forever into her memory. It was the worst and best day of her life. It was the start of her new journey.
She was eighteen, a blossoming young woman, when her mother died suddenly. Sitting there now, she recalled how all the family had gathered for the occasion. Her cousins, aunts, uncles, and a host of other unknown family friends, half of whom she had never even set eyes on before, had all gathered for the occasion.
On one side of the room sat a little old lady with her Victorian high-neck dress, balancing her purse on her lap while juggling with a cup and saucer in one hand and a napkin-wrapped watercress sandwich in the other. Emily had no idea who she was, or even if she was related.
Next to her was Uncle Oliver, a robust man of around 50 years old, whose size caused him to overflow the sides of the armless Chippendale chair. Sitting there balancing his bulk, Emily watched as he constantly raised his hand with yet another finger sandwich. It was like an engineer stoking coal into the firebox of a now-ancient steam engine as he continued shovelling forkfuls of potato salad into his mouth.
She couldn't help but watch as yet another heaping forkful was crammed in, causing his ruddy cheeks to balloon outward. He reminded her of an over sized chipmunk that was about to explode if he shoved more into his face. And of course, sitting right alongside was Aunt Meme, a petite 95-pound wisp of a woman sipping from a glass full of pink punch, which she was sure was laced with vodka from the flask she kept in her purse.
Looking at both of them side by side made her think, 'How do they ever manage to have sex'... she had been doing this more and more now she didn't know why, suddenly an image appeared in her mind like a video of him laying on his back naked with his rolls of fat jiggling as her aunt sat astride him, her bony legs spread wide. He was tugging on her her sagging tits as she bounced up and down as best as she could, her head tossed back in throngs of ecstasy, blinking her eyes the image was gone.
Scanning further around the room, her gaze fell upon Uncle Hugo, a skinny frail man who looked like his pale grey skin was about to fall from his body at any moment. What age would he be? 80, maybe 90?
He was her mother's eldest brother, the one with all the money, mainly due to the fact that he never spent any. There he stood with a teacup clenched between a set of bony fingers. The collar of his shirt hung crumpled around his neck like the wrapper of hard candy by the black tie. She was sure he kept in his jacket pocket for these occasions. His black suit, now worn and ragged around the pockets and cuffs, hung on his skeletal body, looking like some pre-First World War relic, alone and unwanted.
Her mind flashed again. Now he stood there his lower body was devoid of clothing and he was slowly pulling the skin back on his cock pointing it at her. Suddenly she was kneeling in front of him her mouth open as he slowly pushed his thin cock into her mouth. Again she blinked this time a chill washed over her.
Sitting in the wingback chair, she felt like a mouse in an open field, waiting for a bird of prey to attack. She felt vulnerable, with no way to escape. The room began to feel stuffy and claustrophobic, and the sounds of pity from the mourners did not help. Her mind started to wander, and she began thinking of something other than where she was. Biting her lower lip to stop the flood of tears, she tried to block out the noise by singing to herself, but any attempts to override her feelings and the strange images failed. Thoughts from the outside world kept flooding in, washing over her like a tsunami. It was becoming unbearable.
Feeling the need to escape from the constant bombardment of pity and bazaar thoughts, she slowly raised herself from the chair and wove a path for herself between the groups of chatting figures to the open doorway, making her getaway out into the lower hallway, only to find she had been trapped once more. This time, by more sorrowful people who were invading her domain.
The house was no longer the safe haven she was accustomed to. It had become a place filled with doom, where the dead were comforted, and sadness reigned. Climbing the carpeted stairs to the upper floor in an effort to escape the hollow feeling that churned inside, she felt her feet sink into the thick fibbers of the dark red floral carpet and give way under her soft-soled flats.
